Fantasy TOTTDLMTH Episode 2

[Larry]

Ódhran von Starkenburg | Eryn Leasath Cissnei
Location: In the sewers beneath St. Keed's Chapel.
Written with: Doctor Nope .
Interactions: Pilgrim59 | Worthlessplebian | Malphaestus ​

Though it had been some time since his last proper engagement, Ódhran was glad to have found himself against Sylvia or Laure on a battlefield. The capacity to jump into the fray, against such a ghoulish-looking creature, in a cramped, compact environment, was something that the islander felt he’d never understand nor have the initiative to pounce upon. However, now was not the time for contemplation: the scene demanded action. The young man was beginning to engage in the maskrikova tactics his commander ordered him to undertake whence Preston’s harrowing advice came through. Was this what Sylvia and Preston were trying to discuss in the café? Ódhran wondered to himself as the fog lingered in the cobbled space, with him using the clones to try and sift out the beast’s location.

But he had to be cautious; that spear, whatever it was composed of, seemed to draw in whatever matter happened to be in its proximity, even from the caster’s very own arm. A menagerie of ligaments and sinews were absorbed into the infernal weapon as the being dashed towards the Companions, with the weapon acting as a defensive measure as it moved. Turning invisible was something that complicated the matter even more, with Sylvia tactically discerning the monster’s intention, ordering Preston to be on his guard as well as sending Laure in his direction. What perturbed Ódhran was by what means he would be able to discover its location, for it wasn’t at first obvious how he would do so. But, just as he was contemplating a strategy to uncover the creature’s position, his commander unleashed a most appropriate trick, allowing her to sense the being and, in one cerebral movement, land a devastating blow upon the monster’s neck. As much as Ódhran hoped it would have, the attack did not lay the beast low but only induced it to retreat into the fog, with Sylvia in close pursuit.

Seeing the commander emulating Preston had sparked an idea into Eryn’s head. His own H2 gauntlets had also been inspired in both form and function by Doctor Webb, and could serve a similar purpose in this situation. While Sylvia was launching her attack, the apertures on the backs of his hands opened up to allow the metallic tendrils to sprout out. At this point he may as well use them to put on the ICU visor too, as the two pieces of magitech were best used in tandem with each other. Where Sylvia and Preston had previously created blue hues with their actions, there was now a soft red glow emanating from Eryn’s equipment, indicating to him that everything was still working correctly. The solid light meant that there was still at least some time left before the groznium batteries expended themselves.

Now it was up to the two of them to try and ease the burden of the other Companions.

Given that the fog enveloped the entirety of the now imminently-collapsing complex, Ódhran wanted to be able to utilise Eryn, whose equipment was thankfully still in working order, to his best possible use. Yet, it was a question of how; the islander had one of his clones positioned next to the medic, who therein could alert Eryn if the creature was attacking in a wide arc or if he planned to launch that spear that the monster had constructed. Ódhran ruminated on the problem for a moment, wherein a proverbial lightbulb lit up, which caused him to turn to his comrade with a determined gaze.

Just before Sylvia had left his view by jumping into the thickest of the fog, Eryn fired a single shot to pass closely next to her as she went. It was a common tactic of his when supporting a melee fighter, so there shouldn’t have been any surprises from this. Depending on what happened to the bullet as it cut through the fog, Sylvia should have been able to learn at least something about the creature’s location.

“Eryn,” he said somewhat formally, much to his chagrin, catching Eryn as he was advancing in Sylvia’s direction “I have something of a plan that could help Sylvia and Preston do a bit more damage, if you’ll hear me out.”

He’d started advancing after Sylvia as soon as she disappeared, but slowed down to a walk when Ódhran began suggesting something.

“I’m all ears.” Eryn wasn’t one to talk much during combat, but could still focus on the dialogue around him.

“It’s something that I haven’t attempted to do before, but I believe this is a prime opportunity and hopefully, the last time it’ll need to be done,” he explained, aware of the cling-clang of weapons and the whaling of the creature reverberating throughout the area. “I’ll station one of my clones with you, who will then alert you to the monster’s location as myself and the other ones dive into the fog and hopefully get a sight of it. The most pertinent aspect, fortunately, is that the sound of my voice, incongruously, feels as though it emanates from myself and all my clones all at the one time, so it’ll be a means to distract and bait it into vulnerable positions.”

Ódhran audibly gulped, realising how perilous this action would be, giving Eryn one last solemn look.

“Let’s kill this thing and be on our way.”

Eryn responded with a simple nod, keeping the H2 tendrils spread around himself, and using one to retrieve a lollipop from under his hat, plopping that in his mouth to counteract the headaches that the ICU visor was probably going to give him very soon.

With that single motion, the two dashed into the all-encompassing fog. Ódhran couldn’t recall a more frenetic atmosphere in all his days in the Companions. As he and his clones dashed in and out of the haze at irregular intervals, the islander had to be mindful of the depredations of the monster as it swung it’s nigh-distorted, muscular arms in wide arcs to strike the facsimiles. When it did so, the clone would fly in such a way as though it possessed mass. If the monster was possible to discomfit, perhaps the sudden return to the fray of the clone might have done the job. All the time, Ódhran was screening information to Eryn, who struck at multiple points on the beast’s body with his H2 tendrils, awkward enough in location that it would be difficult for the monster to retaliate.

Every so often Eryn would deliver off a few shots with his pistols, which, surprising enough to Ódhran, seemed to be functioning well despite his altercation, only so long ago, with the Black Watch. That Eryn, who was one of the more nimble and clinical of Companions, was put in such a worse-for-wear made the islander thankful that the Black Watch didn’t accost him on his way to meet Saoirse, assuming he hadn’t run into Sylvia and thence Preston later on in the café. Thinking on the situation, weaving in and out of the monster’s proximity with not as much ease as he hoped (though he was never the most athletic), the young man was getting ever more unnerved since, despite the maelstrom of action that was taking place within the dense fog, the anticipated fall and expiration of the creature did not seem to occur.

It would be a long battle, and one the Companions would find themselves the worse off in continuing it, for should they allow it to continue for too much longer, the collapse of the tunnel seemed to creep precipitously ever closer.

We still have a long way to go, Ódhran thought to himself, as he dove right into the fog once again, wherein in the furious melee continued unabated.

 

[Celestial Speck]

Nessi | Soviet Panda | Pilgrim59 | Huntertabbysandshark3 | ElenaIsCool

Hassan Nox I-Sen

Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District

​

Hassan would be lying if he said he wasn’t immensely disappointed in how simple the entire situation had been. Only one word and everything went along smoothly, no alarms, nobody to fight, nobody trying to play the hero. It was...Incredibly boring. The fact they hadn’t even said a word to him or Fealca only solidified this sentiment. Perhaps it was his old spirit speaking, wishing for fighting and to show that his strength didn’t rust in the slightest despite a year having passed, but he supposes that this was fine, too. It was not as if he wanted to needless kill people, but a thrill or two is all he seeks, sometimes.

With a small ‘tch’ under his breath at these events, Hassan nodded at Hershey’s commentary for them to move and placed his swords back into his sheaths, not even requiring to utilize Grozium to power them. But that was a good thing, he supposes. Their main target will certainly involve a show of might from the Harbingers.

He sincerely hoped that Bisi showed up in time, however. If she didn’t...Well, it’s not like he can carry out punishments. But she’d certainly be hearing a lot of things from his person. But he trusted her ability, despite it all.

Soon, their rendezvous took them to the ‘museum’ that was the SMI. Hershey seemed seemingly fine with them taking the front door, and while normally such an action would earn laughter from him over the irony of it all, they were running on a thin, short clock. Not much time to make a plan as they did with Bisi’s situation.

Thus—

Sound and noise rang out through the area around them as Hershey started it all and barked orders once more. Automatons, Star Sentinels (despite the one beyond the stars already standing here), or whatever they were called came forth towards him and Fealca, and Hassan only nodded.

“Okay.” He spoke simply, a small cracking sound heard from his neck as he adjusted it. “This should be-”

With a glow of pure energy, the gauntlets of the automatons rose themselves with glowing, sparkling energy of pure heat, shaped vaguely into the shape of a bladed weapon. Hassan’s expression didn’t change, but he could tell that such weapons could cut and burn his flesh just as easily as his Sun Style from Solaris could.

Even then, he smiled.

“...This will be doable.”

With little words spoken to Fealca or acknowledging his presence as a fight broke out, Hassan stood perfectly still as a hand hovered over Solaris. Using the Moon Style is useless, he thought, as he stared as one Star Sentinel’s plasma blades rushed towards him. A small bead of sweat dripping from his forehead and clinging onto his nose.

But it doesn’t mean I can’t be defensively aggressive.

The small sweat particle fell from his nose, gravity dragging it slowly unto the ground as the Endless fully held his weapon onto his hand. The Sentinel was mere steps away from him, arm pulling back and preparing to throw its weight against him and possibly cut him. But there, Hassan saw something only physical warriors could- an opening.

As the Sentinel fully raised its arm up in the air, aiming it at him, Hassan took a long step forward.

Only one person, a woman with moth wings who haunted his thoughts from time to time, had seen this. A relatively simple technique, used in duels. Stand still, wait for an opening, and rush forward- drawing your blade and ending the duel in an instant.

Even if such things held more meaning and danger to those who can’t tap into aether or such techniques, Hassan still held onto it.

There was a shine of sudden light, the Institutions artificial lights reflecting upon his blade as within a moment so low that counting it in seconds would take a bit longer, the armored, metalhead of Sentinel, burned and melted from the fire surrounding Solaris, flew off its head. The Grozium within it disrupted by the sudden attack, the plasma blade flickering before ultimately dying as the body fell forward with a loud thud in the ground.

— One!

He didn’t have time to banter or show off with these enemies. It was simply useless to do so, it wouldn’t be like they would understand it. His reflexes, heightened by the sudden rush of adrenaline going through his veins, saw two more going to his sides. A single strike from both would undoubtedly shatter his bones.

Hassan took upon the momentum of his first attack, and his other hand gripped against his still sheathed blade. Two arms from one Sentinel each rose itself and thrust forward without fear and Hassan spun, blades lit ablaze dancing around him like reptilian creatures flying around his body as each cut against the armor with both the strength of his arms and the strength of his blades.

Once more, that disruption from both the intense heat and the power of his thrusts, the side of the torsos from the ‘golems’ darkened as they were shoved to the side from the momentum of his attacks.

...Two, three. Shit, there’s still a lot!

His little spin-around ended, the flames dying down from around him and resting on his blades once more, and just before another Sentinel could stab downwards against his skull with its weight, strength, and height, he quickly jumped backward, the sight of plasma easily tearing against the ground was a sight that only confirmed that he did not want to be hit by it.

“Fealca!” He yelled out to the old man, gone being the friendly tone and now being replaced with authority only found on the battlefield. “Try and line them up against the walls!”

 

[Huntertabbysandshark3]

Galious
interaction: Pilgrim59 Celestial Speck Soviet Panda Nessi ElenaIsCool​

"hmm no.. I agree its.. not exactly my work but I can deal with this.. subpar construct for now" Galious replied to Hershy somewhat disappointed by his tone reflecting the tiny Astarians emotional state. "but yes it is indeed good to be back and thank you for the additional protection.. I only hope this thing holds up" he'd say thankfully though fairly annoyed. turning slightly to Hassan and Fealca. Hassan a little disheartened perhaps this was just too easy? At the moment it didn't matter, it was time for the Harbingers to leave they had taken everything needed.
______________________

the harbingers swiftly arrived at their target destination, Hershy already starting it off with a bit of a bang.. attracting some of the mages wandering around in the lobby, both Bisi and himself being tasked with dealing with them while Hassan and Feacla were given the golems to deal with leaving Galious fairly annoyed. HE'D be fair more adept at dealing with golem than those 2.. oh well, what could be done? not much really.

instead of going directly at the mages, Galious would instead run towards one of the Star sentinels the large loading claw of Galious commandeered sentinel a blue glow flowing over both constructs the star sentinel stopping dead as the flow of aetheral energies powering it was simply cut off before it was redirected to Galious's own reserves. Taking control of these star sentinels was like taking candy from a very short person. The sentinel served as an effective distraction for the mages. Unleash there combat spells into the automaton quickly reducing it to nothing but smouldering shards of metal and masonry. So focused on this more pressing threat that the mages failed to notice the Golemancer throwing one of the spare batteries at them, Galious having turned the devices into improvised explosives. Moment later parts of the lobby were consumed by an arcane explosion blasting the unprepared mages the lucky ones were thrown to the side or out of the blast radius. While this cleared out most of the mages it left Galious without much firepower left that trick wouldn’t work a second time but damn was it fun

 

[Pilgrim59]

Hershey
Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District
Nessi Celestial Speck Huntertabbysandshark3 Soviet Panda ElenaIsCool Malphaestus ​

The platoon of armored automata's brute strengths were only matched by their indiscriminate but precise cohesion. Rather than throwing themselves at their enemies in all directions, the seven feet tall golems took a defensive posture and glared at the dancing swordsman. Hassan had gotten their attention. The Star Sentinels, rightfully called so from the glowing marks that were carved into their cold armor, took their steps back. Each of them forming a different posture, as their aetherial weapons materialized within their hands. The weapons varied, dependent on their briefly idled stances.

One of the Star Sentinel broke off, and went after their smaller counterpart - Galius in a stolen Imperial sentinel. Having witnessed one of their kind defeated so swiftly, the reactive sentinel closest to Galius was keen on reciprocating the favor. The mages on the other hand, were quickly preoccupied by the Golemancer's deceitful waltz. The improvised device caught most of them off-guard, but nonetheless spared a few. Most of Galius's victims were either freshman or inexperienced apprentices. It did not take long for the adept practitioners to unveil their responses. Several mages broke out of their concealment from behind the pillars and finalized their incantations. Thanks to Galius's lenient course of actions, they have had time to counter-attack. With Galius's attention towards the golem before him, the mages cried out in unison.

"Hex Ryste!" they chanted, unleashing a cyan matter that flew in Galius's direction. The consequential detonation left a screen of smoke in their line of fire.

Hershey turned to the rear upon the reverb effect that she felt from the abrupt explosion.

"Galius! Fool!" she cried out towards the derelict Golemancer, hurling her conjured spell towards the mages before her.

Hershey then wrapped up her preparations for the case and bit her finger. The dreamweaver smeared her bloody finger across the glass, before turning to her right. As the aetherial diffusion took effect, Hershey turned to her side. She conjured forth a myriad of lambs and sent them forward, in hopes of keeping the mages at bay while she looked to Galius. Before she could reach him, Hershey was obstructed by two Star Sentinels in her path. Without the proper incantations , she was at a disadvantage, especially in close quarters. The mages that shot at Galius attempted to encircle Fealca and Hassan, to which Hershey could do naught but shifted her gaze towards the nearby desk and ran for it. Her lambs followed suit with her movements, as she guided them towards the far side of the lobby. Elemental bolts dotted her path, but their precise groupings were no match for the her elusive profile. Hershey finally stopped behind a pillar and quickly tore a page from her grimoire, posting it with a firm slap on the support column. She took a slight inhale and then broke out of cover. The lambs closed in on the mages, while Hershey continued to circle the lobby, planting more of her enchanted pages upon the column. Her lambs were quickly shot down my the mages, whose acute techniques were aided by their cohesive volley-drills. Each volley were backed by the second, making them seemed like an Imperial execution squad. When she finally completed her round, the dreamweaver recalled her lambs, recycling her aetherium before turning the corner. She raised her lantern, of which was now infused with sinister purple glow that sparked uncontrollably before her.

"Welcome to the Dreamweaver's carnival." she said softly, unleashing a darkened energy that covered the entire area.

Before long, the mages ceased their attacks, and were caught in their own battles against the suffocating white haze. Their visions were plagued by the spiraling void that spoke unto them. A madness that tested the mettle of even the strongest of mages. While they were temporarily coiling in their own delusions, Hershey sent her lambs towards the sentinels again, finally reaching Galius. As the smoke cleared, she noticed Galius mostly intact, thanks to her spells from earlier. But the armor was quickly stripped of its pauldron.

"It is imperative that thou heed Hershey's words. Thy negligence almost costed thine own life!" Hershey said, kicking the Golamancer's surrogate flesh of steel in the shin.

Before she could take her respite, more mages arrived on the scene, this time reinforced with their security details. A platoon of hooded figures, whose attires were interlaced with carapaces of enchanted Axian. Hershey, without hesitation, tore another page from her grimoire and slapped it onto Galius's back. The Golamancer's sentinel quickly blended into the background, masking his presence for the time being.

"Aid Hassan and Fealca. Hershey shall stall our new company. If Hershey does not return, take possession of the shard when the glass breaks. Take our Master with it, and find thine way out of the city." she said to Galius, before breaking concealment and made her way towards the mages.

A few sparks of dark energies came forth, followed by a return of blazing blue and amber bolts. Hershey wrestled for control of their direct attentions, and took the fight into the glassed corridor, out of the lobby's reach. After an exchange of blows and a few detours, Hershey felt a stinging sensation below her. She leaned up against a chamber door, where the halls are now empty. Footsteps beckoned her attention, but even now she could still monitor their movements by her lambs' visions. The aching pain was now a vivid image of her white dress tainted by a rogue laceration. She simply accepted it, without much denial. Hershey sighed slightly, as she leaned outwards - eyeing both ends of the empty hallway before stepping forth. It is time she headed back to aid her companions, having successfully diverted the reinforcing mages towards the western wing. Before she could take another step, she felt an eerie sensation over her shoulders. A sharp gaze upon her back that rendered her immobile. Neither out of fear nor confusion, but by her inability to account for the one assailant that she had overlooked. Their aetherial aura was as tranquil as their unannounced presence. As she slowly turned her head, Hershey's eyes widened, as she froze.

 

[Soviet Panda]

Fealca Isern​

Fealca did not share the same disappointment as his compatriot Hassan at the ease with which they took the guard station. He was actually rather relieved, he did not want to hurt these people. That, and he feared this his martial prowess might have dulled in the time since the end of the Demon War. He was glad to see, however, that his authoritative voice was as sharp as ever, with most of the square backs raising their hands in the air and shaking on the spot. That didn't stop him from knocking them out, of course, he seemed to have been the only one to have looked for something to cover his face before they began this raid. And it wouldn't do if those the enforced the rule of law saw the faces of those who so famously defied them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Why did I agree to help these fools?' Fealca thought to himself as the fighting began. Even had Hershey not ordered him (the Dreamweaver ordering the General in how to do combat), he would have gone after the Sentinels. The mages were simply to far away for him to deal with directly. The automata, however, where within his grasp. He and Hassan surged forward as one, the Endless Swordsman flowing into his combat while Fealca charged at them like a mountain made flesh. As one they made first contact, and Fealca's fist shattered the helm of the first Star Sentinel that stood before him. 'Good,' he thought to himself, 'I can still at least do this much.'

While Hassan moved gracefully from one opponent to the next, seeking out his foe like a hunting hound it's prey, Fealca challenged the emotionless, thoughtless creations to attempt to move him. One swung a large axe in an over head strike, which was easily turned away and broken with a twist of Fealca's body and a quick jab of his fist. Another with what appeared to be a spear of some sort thrust it's weapon at The Mountain. A glow of aetheric energies surrounded Fealca's hand as he grabbed the spear below it's head. Instead of being burned, a golden energy raced down the burning, blue shaft to impale itself into the arm of the Sentinel, breaking it apart from the inside out. 'Seems like I have not forgotten how to use the Coat either' he contemplated before he heard an explosion and a shout behind him.

Turning around, he saw the mages raise their hands and shout in unison, then his body acted without thought. Wordlessly, he raised a wall of golden light to blunt the onslaught of mage craft and prevent it from outright killing Galious. But he could not hold the wall, not when he was surrounded. Soon he was fighting two different kinds of battles. One with the Star Sentinels who appeared to have taken a more defensive approach to the fight, and one to halt the aetheric blasts of the mages. He needed to reduce the number of fronts so as to be able to more easily defeat their foe. And he had an idea. An extremely reckless, stupid idea, but the only one that immediately presented itself to him.

Like a great boar, he charged into the defensively clustered Star Sentinels, he Cloak of Thorns flaring to life as he was struck by the automata. Laying about himself with fist and foot, he bodily tore a handful of Sentinels apart and severely mangled a handful more, forcing them to reposition themselves time and time again. Until he had his back to the wall, and the Sentinels in front of him, with the Imperial mages behind them. "Hassan, Galious, to me!" He shouted over the din of battle, his booming voice carrying over even the clanging of metal, blasts of magical energy, and the doors that banged open somewhere off to one side.

Huntertabbysandshark3 Celestial Speck Pilgrim59 Nessi ElenaIsCool Malphaestus

 

[Huntertabbysandshark3]

Galious
interaction: Pilgrim59 Celestial Speck Soviet Panda Nessi ElenaIsCool​

Galious’s pride had always been his Downfall, the loss of his personal armour and the reason he ended up as a harbinger were all down to this sense of pride. As always this had come back to haunt him. Another sentient charging him the cocky golemancer turning to it as a simple touch would have the construct turn against its former allies. He’d not noticed the more experienced mages had avoided his improvised explosives. only realising his mistake when the cyan bolts crashed into the back of his sentinel smoke obscuring his view of the battle leaving him Entirely blinded to the occurrences that Unfolded afterwards in regards to Hershey own mind-warping magic. The smoke finally clearing to reveal that the damage wasn’t too extensive Hershey having dealt with the star sentinel and the mages temporarily.

Galious made no comment in regards to was Hershey had said, more mages approaching them now the Dreamweaver placing another enchantment upon his suit rending him invisible. alongside order to retrieve the shard once the seal that held it had broken and if Hershey did not return. “It will be done” Galious replied Before Hershey left to deal with their new company. Galious’s attention now focused upon the targets of ease for him. The remaining star sentinels. now concealed it made his job a lot easier able to rush towards the Posing automatons that threatened both the other harbingers. however, it seemed that Feacla had other ideas in dealing with the sentinels crashing into what would have been useful assets much to the Golemancers dismay. Lucky there where a few left standing for feacla impressive if not brazen actions. Galious continuing with his previous plan.

Each of the remaing sentinels was struck by the blue glow of Galious’s hijacking spell in sequence, as they attempted to recover form the generals assault, and like before they feel to it with ease. A few were turned on one another as to free up Galious own aetherium. The remaining few were given the wordless orders to finish of the remaining mages that had so dared to strike the prideful golemancer. the only thing Galious could think of was how Hassan and Fealca would have been more effective against the mages than himself. “Never send a swordsman to do a golemancer’s job” Galious mumbled under his breath another wordless command signalling the remaining star sentinels to guard the entrances and thusly give any more assailants a nasty surprise.

 

[Malphaestus]

???

DRAGONSREACH
SAINT KEED'S CHAPEL, DRAGONSREACH
​

Sigismund's righteous fist had hit true, Hellriegel jolted back as she was not only caught off-guard but presented with a feat of strength few could parrallel. The man, in response, simply stood indomitable in the center of the plaza, its ruination enough to underline his message, trying as best he could to act vanguard before the legendary swordswoman at his back. He loosened his zweihänder as the combat progressed towards a momentary lull, allowing his brothers and sisters to witness him in his action. Even so, the puppets that mattered most, the Captain and her Lord, Friedhelm, remained adamant. To the puppeteer's content, but not to the perceived approval of Sigismund himself. The man expulged a most audible growl as his self-absorbed leaders wallowed in themselves.

As Hellriegel shot back with her own remarks, Sigismund quickly silenced her with his own roar to overpower whatever frustrations she might be voicing out at him, "I am right!" A roar loud enough to seemingly shatter glass reverberated from within the Breaching Troop's commander's mouth, the tip of his verbal spear pointed at the forehead of Hellriegel's stupendous accusations. "I spare your life and now you wolf at me as if my service means nothing?!" Raising his fist against his chest, his thumb pointed stalwart towards his furiously beating heart, his head quickly turning to look at the stupified oculi of all Watchers which looked on, not forsaking to spare Irelia a glance of recognition in so doing. "If you think you can best me, Captain, then test my blade again," his voice rang with assurance, not confidence nor zealotry, but a message. His provocation was not a test of her spirit, nor a display of dominance, but a proclamation of fact, one which he only used to force Hellriegel to inaction. She was not the target of Sigismund's perceived message. In fact, it was obvious the fewer foes he had to face to prove his point the better. All this, to lure Friedhelm away from the immovable self-predication of an agonizingly painful world he surrounded himself with.

Sigismund pounded his sword into the dirt of the once-paved cobblestone road whose myriad paths stretched far and wide from this place they all inhabited. Whether you stood North, West, South, or East, everything was clear as day. It was all so uncomfortably clear. "My time predates all of your own," he reinitiated, every word accentuated with a growing frustration equalled by the heights at which he roared, "yet why am I the only one who stands in opposition when the Watch, in it's righteous message, does not even trust the heroes of our nation enough to not shower their beds in bullets, and shatter their doors with ram?!"

His zweihänder rose from the dirt, mud plastered at the tip of it's rune-etched blade as it pointed towards a revealing figure. Friedhelm. Both Sigismund and his new master would be pleased. The provocation's effect not only working, but working splendidly, but how could they know? It was simple, for in Friedhelm's hyperbole, he made it painfully obvious that he wishes rather to die at the hands of a just blade, than to atone for wrong-doing. As Friedhelm revealed himself, his posturing was already at full display, a surge of magic emerging with every spiteful word that left his twisted lips. It was truly hilarious, the puppeteer mused in the dimension that was his own, far removed from all that happened, but made privy to its progression through the perfect venue.

The warrior held his blade pointed at the too-distant throat of the self-deceiving Friedhelm, though through perceivable sentiment, the blade was quickly stricken into the ground once more, Sigismund's hands resting upon it's illustrious hilt and guard. The man, for all he spoke, did not seem to wish to fight Friedhelm, his fiery fervour not carrying him further than to mete out beliefs as opposed to immediately clash swords. Perhaps it was the sense of guilt of not correcting a man on the wrong path since the vanishing of everything that kept Friedhelm stable. Perhaps, the old warrior felt a connection which hindered him from delivering the first blow. Whatever it be, it did not limit his tongue or willful indomitability.

"Friedhelm," he initiated, his voice far more soothed, and calm, than moments prior. A scent of responsibility plastering the texture of his vocal lullaby. "You know so much, but choose to walk the path of the undoing of the road of good will that everyone who believed in you built with their own hands." The man only steeled his grip of the sword cemented into the dirt as Friedhelm unveiled the domineering aether which had undone the wicked plots of evil-doers and silenced the inquisitive in equal regard. Even so, as the aether drew the breath from the souls of lowly Watchers and ever-victorious warriors alike, Sigismund somehow remained unpolluted, as if the trickery which Friedhelm conjured to even trick himself towards the path of his future could not affect the old man. "I am sad to say that, even in this hour of twilight, you do not know me. Nor do you know Freya," the man paused, the blood-cluttered eyes of his now crimson sclera glimmering with a tinge of disappointedness.

"Not anymore."

"The Companions fight with righteousness at their back, for a creed that cannot be tainted by the guile of a man too pre-occupied with politics than to right the wrongs of the evil. It is this that we have lost, at your hands."

"I am not worthy to be Grandmaster, nor were you ever. You were chosen, not because you fit the role, but because you could grow to encompass it. I cannot, nor could I ever. It is with misfortune that I now proclaim the undoing of the righteousness of the Black Watch, and state for you the obvious," Sigismund, in his moment of dejection, looked towards the fiery visage of Irelia, procuring for herself some form of no-doubt unequalled magic. The old warrior could not help but appear remorseful to the inevitability which the woman now appeared to be presented with. To stand alone against tyranny. But the phantom manipulator knew much more, that even with the words he orbed into existence, Friedhelm would not make a martyr of the man and allow the Black Watch's unified spirit be splintered. It was with this certainty that the marionetteer continued to dance his tongue, and dig for Friedhelm an ever-growing pit of unease with which to cloud his future judgement.

"I failed, and you choose to walk in failure. I will not humor you the chance for you to proclaim that the path you have chosen is right. If you wish to walk this wicked road, then you must do what I could not to the Captain, and accept wickedness. My head may not be easy to claim, but I present it to you regardless," Sigismund said, beginning to finalize his beliefs, and the speech which he presented not only for the leaders of the Black Watch to dissiminate, but for their underlings. He was soon done, but not he who put the words in his mouth and had stood intermediary amidst the spaces between spaces to build this conflict through simple coincidence. All that was left, to the wicked grin of an aetherial spectre, was for Friedhelm to say his piece.

"Together with the effects that will come with it."

"Whatever it takes," Sigismund said, his voice melodic in its deliverance. Those three words, the finalizing statements of the Creed which bound the Black Watch to its service. To undo evil at all costs. "But do you need to," he finished, a rhetoric statement. The old man was no innocent, he had toiled his piece, and paved his fair share of paths in the blood of the deserving and the undeserving alike, as had all warriors, be they Companions, simple soldiery, or even Black Watch. It was not this that he protested. Whether he be known as a martyr by the future that was to come, or a traitor to the cause of state and structure, it was to be seen.

Sigismund's eyes stared past Friedhelm, landing within Hellriegel's own. Perhaps a parting glance. Whatever the case, he turned his gaze then to Irelia. As powerful as she was, she was too focused to defend herself. The old man had been too focused on his own task to realize this, or so it appeared. He whispered to himself, undermining everything he had just done and championed for, apparently, solely for the Swordmaiden's benefit.

"Or maybe not," he ruminated, his fingers twitching as he faced Friedhelm once more.

His entire justice changing at the simple fact that Irelia could possibly be captured.

Pilgrim59 , Zariel .

 

[Malphaestus]

???

DRAGONSREACH
'NEATHWOLD, DRAGONSREACH UNDERGROUND​

From one scene to the next, though all occuring in simultaneity, the phantasmal force dwelled deep below the earth, and reached out his wicked finger to his here-to-fore greatest creation. The lull above will prove itself fruitful to the scenes below, allowing the puppeteer greater freedom of control over his other pawns. Through structure of form and the dynamism of flesh, a warrior unlike any other can be constructed should one simply wish to discard the paradigms of the known and fashion for oneself new sets of guiding principles with which to rediscover the earth. It was this warrior, this construct, which will instil within the Companions a new sense of dread unmatched in their supposed jovial days of peace. All this, thanks to the wars that had been waged and the knowledge which was necessary to gain should one desire any semblance of victory in the thereafter. The behemoth, enveloped in the discharge of it's own blood, coiling around his very being, and filling the tunnels with a fog most dense, with a tinging taste of rotting mold as it inevitably forced it's way across the tongue.

Preston was rightfully afraid of this liquid, though thankfully for all, it had a life in atmosphere most brief, it's qualities evaporating as quickly as it appeared. Hence the taste of rot, and the brief smell of a vaguely sulphurous excess. The Companions were forced then, into a dance with death, a dance with the destroyer, that they had no choice but to entertain. The Gospeller rushed forth, producing from its regeneration the needed cover with which to cloak its actions. The liquid roiled around its slowly rejuvenating arm, evaporating closely thereafter as flesh and bone were slowly reformed and restructured, a somewhat mechanical clinicality to the process, as it then evaporated, to join the rest of the black fog.

The thunderous steps with which the Gospeller moved would not aid it in concealment, not that the Gospeller sought an assasination in this hour of conflict. Ódhran would be the first to catch a glimpse of the creature, his clones challenging its position with intermittance, as he no doubt attempted both distract it, and inform his compatriots. All the Gospeller needed to do in response, was to unleash it's unequaled brute to dissuade the logistician from any unwarranted bravery.

The direction of the Gospeller's devastation was sightless, it's rampage omnidirectional as it's simple movements ravaged the tunnels. It might appear that the creature was mindless in behaviour, but this would be far from the truth. As the Companions attempted to gauge the Gospeller's prowess, all it did in response was to listen to their controlled worry. As Sylvia roared her commandments, the Gospeller finally found the direction it needed to deliver it's judgement.

Soon thereafter, a vague form emerged before Preston as a skinless arm reached at his throat, it's fingers embroiled with a translucent coat whose quality was not dissimilar from the devouring spear the party had been forced to deal with mere seconds prior. The progression of happenings swift, so swift in-fact that Sylvia's emergence behind the beast was the deciding factor which prevented the wicked hand from reaching the Spider's proximity.

As Sylvia unleashed her might upon it's back, the night-plated steel of the Gospeller's all-encompassing armour proved itself, effectively annulling Sylvia's vain attempt at ending this conflict with a semblance of decisive action.

The Gospeller's face glowed then, a consuming blackness enveloping it's ordinarily blood-clothed irises. The behemoth's body contorted, as it's right arm bent in reversal, the arm thus undamaged clasping at Sylvia's face. Her premiere reflexes allowed her momentary respite from a certain death under the piston-grip of the Gospeller's enforcing hand, though the simple folly of not having short hair would force her into a devastating spiral as her locks shadowed her movements, ultimately finding themselves the recipient of a dark motive as the Gospeller's hand enveloped them.

The arm recoiled back into place, a swiftness in its movements not dissimilar from a spring returning to its proper place in this universe. The heroine could do little as her life as the projectile of a trebuchet put her body into the rubble square before Preston, valiantly standing before her body with spear in hand and Laure at his back. The latter who simultaneously smashed her hammer with determination enough to force the fog into a retreat, unveiling the domineering figure before them.

Having let go of Sylvia, it was no doubt fitting that once she was out of harm's way, Ódhran and Eryn's own assault would begin, the whipping of metallic tendrils and intermittent gunfire smartly grouped themselves around the Gospeller's joints, though as most would fear, had little response, it's armour too potent. Even so, as Eryn's competent strikes of surgical precision carpeted the Gospeller's form one location at a time, the only fruitful venture was found striking the beast's already injured limb, ripping tendon, and muscle, as the already bare arm grew more barren.

"Ye groweth soft," the Gospeller proceeded, perhaps wallowing in its dominance, it's figure returning from the obscene contortions it had utilized to warp its flesh and catch the heroine off-guard, it's agility reminiscent of predatory owls. The blackened gaze of the creature loomed then onward towards Preston, Sylvia's worries seemingly justified as the entity reached out towards him with it's one proper arm undeterred, Preston's battle-ready posture, and the constant barrage of gunfire and metallic tendrils putting the monster off none. "You," the evil referred to Preston, it's voice rolling amidst the tunnels like a grinder absorbed in it's devastation. "To toy with God's truth is forbidden."

With Sylvia momentarily incapacitated, though no doubt for any meaningful length of time, and with Eryn's destructive barrage proving to be lacking in potency, it would appear that Preston and Laure would have to stall the beast.

The woe of being heroes is many-fold, but the fact that you are known to an enemy which you know little of, is perhaps chief amongst them. Whilst Ódhran's plan might've been ingenius in prospect, it mattered little to the Gospeller in it's single-minded pursuits. When faced with an on-coming train, you cannot deceive it off it's rails.

In that instance of deliberation, from the stretched palm of the Gospeller no doubt staring closely into Preston's direction, a break in the fabrics of convention etched itself into reality. A gaping maw protruded from the sorcerous beast's skin, as the translucent cloak dug into it's flesh, the thus-far low rumbling within the evil's chest growing in pitch, as the whirring turned to the chaotic sounds of a contained storm.

The rubble strewn across the floor flowed into the maw not dissimilar to the nature of that devouring spear prior, however, this time, when the matter and magic had entered into it's gape, an aetheric conduit grew beneath the beast's now bulging skin.

It's gaze turned towards Eryn, and zoomed across Ódhran's numerous faces, and from deep within it's pupils, the constituting essence of all matter was reforming, and jolted in their direction. A beam ebbed on, the unholy combination of incompatible arcanity gathered within one single form causing the Gospeller's presence to grow confused, blinking in and out of being, artificially forcing it's magic to flicker the same.

Pilgrim59 , Worthlessplebian , Larry , Doctor Nope .

​

 

[Malphaestus]

???

DRAGONSREACH
Starline Magecraft Institute, Aurelian District
​

"Imagine how surprised I was, Hershey," the man opened up, his voice calm, eeriely controlled and suited. The chaos of the institute seemingly placing him at no worry. "To see you, merrily leading your horde of invalids through the streets of my capital." Whilst his tonal choice would place him at no odds with the dreamweaver, the individual summoned, with his appearance, a looming strangeness which followed in his wake, forcing the Harbinger to cease in her steps. Clad in a seemingly ordinary black trenchcoat, it was evident that the man himself did not seem like what his presence portrayed him. Even so, the strangeness latched onto the hallway and like tendrils it latched onto Hershey's cheeks, burrowing itself deep into her skin like an unsettling nightmare. Cold sweat no doubt emerging beneath her compact and, quite ostentatious, clothing. Her legs turned to liquid as the entirety of her focus was piled into not falling over where she stood. Turning around, with what little autonomy she could now spare, she was met with a lithe figure, tall and proud, walking with a determined pace towards her immediate presence. The distance closed quickly. His eyes, with hateful, and malevolent nature, glared holes into the woman's self-assurance, and plans. What was supposed to be a self-assured victory, the first hurrah of the Harbingers since their dissolution, was becoming something 'different.'

The Trenchcoated Man wallowed in his own presence, taking great advantage of the fact that his prey was not only in his hands, but any help she might have had was long distant through her own misguided adventure through the hallways of the Institute. Were it not for his overwhelming aetherial presence, the attention he paid to himself would've spelled his undoing. But even as the Dreamweaver was mighty, he was of a different breed entirely, she could no longer escape from his grasp. She would never have known she needed to escape to begin with, and that is what is the prelude to this passage in the final annals to her rapidly shortening book of life. As the man moved with clock-like precision, each step identical to the one preceding it, an internalized rhytmn clearly evident from how he motioned, his tongue began to fashion for itself another addition to his own victory parade. "The Empire's eyes run deep, but my eyes go further. The Empress will hand me a duchy for what I am about to acquire," his confident waltz entered an abrupt end as the man stopped in the middle of the hallway, the abruptness apparently allowing his grasp around her being to loosen.

As Hershey raised her hand in opposition, to formulate for herself a magic to unbind her predicament and displace this 'wrongness' personified, the Trenchcoated Man raised a fist of his own, a clasped grasp pointed towards her distant presence. Her movements froze once more as, with the sound of the aether destabilizing throughout the entirety of the hallway as electrifying chorus, space quaked and warped, until Hershey, faced now with the encroaching hatefulness of her captor mere inches from her own visage, could feel a spine-chilling pain etch itself throughout her nervous system. As her self-prophesized wound began to form across her stomach, her groaning could never leave her mind, her very body frozen by the erroneousness of the magic which seemed to merely flow infinitely from the veiled form which hide beneath her captor's trenchcoat.

As the pain reverberated throughout her mind, she remained defiant to the evil which now stared blankly into her eyes. The face of an unkempt man far clearer than ever before as her focus presented a singular nucleus, that of the Trenchcoated Man.

Who was he? Hershey could no doubt hazard a guess, her magic more potent for this type of guess-work than any other Harbinger, perhaps even better than any other mage throughout the land. She had lead the Harbingers in their hour of twilight, and whilst some others might believe themselves fit for leadership, it had been her who allowed guidance, and acted the true role of shepherd when their morning light had vanished and all were tossed into despair. With Sertek retrieved, perhaps her time and duty was ended. Perhaps the Harbingers could manage on their own without her. It was these thoughts of escape which ran through her mind as she grew more and more familiar with the pain which her captor forced upon her.

But why?

She gazed with her empty eyes into the infernal orbs of the Trenchcoated Man, the edge with which his gaze penetrated her psyche proving enough to almost perforate her flawless pale skin, all she desired to see was a reason, a name for which she could attribute this madness they had all managed to stumble into. All that faced her in return was uncontrollable fury, a furnace of flame so mighty in its brilliance, fashioning for itself an infinite arsenal of visciousness, fueled by its own abhorrence; a senseless wrongness whose direction fanned with the wind, blew and swayed under its own power. It was the apparent soul of this 'third party' she had feared, and the nature of its herald unnerved her to no end.

Her chance to seek reason would soon fade, however, as the Trenchcoated Man ceased to stare at the quivering remains of her rapidly unconscious body. His clasped fist lowered, and he leveled his other arm, placing his palm upon her low shoulder. The man towered above her, and as closed in her own mind she now was, the chance for her to gaze at the villain had passed. Once that leveled hand landed, she left her own body, as her mind succumbed to the limitations of flesh, and biology of mortality.

"You over-estimate yourselves, Harbingers. Your era is ended;" a parting gift. Her body began to fall limply against the floor, her wound painting her lower body crimson as it spread through the fabrics of her dress, and along the length of her legs. The man picked her up with the hand he had used to deliver her unto the wakeless world of consciouslessness, tossing her across his shoulder, as he paced back into the depths of the Institute.

A wicked grin plastered across his lips, how silly the hated enemy had become. Harbingers, lacking in direction, now prod the streets as if they lacked equal. His job simply grew easier with the days, it seemed.

Nessi , Celestial Speck , Huntertabbysandshark3 , Soviet Panda , ElenaIsCool .

 

[Celestial Speck]

Nessi | Soviet Panda | Pilgrim59 | Huntertabbysandshark3 | ElenaIsCool | Malphaestus

Hassan Nox I-Sen

Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District


​

With a curse under his breath as Fealca either didn't hear or didn't listen to his command, Hassan made a mental note to check on the old man's audition when this was all over. While Fealca wasn't wrong to say Hassan wasn't exactly a general in the same vein he was, Sertek didn't make him his Second in Command for no reason. A general isn't about someone who takes the most logical outcome or is smarter than the other- a general, in the sense Sertek saw him, is someone who can follow his gut even in the dark and not lose his head, his vision, and his flame. A general has to be the same as a soldier, a general must have the same flame as a soldier. But that didn't matter now, for the same flames that surrounded his blades called out towards the rest of the enemies around them.

Part of Hassan still said that Hershey's plan to simply storm this place, alongside grabbing Sertek off the street was foolish in the sense of actual foolishness rather than needing to do a gut decision. While it was understandable given the current state of things, with even the Companions themselves having in more than a few legal troubles. The thought of which still being baffling to Hassan, and Hershey's words echoing at the back of his mind. This isn't the Empire. This isn't the Black Watch. This isn't the Iris, the Companions, Heroes, or Daemons. This is something else.

Do you have what it takes to fight against it without any light?

That thought- that intrusive thought, almost as if slowly and finally weighing on him the severity of the situation they found themselves on, sent a shiver down his spine as rushed and attacked against the Star Sentinels. It was something supernatural and almost silly to some, the feeling of something being wrong. Even as he attacked and fought, he could almost hear the battle sounds of steel against steel and Aetherium forming on the air to cause effects subsiding, but in such a way that was...Strange to him.

He gripped his hands against his blades once more, a Star Sentinel jumping back and forming a defensive formation alongside others of its kind. Hassan equally did the same as soon as Fealca's own ironic orders rung out to him. Putting that thought deep into the back of his mind for now and focusing his eyes on the battle in front of him, he huffed and spit to the side. He needed a dry mouth for this.

"On my signal," He spoke to both Gallious and Fealca as the muscles of his legs tensed. "Strike them down. Gallious, ensure there are enough Sentinels around Sertek to protect him."

He also wanted to say one to grab Bisi by the throat and shake her for not appearing up until now, but he ignored that too. Like that, with a rush and put the sharp edges of his blades in front of him to cut the air and allow wind to part around him, Hassan ran towards the walls of the institute, and in a spin like motion, despite the horizontal edges of the walls, he ran against them, feet planting themselves against their surface as if it was the same ground he was a few seconds ago before with an impulse, he jumped and landed behind the Sentinels, the flames of his swords almost making him seem like a comet.

With a spin as his legs bent down as he landed on the ground behind them, they barely had any time to react as Hassan pressed a button his blades- the Grozium overloading and becoming bright with energy as with a perfectly timed swing of both his trusted swords, hot flames were basically thrown off his sword as if they were nothing short of lava. The blades themselves were, however, now dark as the steel surrounding them, their heat subsiding as small stones fell from small slots in them. If Hassan was alone, this would be a risky move and he'd no doubt die given the sheer number of enemies and now his lack of Grozium in his swords, but...

"Attack!"

He hopefully had his own companions to trust his word, the ones who despite walking behind orders of greater minds their entire service life, still were capable companions. Fealca and Gallious could see, the sudden burst of flame and spark from Hassan throwing the formation of the Sentinels off-course as he landed behind them, many falling still to the ground, these being the ones unlucky enough to be caught close at his overloading attack, while others were thrown to the side either by the weight of other Sentinels hitting against them, giving more than enough time for both men to go left or right, to either destroy them- or conquer them.

Even so, despite the bright light...

Hassan still couldn't help but feel as if he was surrounded by darkness, that thought he tried so hard to hide slowly festering inside of the dark confines of his subconscious.

 

[Midrick]

Markas suppressed the urge to scoff when she mentioned the grozette, all the published material on him, the "heroic" charges and his success as the commanding officer of the "indomitable" 4th assault company. They didn't publish Markas's angry sobs at night and abuse of alcohol when he was alone on the front, the suicide charges he undertook to seek an honorable death in battle. The beast consoling him, turning his anger and despair on the Daemon lord's minions, making him an unstoppable force on the battlefield. Markas had committed unspeakable acts, things he would carry with him till the day he died, he had damned himself so others like Sylvia, Laure, and Ódrhan wouldn't have to, he would have liked to believe that he had done it willingly, it was a lie. Ever since the Hadrian ruins had been disrupted Markas's only companion had been hardship. Maybe whatever god that looked down upon Grozny knew of the coming war. Deciding that a saint wasn't enough and created a monster that was worse than anything Sertek could create, a sacrificial lamb turned into an Chimeric horror that would not and could not stop its terrible acts of violence. Flatly Markas wondered if I wouldn't have been better for him to have died in the war, make things simpler on the people around him.

He could feel the corners of his mouth begin to tighten into his iconic scowl, but quickly regained control, now wasn't the time or place to have a fit about the past. "I never really prided myself on my time in the war, Humility comes naturally I suppose. Besides, the grozette exaggerated many of my actions." he said as he took the potent whiskey, and threw back the tumbler; downing the glass in one shot.

Markas nodded as she explained her role in the industrial world, and tried to enjoy the lavish party as well as he could. Markas could sense the underlying tension in all of the remarks made by Sofia to other party goers. It wasn't lost on Markas, it would be wise to stay in her good graces. Markas had noticed a slight clamor at the entrance of the sky garden, it had seemed that some of the blackwatch had made their way into the sky garden. Markas's brow furrowed, he doubted that they were there to enjoy the party and wondered what ccould've brought the notorious enforcers here in the first place. Markas felt Sofia press herself into his shoulder, before he could form a question of her intent, he was whisked into a side room by the Karelian.

The room itself was small, small enough to where Markas had a good idea of what it was used for by guests of the sky garden. "What's the big idea-" Markas started but was shushed by Sofia's finger to his lips, two black silhouettes appeared of in front of the door, Markas craned his neck to get a better look at whoever was investigating, but the sensation of Sofia pressing herself against him proved too much, and he focused all of his willpower to keep himself composed.

After the two figures had left he listened to her compliments, she seemed to know a lot about him even though they had barely just met, after seeing her send a firefly, she turned back towards him asking him a rather odd question, Markas wasn't one to go asking for the help of random strangers, especially ones as eccentric and influential as Sofia. "... Yes." Markas said quietly after a few seconds of silence, hopefully he wouldn't come to regret this decision, but he doubted it, it seemed that Sofia was crazier than him, something Markas hadn't thought possible until now.

Pilgrim59​

 

[Pilgrim59]

Sylvia
Sewers, Central District

Laure
Sewers, Central District
Larry Worthlessplebian Doctor Nope Malphaestus ​

The Vulture's retaliation was as swift as their throw. Sylvia's consciousness seemed all but a remnant of her ineffective strike. Brief as it was, the lancer felt the rushing wind that came of her thrown body. Like a toy that played its part for a child's tantrum. The only thing that kept her conscious was the stinging contusions that radiated throughout her body. Her once immaculate attire was now seeping with blood. Her iconic stern beauty was now replaced with marks of her assailant's clawed grips. She laid among the displaced constructs of the sewer, as the pain imprisoned her. Having braved the Daemon Lord's rampage for most of her known life, the situation she found herself in now paled in comparison. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that overwhelmed her sense of sanity, Sylvia found the exhilarating sensation most welcome. Her mundane life was now replaced with the urgency of survival instincts. Immediate actions took precedence. Is this what she was truly created for?

Thoughts ran by her, as the hero laid dormant. She reflected on her weakness and the memories that kept her awake at night. It mattered little now. All that she knew was the need to eliminate the Vulture. A surge of blood exited her throat, as it spilled over her Solomon's Edge. She grasped her weapon tightly, dragging herself from the ground. Aetherium spiraled forth, filling her blood with a fix to return the favor. Wrath overwhelmed her senses. The instrument of the Creator knew little else but her need to distpatch the Vulture with what strength she had in her body. She needed a reason to keep fighting, even if she was the chosen Sygis. A truth that she had learnt all too well during the War. Even if she was a nobody, she had to believe in something or someone to enter the fray. She had placed her faith in camaraderie before, for it was the only thing that kept her sane. It was only now that Sylvia realized that her love for Ra'el paled in comparison to that of her immediate situation. Could she really be using Ra'el to fill the void all of this time? No, she told herself, relinquishing all doubt with the sole intention of coming back in one piece to her husband. No matter the cost, she would bear it all alone, just to see her dreams realized. The dream of casting aside her bloody weapon and find peace. The peace that she had fought for during the war.

Laure, still shocked from Sylvia's incapacity, clenched her teeth. Her grips tightened upon her Able and Baker. While she wanted to rush to Sylvia's aid, the heroine's recovered stance and disapproving glance nonverbally ordered Laure to stand her ground and protect Preston. Before Laure shifted her attention towards the Vulture, she noticed Sylvia's fingers upon her spear that formed a cryptic message. The heroine's thumb, index and middle fingers were raised. Laure then understood Sylvia's intention, as she stemmed both her hammers against the ground and raised her hands to conjure forth a spell.

"Zephyra. Typhoon." she chanted, as her spell dispersed the fog entirely.

The breeze empowered her allies with a lightweighted sensation. Laure raised her index and middle fingers, tiwrling herself akin to a waltz spin. Groznic runes surrounded Preston, Eryn and Odhran. Laure had her reservations, but ultimately gave into Sylvia's unspoken commands.

"Are you sure of what you're doing?"

Sylvia took a deep breath, and replied simply by pacing herself forward with renewed strength. Upon seeing her comrades, Sylvia was reminded of her responsibilities. Her conflicted mindset subsided, replaced with vigor to vanquish this evil. The hero exhaled, as she imbued her spear with her accumulated aetherium. Solomon vibrated, ringing true to its sonorous warcry. The black blade glowed, as the excess of aetherial energy coiled around Sylvia. She became one with her weapon. An entity of burning blue and amber.

"Your idol is false, as is your existence!" Sylvia said, as she began to expedite her steps towards the Vulture head on.

Laure followed suit and dragged her hammers with her.

"Now, Laure!" Sylvia hurled her spear at the Vulture again, shifting her direction towards its right flank while Laure broke left.

Sylvia caught up with her spear in a parallel movement. Before the spear could find its point of impact, Sylvia halted its flight path with a quick grappling motion. With her momentum, she swung the crux point to hammer its arm. Laure followed up with Sylvia's actions and went for the Vulture's left limb. Her hammers came bearing down upon the creature like a lobster claw pinch. The hammers' pummeling point seeped with pure aetherium, almost tearing the Vulture's limb completely. Sylvia's spear on the other hand, cleaved with purpose, burning the beast's right arm with burning aetherium energy. The hero then hurled herself upwards, as she came bearing down upon its back with her spear lodged into the Vulture's spine. She yelled with all her might, as Sylvia forced her way into the creature's malleable flesh with her unrestraint aetherium output spiraling out of control. Her wounds began to tear open as the Vulture's hardened flesh did the same, yet she kept holding onto her spear.

"Sylvia! Stop! You won't be ablr to handle the corruption!" Laure remarked with concern, as she leapt back.

"Let the Creator's will be done! NO MATTER THE COST!" Sylvia yelled, clenching her teeth to bear the excrutiating pain that plagued her body.

Heeding Preston's warning, Sylvia's aetherium-filled aura acted as a burning agent to repel the parasitic substance that constituted much of the Vulture's matter. But in doing so, she was burning aetherium more than she could handle. Her flesh began to crystalize, a consequential frostbite effect that was deserving of her unrelenting efforts. Sylvia's Solomon shook the very earth itself, despite the Vulture's firm stance. When she had dug deep enough within, Sylvia cried in agony as she detonated her spear's aetherium-loaded tip within the Vulture's prickly back. The semi-contained implosion threw her back. The aetherial detonation splattered the beast's steeled flesh all over. Sylvia's lamellar lacing broke from the temendous shockwave, littering the ground with Axian fibers and metal pieces. Her corrupted flesh, so crystallized that it deflected most of the shrapnel. However, some of the pieces found itself lodged in her shoulders and torso, where she fell.

"SYLVIA!" Laure yelled, as she unfurled her wings and unleashed a volley of steely feathers at the Vulture. Having bought a brief second of suppression, she rushed over to the hero.

"You boob! Don't ever pull that move again!"

"There is no time to be sentimental, Laure. Their rotten core is exposed! We have to press on!"

"You're the sentimental one here. Compose yourself, Sylvia!"

"We're still in the fight! I-..."

"Enough! Think of Ra'el! Think of the others. We need your head straight to pull through! Stay the course, damn your eyes!"

Laure shook some sense into the wrathful hero when she mentioned Ra'el. The hero's eyes shifted away with guilt. She clenched her teeth then finally exhaled heavily.

"You're right..." Sylvia reluctantly agreed, as she got up and eyed her companions.

"So what's plan?"

"We do what we do best. Be unorthodox, be lethal. The Vulture must possess a core or sime sort of main cortex akin to our heads."

"You reckon it would be somewhere in its arse like a Monmon?" Laure inquired.

"Only one way to find out." Sylvia said, studying the Vulture's physiques.

"Companions! Gather your strengths! Laure, do what you do best. Preston, locate and destroy its source of power. Eryn, lay down suppressing fire. Odhran, on me. This is it, my friends." Sylvia ushered in her words, as she gathered her remaining strengths. Her eyes darkened, as her visage turned paler by the second.

 

[Larry]

Ódhran von Starkenburg
Location: In the sewers beneath St. Keed's Chapel.
Mood: Gaining confidence.
Interactions: Pilgrim59 | Worthlessplebian | Doctor Nope | Malphaestus .​

Ódhran simply nodded upon hearing Sylvia's command, exhausted as he was by the weaving in-and-out of the creature's vicinity; it was only then, to compound his enervation, that the ghoul fired a beam in both his and Eryn's direction, comprised as it was of an eclectic mix of the sewers infrastructure and the natural aetherium in the air. The islander was lucky to evade the weapon, instead striking one of his clones as it passed him, absorbing the clone entirely within the contrivance itself. Ódhran quickly formed another one to replace it's eradicated colleague, a shimmering effect seeming to hang over the man as the clone stepped out from his body. Uncannily, and indeed, it took a moment for him to notice the welling up, but the young man was getting irritated at the situation. He could count on his hand the number of times when he found himself feeling this way and it never lasted for too long, usually subsiding a few moments later. This time, however, it seemed as though the feeling was peeking through the surface, having accumulated to excess over the past few hours. An innocuous visit to the mainland in the hopes of spending time with his sibling, having worked for a time to restore the honour of his family in ministration to the man that prosecuted his father: all this work, all this effort, compromised by a chance meeting with a former colleague. Did he find himself angry at the Companions for involving him in their peacetime schemes? This was what disturbed Ódhran.

He couldn't discount that very feeling.

Instead of contemplating these meddling feelings any further, the young man consummately returned his attention to the issue at hand, namely the Vulture. Sylvia and Laure, in their joint manoeuvre, looked to have weakened the creature even more following the Sygis' earlier mammoth of a blow. Yet, as it continued to rail and thrash against their every effort to silence the beast and escape the increasingly-destabilised sewer complex, the beast's very physiology was changing at every passing second. Ódhran had to adjust by repeated blinking, as though the scene before him was a mirage, since the creature seemed to phase in and out of existence every few moments. This left something of a quandary for the former information-officer. If it so happened that Preston, who had been ordered to destroy the now-exposed core, were to find himself striking at the exact moment the monster faded out of existence, his death would be all but ensured, given the Vulture's killing-intent towards the arachnidan. Eryn could fend for himself, wily and nimble as the combat-medic was, even in such a erratic environment; Laure likewise was well capable of dealing the coup de grâce should the opportunity present itself, so there was no need to worry on her part. All that was left was Preston and Sylvia: it was imperative that Ódhran provide as much protection to these two as he feasibly could. In Sylvia's case, it would aid her in that she would not have to expend any unnecessary energy, sapped of a great deal of stamina due to the corruption she incurred as a result of detonating her speak into the monster's back a few moments prior. For Preston, it was to act as a decoy, given the beast's fixation with him, more than likely as a result of Preston's anatomical knowledge of the Vulture's constituent matter.

Thusly, Ódhran began to fashion more clones for the parties he intended to assist. Yet it was not without a hint of worry on his behalf. As the requisite amount of clones began to file out and head towards his colleagues, a figure of four for each designated Companion, the islander began to feel a shudder of pain throughout his body; he never, even during the war, had to exert himself to this level before. As the number of facsimiles nearly tipped twenty, the young man stopped the process, worried about the possibility of his movements, lethargised as they would be as a result of his cloning efforts, being readily cognisant to the beast and easy to sift from the crowd of his lookalikes, given the beast's razor-sharp focus on Preston as a consequence of the latter's knowledge. Ódhran, now breathing in quicker spates as opposed to doing it slow and laboriously, situated himself next to his commander, eyeing her with a feeling of concern, tinged with one of curiosity. The young man wondered, thinking back on their conversation, what Sylvia thought of the whole situation. Out of the entire group, she was the one who has struggled the most making the adjustment to a peace-time living. And, as though he were a foil, the islander seemed to have prospered in such a post-war setting. So, in a cruel sense, Ódhran felt that Sylvia was truly herself in these situations, with death prowling around on all fours.

The young man resigned himself to this fact, and with as much determination as he could muster, peered ahead at the great beast, hopeful that this last charge would end this infernal creature, once and for all.

 

[Doctor Nope]

Eryn Leasath Cissnei
Location: The Sewers

Malphaestus Pilgrim59 Worthlessplebian Larry
​

As their assailant made their annoying remarks towards Preston, Eryn had ceased firing, now reloading his weapon. The lights on both his visor and his gauntlets had begun to fade in and out, the light groznite batteries having been circuited to output less according to the remaining power in the main groznite supply. His magitech gear would likely grant him no further use in the forseeable future, once this battle was over. The chemical contents of his lollipop were also starting to kick in real good now, as he felt his body and mind become more wakeful. He hadn't even noticed his left foot rapidly tapping the ground.

He raised his gun towards the vulture and....the vulture looked back at him? That wasn't supposed to be happening. It's eyes were looking a bit weird too-

Oh hell, that's no good.

In a manouvre that somewhat resembled a spider's pounce and was no doubt inspired by Preston, the H2 tendrils shot to the ground and, combined with the pushing from his legs, propelled Eryn in a blur of white and glowing red, the beam narrowly missing as he made a half-strafe and ended up skidding behind the target. Checking behind himself, he found that part of his cloak had burnt away near the hem. Tendrils L_3 and L_4, along with tendrils R_1 and R_5 had also been shortened a bit.

Tear off that injured arm, use the resulting hole as a path for further attacks to reach the cardiac box.

As he was preparing to execute his new idea, the commander and vice-commander launched their two-pronged attack, both mostly achieving the first step of it for him AND rendering the idea unnecessary by the time Sylvia had blown herself backwards, flying past him. His initial instinct was to rush over and immediately begin treatment, but of course he was standing right between an ally and an enemy, which he was really eager to rip apart right now.

Do both.

He was finally finding the strength to raise his left hand again, holding it out to Sylvia, while his right hand aimed the revolver yet again at the vulture. L_Sided tendrils reached out and carried his bag over, beginning a swift treatment that involved simultaneous wound cleaning, inflammation suppression, foreign object removal, stitching and gauzing alongside a morphine shot. At the same time, the R_Sided tendrils reached out to rip away what was left of the vulture's injured arm. Then came Sylvia's order to lay suppressive fire, which he happily obliged, unloading the 6 shots into the newly exposed flesh now that the topmost layer of armour had been blown away, timing each one to land right after the vulture finished blinking back into existence. The R_sided tendrils then went to work on rapidly reloading his firearm, while the L_sided tendrils finished Sylvia's initial treatment and redirected to thread themselves through the vulture's new holes, and tearing those chunks of flesh away.

By rinsing and repeating this process, he intended to rip and tear as much flesh as he could to make Preston's job of finding the core easier.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Preston Saytzeff Pacer, Preston of Met Di Plurida
Mentions: Pilgrim59 Larry Doctor Nope Malphaestus

At first, the horrid creature's rampage seemed reckless, uncoordinated. The display annoyingly was uncharacteristic in Preston's eyes. Surely this creature's God would not tolerate such clumsiness. A deception tactic then, to appear mindless to loosen their guard. Clever beast. Despite Preston's conclusions, it was already too late. The formation of this appendage, bare in its covering, had made its move. The octad of the Spider's eyes became hyper-honed towards the grasping hand, gory in its' makeup. A surge of impulses converged, a message sent. The muscles on his back and legs threatened to tear from overuse. Even if Preston possessed one of the fastest reaction speeds in the company, the monstrous thing surprised him. He would've avoided it—with difficulty—if Sylvia had not stopped it but still appreciated the effort.

Then the creature contorted and snapped, mocking anatomical rules for natural animals. It seemed Sylvia would expertly evade the horror's grabbing. The pit in Preston's stomach had been hefty. It was not the fact that his commanding officer became a living projectile that upset Preston, the brief touch that horrified him. With a free hand, Preston catapulted a small bed of webbing. The microscopic spinnerettes had fashioned the substance without the chemical adhesive—not many Silk Weavers can attest to the mastery of that technique. Alas, the aid that the bedding provided was infinitesimal. He surveyed his commander's body and hair. Thankfully, it seemed that not every detestable part could spread the black infection.

The abomination pointed at Preston, maliciously throwing eye-daggers. It declared, wrathfully, that Preston had interfered with his God's falsehood. Good, Preston's many eyes flared with righteous fury.

Sylvia ordered Laure with but a simple look. Laure had cast a spell, the Spider's body became featherweight. A blessing well-timed as now, the night-cloaked monstrosity had sent a projectile most devious. Akin to a whirlpool, the orb sucked up the matter and even magic from the odorous tunnels. The glow that coincided with the absorbed materials suggested a mystical link. A beam of etheric energies shot towards Eryn and Ódhran. No worries would plague Preston's mind: he trusted his allies to dodge. The preternatural essence of the orb had interested Preston, the way it seemed to bend even reality itself around its' edges, like light itself could not escape the infernal grasp. Preston shook his fascination, dodging the infinite well to the far side.

Sylvia had begun her assault. To say the least, Preston felt furious. What unfolded before his eyes had been monstrously reckless. "You careless fool..." As he watched the incineration of the pitch-black particles and even the crystallization of Sylvia's battle-hardened hands. Another one of her stunts, begrudgingly Preston accepted that truth long ago. She will be on the receiving end of a scolding, most scalding, if they survive this.

Ódhran, bless his efforts, exerted himself to create clones. Obviously, the clone for Preston is meant for protection. There will be no need for what Preston intends.

Suddenly, a tornadic blur of colours, charcoal black with spots of orange, bolted about. A combination of Preston's physio-anatomical makeup and Laure's blessing complimented his strategy nicely. His three working limbs collapsed and sprang like shooting pistons, aiding his humanoid legs in their leaps. Using his eyes, Preston gazed at the creature intently. The meticulous eye of a Surgeon leaves little detail not obscured. And that's when he notices it. An area around his chest bulged; Preston's ears are not as exceptional as his eyes but could still pinpoint the source of that rumbling. He hypothesizes that this housed an aetheric conduit, a sort of conversion chamber for the materials that the orb consumed. He knew what must be done.

Preston shoots web threads towards the walls, accelerating his already incredible speed. At approximately the eleventh web-line, Preston's head snaps towards the monster. He calculates as best as he can, not wishing to leave it up to chance. When Preston's sideways movement aligned with the creature's body.

HE

LETS

IT

FLY!

Preston had called upon all the strength that his body could muster, the adrenaline further pushing his muscles. The limb-spear held together by Preston's own webbing flies at the target while Preston crashes to the floor, not too dissimilar to what Sylvia went through mere moments ago. Muscles tore, pain consumed, Preston hopes that his aim be true.

 

[Pilgrim59]

Ra'el
Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District
Nessi Celestial Speck Huntertabbysandshark3 Soviet Panda ElenaIsCool
​

Ra'el shadowed the estranged personnel that called themselves his instruments, at the behest of the Aries's driven zeal. He felt his grips on morality slipping away, not of his doing. It seemed as if he had been strung along to the tunes of a rebellious band. While he disliked any indications of his association with the Harbingers, he could not deny the vivid images that gnawed at him since Hershey's visit. His foremost thought was to navigate his way back to Sylvia. On the other hand, his instincts kept him close to the Harbingers. Before he realized it, the man stood dumbfounded at the inevitable fact that he was subtly using the Harbingers to see his yearnings realized. By hitchhiking on Hershey's little adventure, he was augmented with this batch of unorthodox but lethal team of powerful avengers. While he felt powerless, a part of him simply accepted the reality of the way things are - almost as if it was all in part of the Starline alignments.

He dwelled on the thought since their departure from the butcher shop. Sympathy for their cause, or rather, pity kept him company along the way. In the Harbingers, he saw a refraction of once-dreamers molded into powerful beings - at the cost of their true inheritance. A reflection of the roaming veterans of Saarema and the war as a whole. In the end, they were simply Astrian and Solarian, ultimately Groznyan. Who was he, to discern their blood-stained pasts, when they were innately a sentient person as any in this world? The way Rael saw it, the Company and Harbingers were orphans of a conflict they did not conjured, pitted against one another by the cruel sinews of Fate. Rael clenched his teeth at the thought. If it was not for him, perhaps none of this would happen. Before he could find more reasons to validate his own darkness and pathetic state, Hershey had gone out of her way to diverge a portion of the troops away from the main lobby. The one that attached herself to him at all times, was now doing her part to keep her allies safe. Despite her odd schedules that got them here, Rael was sure of what he saw in her. A truly reliable mystic, even in the eyes of danger. Galius, despite his pride, had a fiery heart that no metal coffin could confide. Hassan, an estranged swordsman that went above and beyond the call of duty. Even in these troubled times, his loyalty and commitment to Hershey's rally were heard. Fealca, despite his conforming inclination, had chosen to pick up his sword again. Even if they did not see it themselves, Rael could make sense of how they managed to kept together now, and even more so during the war. Despite their differences, the Harbingers were a formidable force to be reckoned with. As the arcane enforcers now closes in on them, Rael must do what he must to see his own yearnings realized. These strange faces that he met not mere hours ago, were a part of his sealed past. It is time he decide for himself if he must take on the mantle of his expected role, or follow the coursing river. No matter what it takes, he will remain as a loving husband, even if he must ride this journey not of his choosing. Even if the howling wind may stir the forest, a mountain will never bow, he concluded.

Amidst the stray aetherial skirmish, Rael vaulted across the reception desk, and broke cover. The seal upon the glassed display was undone. In Hershey's absence, Rael was propelled forth by an unknown force. A force neither external nor upon his conscience, but by his willingness to unravel the mystery of his presumed past as a Daemon Lord. It mattered little now, whatever the entirety of Grozny thought of him. All that mattered was the acquisition of power. With power, he can protect Sylvia. Neverminding the psychological scars or the suffering of his foreseeable future, it will be done, he settled. Rael ran for the glass display.

Before long, some of the immediate mages turned their attention to him and began sending some aetherial bolts his way. Rael took cover, but not before taking heed of the grim reality that he possessed nothing when it came to combat. Yet, his body moved on its own to take cover. The Harbingers are braving the storms as he now resided behind a pillar. If he could get to the shard of his old armor, all would follow. He trusted his instincts, taking heed of Sylvia's careless slips of her war experiences in her sleep. Rael burned her visage into his mind, taking a deep breath. Upon his heavy sigh, the man broke cover once again, and hurled himself against the display. His shoulder bore the brunt of the impact, shattering the deactivated runic security measures embedded upon the display. As he finally retrieved the shard, he noticed a slight drip upon his arm. He refused to acknowledge the burgundy ooze that lingered upon his bicep. The stinging sensation sets in, as he winced in pain. However, Rael has yet to fully give in to the temptation of hugging the ground in defeat. He held the obsidian shard firmly in his hands, neglecting the pain as best he could. Would it be ironic to pray to Aerilia as a Daemon Lord? He scoffed at the idea, keeping a sense of tranquility under fire. He had little knowledge of how to actually enable it. With the mages closing in on his position, Rael was running out of time. He cycled through his thoughts, in hopes of hitting the bullseye while blindfolded. Then it dawned on him. The last thing he recalled was Hershey's mentions of how these fragments were a part of him. If this was the case, then there was something he could try, Rael contemplated. He eyed the shard with a stern pair of eyes.

"No matter what... I'll always love you, Sylvia. You weren't an ardent believer to begin with, so the Gods be damned." he muttered beneath his breath, raising the shard before him.

A tender resonance emitted across the room, resembling that of stuffing filling the hollow innards of a roasted turkey. An eerily moist sound to complement his anguished screams. The shard was now embedded within his wound. Like a fool, he believed in the cryptic words that was meant as a metaphor rather than a literal act of self-mutilation. With the shard now burried within the laceration blemish upon his arm, Rael tried to brave the pain, but felt his strength fading away. Is this how he would die? By tainting his bloodstream with a foreign object? It was worth the try, even if he saw it as a failed endeavor. The mages crept closer, raising their incantations, while the Harbingers are kept busy by their metallic counterparts and arriving oppositions.

"I can see now why you dislike social gatherings, my dear... Hah..." he muttered his words, prepared to meet his ends.

Before long, a burst of light radiated as the mages unleashed their charged bolts. A loud shriek shoved into ovedrive, as the amassed of the concentrated volley cut past Hassan's cheek, missing the man's handsome visage by a mere inch. Even the swordsman could feel the aetherial heat that flashed past his face. A metallic coiling sound radiated across the room, signaling a ricochet shot of some kind. The mages that converged on Rael's position were taken aback by the awe-defeating sight of a grotesque being before them. Flesh molded in throbbing azure and violet glamor. The white-haired homemaker stood up and leaned back, unleashing a smoking exhale. His arm was now as dark as the eclipsed night, with thorned protrusion erecting from his once pale-white skin. His flesh seemingly sheathed beneath a black gauntlet reminiscent of the shard's dark refraction. Rather, it seemed as if his arm was made of metal. The man lowered his defensive posture, as the black concoction of melting flesh and sizzling prosthetic of a limb quickly blended beneath his epidermis. His eyelashes unbound, stretching the dark drowse beneath his eyes. A deathly aura surrounded him, as he turned his head slowly towards his assailants.

"What are you?!"

"The Mnemonic of Kaen is gone! It's a part of him now!"

"Impossible! Even the Dean could not contain its corrupt radiation with proper channels."

"That man is the-..."

Before the mages could conclude their little discourse, an abrupt swirl of violet matter engulfed the room. Even the Star Sentinels and Harbingers were forced on their knees from the tremendous power of the usurping darkness. The automatons lowered themselves, taking up a crouched stance as their armor began to crack. The blue aetherial veins that painted their bodies were now combating a violet hue. Azure optics like that of the Olysean Sea demanded their undivided attentions, as the man in white hair broke the brief silence with his coarse voice.

"How troublesome." he finally said, lifting his hand slightly with a blank expression.

He then turned towards his assumed companions, studying them briefly before shooting his glance at the broken directory upon the reception desk. He made his way over to the oaken furniture and pieced the smashed map together, before settling it in its place. His actions were poised, as if time had stopped. His oppositions could only look on in horror as the man that consumed the Mnemonic of Kaen was simply striding along as if the grounds that he walked was simply de-sieged. His odd course of actions upon the fixation of the broken map was unexpected, even for the so-called 'The One Beyond The Star'. The man leaned back and tilted his head over his shoulders.

"I commend your valiant efforts. Come, my sullied ravens. It is time to depart." he said softly to his Harbingers.

The aura that bound the Harbingers was quickly lifted, while the mages and sentinels remain bound by the shackles of the vibrant violet hues. As Rael walked out into the hall, he turned back at the occupants still inside the lobby and blinked once. The dark energies that surrounded them dissipated, as vibrant splashes erupted upon the steeled automatons and robed figures. The mages quickly collapsed one by one, robbed of their energy, while the Star Sentinels simply fractured where they kneeled, akin to porcelain pots upon the cold hard ground.

Rael felt the effect of the shard fully upon his body. A sensation that was foreign to his conscious self, but all too familiar physically. He kept a reserved observation upon his recently acquired ability, rather, what was taken from him by the Groznyans. He halted his steps in the hallway, conjuring thoughts of a certain figure that he had called for before he shoved the shard into his wound. Parts of his memory came upon him like a crashing waves upon the reticent shore. One after another, he began to comprehend and acknowledge Hershey's advisement. Unlike his past self, he had chosen to simply incapacitate the mages. He weighed his decision with a heavy heart. Was this the product of being attached to the one he held dearly, so much so that it had influenced what was expected of him? Even now, he contemplated the odds of finding and brokering the news to Sylvia, with expectation of a speculated fallout between them. Surely, the Prophecy that came about during the Mythic Age must be fulfilled in blood? He doubt Sylvia would simply neglect this ordeal. Love is, but a fleeting emotion - irrational and sporadic. It gnawed at him, as he now must make the call to those that sought to bring him back, or to adhere to this pact that he had made with the Angel of Verdan. Even now, there were parts of his memory that was hazy and unkempt. Why did they have to wage war against one another? To settle immediate conflict was one thing, but to instigate four different crusades in the last thousand years was something he could not understand. Rather than trying to justify it now, he will have to abide by his time until he could fully restore his memory. After all, he had survived long enough on this world. Surely, there must be a purpose for which he was made for. Even with his newfound powers, he was keen on becoming the Rael that Sylvia cherished. However, times are changing and only the truth shall prevail, he settled.

"We are leaving Dragonsreach. But first things first, our Dreamweaver is missing. Despite her aloof demeanor, she does not wander off without motives. I intend on finding out why." he stated, before falling on his knees from a surge of disconcerting pain. Rael relinquished his arms, as he tried to hold in his cough, making sure to not spill his blood across the floor.

 

[Celestial Speck]

Soviet Panda | Pilgrim59 | Huntertabbysandshark3 | ElenaIsCool

Hassan Nox I-Sen

Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District


​

Hassan once saw Sertek die in front of him. It was a visage that still haunted him above all others he saw during the War. For a Harbinger, attachment and perhaps sympathy were things simply not cut for the job, and he knew that. Many were the times Hassan closed off his face and his more broad sense of humanity when he fought during those long few years of the war. He saw many men die. Some good, others horrible, a few by his own hand, a few other by the hand of their forces. The first death he experienced, the first death he truly caused...Despite his stone-cold visage, it still gnawed at him, haunted. Him. It was a soldier like any other, maybe he had a wife and daughter waiting at him at home. Maybe he was a nobody with a lifeless complex than his own. Or maybe he was a horrible person. He didn't know, and he often didn't let it get to his head at the present, what with how many faces he similarly cuts down.

But Sertek falling off that damn cliff was still something that woke him up in a cold sweat at night, even if he met him again just a few hours ago. It was something that made him wake up nearly screaming at those damn streets at night, with someone at the back of his mind telling him he could have done better, that he should have done better. 'He was your sworn brother, fool' even if he knows he couldn't have really done anything, as the First Harbinger and his Second Hand, his Second Flame, it was a failure as big as closing his eyes off to a massacre.

So when he saw him, that fool, once more rushing at danger at the edge of his vision, Hassan's breath escaped him for a few moments as both Fealca and Gallious attacked as one just a few good feet next to him. There it was again, that feeling of dread, of failure. Even when Ra'el's visage escaped him through the fighting and flames that came from their duel, his heart was begging him to come to his aid and not let the same mistake haunt him twice, while his mind dueled it, telling him to not risk everything for the sake of loyalty. But at the same time, if Sertek, Ra'el, or whatever his name shall be in the future were to die...What would be the point? Do Daemons get third chances?

Before he knew it, his body had reached some manner of autopilot. He fought and swung while he thought of other matters. Perhaps an impressive feat to some fellow warriors, but to Hassan, it was akin to floating on a shapeless blob of a void while his thoughts overtook him. In a few moments, he became a creature of both logic and the future and desires and ideals. He didn't know which one to focus on.

It was a moment though, a moment of clarity, a moment of grandiosity! All of that was broken away, his thoughts and attention shattered then reshaped only to be forced to look at the nostalgically familiar display of power just a few mere feet away from him. There, he saw it: A man he knew, a man who was proud but had a good heart despite it all. A man who was powerful but only flaunted and used his power in the wisest of ways. Hassan was forced down, after all, how couldn't he? Even if this display of power wasn't revealing itself at this moment, forcing his legs down, he has a feeling he would still kneel down.

Moments passed and he saw it as if reality itself was crying at this cancer against the laws and nature the gods themselves shaped on this world. The Mages were blown away and their golems fractured like it was nothing. Hassan let out a shaky breath as memories rushed at him once more. His childhood, his meeting with this man, his training, his anniversaries, the years going by like the winds of Grozny, and now it allowed him to stand here, at this moment, in this place. Seeing this man.

This man only a madman would call 'friend.'

"Welcome back," Hassan said, a hand placed over his heart. "Sertek."

In the next moment, as he approached and spoke, now with a different voice and air about him, Hassan couldn't help but show off his wide and thankful smile. Gods are damned, he was happy to see this man again, even though he slipped up on the names. Ah well, no matter. Hopefully, he didn't take offense to it-

Blood. The battle was over, but the wounds remained. How could he forget that?! Hassan quickly sheathed his blades once more, hands quickly reaching to hold Sertek to impede him from falling down. "Fool! Don't try and act cool in this situation just yet...!" Hassan huffed, hurriedly and somewhat quickly helping Ra'el (or Sertek) up and using one of his arms to support the surprisingly heavy man up. But- his words made his worse fears come true. Not only was Bisi missing, so was Hershey too.

Shit.

"I had a feeling something like that happened, the battlefield felt too quiet for me..." Hassan muttered, a grim tone in his voice. "My lord, this may be just a theory, but I and Hershey had discovered that something was aloof when we freed our absent trickster from death row. A third party, neither Iris nor ourselves. They came to be in the way of a wicked construct of smoke and dark shadow, they spoke of one 'True King' or something along those lines," He admittedly didn't pay attention, that creature was more of a tool to better shape his motivation of finding him. "It is a shot in the dark, but this third party could be involved. Yet for them to be able to take down Hershey, either they are a coward that I would love to sink my blades into, or they are a fearsome foe. We should tread with caution."

 

[ElenaIsCool]

Bisila Nzo

Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District

Interacting with: Pilgrim59 Celestial Speck Huntertabbysandshark3 Soviet Panda

Being stylishly late was one of Bisila’s ways to prank people, one of her favorites to be exact. There was something appealingly funny about making people impatient. Except this time, it wasn’t intentional.

When Hershey had given her time, the woman simply grinned and said with a tilt of her head



“Sure but nothing prevents me from taking my sweet, sweet time just to spite you”



And now she honestly thought that was a bit of an ironical joke. The White Wolf had headed to one of the spots the people she sometimes worked with before she got jailed usually met in. Having to dodge and sneak around squarebacks, who weren’t exactly looking for her but might as well could toss her back in as easily gave her a bit of a rush, the kind she liked to feel. Adrenaline, the potential danger she could get into. She missed this feeling and embraced it wholeheartedly, it was just distracting enough to make her not feel the small pangs of fear she got when she was close to being caught again.

The spot she had to go to was somewhere in the alleyways, coincidentally close to the Forty-Fifth so she didn’t have to stray too far from where Hershey told her to. Slipping into the alleys and ducking behind a dumpster when some squarebacks passed, she quietly made her way into a place she vaguely remembered.


"Find a door and an owl nest​

Knock three times and be led to the rest"

Very cryptic and had a nice rhyme, she thought. It wasn’t impossible to decrypt but it would be terribly confusing for people who didn’t know where to look. Bisila ran her hands through the walls as she walked, eyes peeled for an owl. She eventually came through a set of bricks, one had a black brick instead and felt hollow. A smile made its way on her face

Found it

The White Wolf knocked once, again but two times and did the same but three times before taking a step back as the bricks began to move. Really clever on their part, making the door seem like bricks. Just a bit of painting and engineering to get it done. A gruff voice rang out from the hidden second closed door

“Name and reason?”

Bisila’s smile grew wider

“Shiroi. I’m here to pick up some crayons”

Soon enough, she was sitting on a rather comfortable chair sipping some coffee, having a little chat and giving unsettling smiles to the bartender

“You know, I’m running on a tight schedule here so I want all my colors back on their crayon box. I’ve got a few paintings I need to do”


The bartender looked away to focus on handing another criminal a drink. Bisi’s smile became a pout as she leaned forward on the table

“Don’t tell me you lost it or worst, sold it. Honestly, it’s mostly because of me that this business is booming you know? Where would you all be without my help and the precious toys I worked so hard to make?”


There were some low murmurs as she and the bartender entered a staring competition. She definitely hadn’t been making them weapons for free and she did earn her share of the profit although her imprisonment made that business halt. Before she got caught, she did give her most of her iconic weapons she used just in case and made them sign that they wouldn’t under any circumstances, sell them. The White Wolf took a long sip of her tea. Green tea. She liked it but it wasn’t necessarily among her favorites. The drink was at a very desirable temperature and this made it better for her to think.

“I know my absence might’ve caused a hole on your recourses-”

The bartender snorted and shook his head

“Ya think?”

Bisila kept on going, as if he didn’t interrupt her just now although she did give him a glare that made him reconsider

“But I did give you things to work with, didn’t I? I’d hate to be the reason why business went bust. Am I right lads or am I right lads?”

A small chorus of ‘You are right, lass’ followed. Bisila grinned and leaned close to the counter, making the bartender look uneasy. Her smile became a thin line as she put down her teacup

“I do hope you held up your end of the bargain, buddy. I don’t think the employers would like it if they lost one of their suppliers... And I doubt they pay you enough for your mortgage. I want you to find whoever bought my stuff and give them back. Pay the client extra, give them compensatory weapons, I don’t care. I want my guns. Or else...”

Bisila’s smile returned

“You’ll be paying for a funeral instead of a mortgage. Are we clear?”

The bartender narrowed his eyes at her and opened his mouth to speak, only for her to interrupt him with a raised hand

“I know what you’re thinking. Who am I to threaten you like that? I work for you, not the other way around. Is that it? Sorry if you don’t realize it but I’m not one of your employees. I just give away my weapons because it’s fun. Charity and all that, don’t you think? Well let me remind you of who I am”



Bisila stood up and removed one of the Crow’s guns, twirling them before pointing it at the bartender. This den of criminals, everybody had some kind of weapon on it. She could hear multiple people standing in alarm. The gun was mostly décor; it didn’t shoot or anything but she liked their expressions. Alarm, with the slightest undertone of fear It made her feel..Powerful


“I’m the White Wolf, a wild beast who guards her den and mauls intruders with sharp fangs. And I for damn sure not going to be caged by the likes of you so I’ll ask you again; Are. We. Clear?”


The Bartender stared at the smiling woman’s eyes, full of resolve. He couldn’t know whether she was joking or not. Everyone knew her as a practical jokester but he also knew, from experience that even a joker has it’s own trump card. He didn’t want to take that chance so he nodded, albeit slowly and raised his hand to the people who were already ready for a fight. They reluctantly sat back down



“We’re clear. How about I give you some of your weapons that didn’t get sold yet before I contact the client?”



“Now you’re talking business”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


That was before, now she was currently on a low rooftop close to the Starline Institute, eyeing the situation from above with a scope. Honestly, they weren’t doing so well and she couldn’t say she blamed them. They might be Harbingers but they have been without combat for a while now. Not that that wouldn’t stop her from mocking them about it. She had arrived a bit later than she thought due to being chased and attacked by a couple of squarebacks as on her way. She had to lead them away from her actual destination before she arrived as there was a huge chance they would definitely call for back-up and change their objective of dealing with The Hero if the news that the Demon Lord returned spread. Not to mention make their exit a lot more problematic. That’s why she dealt with any and all possible squareback and backup from outside; she was confident that despite time, the others would still have the skill to deal with them.



Bisila grabbed the bag the Bartender had given her, sliding the rifle in and pat the guns on their holster before jumping off. Her ankles didn’t like that but it wasn’t enough to completely disorient her. The noises inside had fallen silent so she assumed and checked that yes, they were done. Her brows raised at the damage made, the fact that some of their assailants were still alive and the state of the others but what took most of her attention was Ra’el. Something familiar was on his arm. His aura, the authority that came out of it; everything. He was Sertek. He was back.

Bisila wore a smirk as she announced her arrival with a wave

“I leave for a while and this happens. And here I was, thinking I got rusty. You look more than a little roughed up and now Hershey's been captured by who-knows-who. We really need to up our game, don’t you think? ”


Despite the jesting tone, there was a small hint genuine worry and relief on her voice. She didn’t know what she would do if these guys died and as much as she had a snarky comment for the Dreamweaver, she was a very valuable member that they honestly couldn’t afford to lose.​

 

[Pilgrim59]

Sofia IV Nowak
Dragonsreach Airspace, Aurelian District
Midrick ​

Markas's remarks pertaining to his exploits during the war was as she expected of the many homeless faces that were all too familiar to the destitutes of the Epirean District. No doubt, the man was caught between what is left of his sanity and that of the materialistic society of Dragonsreach. Sofia did not press the matter anymore than she already presumed. The woman guided Markas towards the landing pad on the far north wing, away from the attention of the encroaching Watchers and dismounted Drakensreiter.

When the two made their way past the skyway bridge, two Havenite squarebacks turned the corner, exacting their authority swiftly. In their hands were the standard-issued single-shot bolt action Mark Ninety-Five. Sofia's eyes shifted towards Markas, of whom was more than happy to smash his way through. Promptly, she tapped his sleeve softly with a cunning smile.

"Sir. Ma'am! The Sky Garden's under lockdown on orders of the Black Watch. Please turn back to the main hall and follow through with the attendance procedures!" on of them announced.

"Oh my. I've had a bit too much to drink, sergeant. My acquaintance is taking me home." Sofia responded, falling forward haphazardously on purpose.

"Ma'am-...?!?" the squareback responded.

"For your troubles, and that of your partner's. Would be a shame if my husband found out about this little affair..." Sofia whispered into the squareback's ears, slipping him a stack of twenty thousand ryns. She then eyed Markas with a blatantly suggestive look.

"Ma'am. Hey, Pheros, let 'em through." the sergeant replied, prompting his partner to shoulder their rifle and step to the side.

"I appreciate it, boys."

Sofia then stringed Markas along, passing the guards nonchalantly. She gave the squarebacks a sly giggle with her index finger upon her lips - soliciting a gesture of solidifying her bribe. When the two boarded the small airship, the two guards eyed one another. The sergeant split his shares and tossed the other half to his comrade.

"What was that about?"

"It's not everyday you make ten thousand ryns on the clock. This is more than what I have for my retirement plan. Keep your mouth shut, Pheros." the sergeant replied.

The airship gradually distanced itself from the Sky Garden, bearing east for Shirley Woods. Despite its rugged exterior, the gondola was akin to that of a spacious observatory - laden with furnitures and personal effects. Complemented with the latest set of grozite engines, the transport's expenditure alone was a statement of Sofia's disposition. Perhaps Markas was right to be wary of Sofia, for the latter was among the powerful elites of Dragonsreach. Sofia was greeted by her attendant, of whom had brought with her a set of luminescent cards.

"Everything is prepared as you ordered, milady." Emilia reported.

"A job well done, my dear. It won't be long now." Sofia smiled slightly, as if she was expecting something to come their way.

Before long, two distinct silhouettes paralleled their flight path to that of the cruising airship. Eventually the harmonic device upon the coffee table glowed, receiving a message from one of the pilots.

"Air Crawler Two-Five-One, this is Aura Two-Two, we do not have you on any scheduled flight list. Please state your departure and arrival points, as well as your purpose. Over."

"Aura Two-Two, this is Sofia Nowak speaking. I am in a hurry home in Shirley Forest from the Sky Garden. Abrupt homely affairs and all, I hope you boys understand."

"We read you loud and clear ma'am. Apologies for the troubles. Break. Be advised, Lady Nowak, the city is currently under lockdown. Please have your IDs ready, and transmit them. Just protocols, ma'am. Over."

Sofia turned to pick up the cards and swiped them decisively across the space between her and the parallel Drakensreiter. The wyvern rider relinquished their left hand from the reins and briefly studied the runic panel that was conjured forth before him. They identified four personnel onboard. One pilot, Emilia, Sofia and Grey. He then turned towards the curtained gondola, having concluded that the Dragon Slayer they were seeking was not onboard.

"Sorry for the troubles again, Lady Nowak. You are clear to proceed. Maintain current speed and heading. We will escort you past the Epirean vector, then egress. Have a wonderful afternoon, Aura Two-Two out." the drakensreiter responded over the anprac.

"Delightful. Fly safe, boys." Sofia replied, before unplugging the anprac.

"And... we are right as rain. Another drink, my dear Vik?" Sofia offered, pouring Markas and herself two glasses of Albion whisky.

Emilia exited the room and made their way towards the bridge, leaving Sofia to converse with Markas.

"Tell me, have you ever chanced a stay at Ranger's Retreat?" Sofia asked, twirling her tumbler glass slightly, as she leaned back in her seat.

 

[Pilgrim59]

Ra'el / Sertek
Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District
Nessi Celestial Speck Huntertabbysandshark3 Soviet Panda ElenaIsCool
​

Ra'el raised his hand as a nonverbal sign to relinquish Hassan's aid.

Of all things, Ra'el had wished Hershey's words to be false and that he could simply return to Sylvia. Yet, here he stood, with his decision and purpose solidified when his body accepted the Shard of Kaen. He kept this disturbance to himself, knowing that he will have to confront Sylvia one day. What was more surprising to the man was that he was calmly contemplating the issue, rather than throwing rogue words to vent. Was it due to fatigue or has he always been as the Harbingers saw him? His life for the last year has all been a facade to conceal his innate nature of the feared Daemon Lord, a part of him said. The other resisted, parting insights of his ideals. Who was he, truly?

The image of his immediate peers reeled him back to reality. He had made his choice, and it was time to live with it. For better or for worse, these familiarly-distant warriors needed a figure to rally under. Hershey was right to do so, in her own rights to help the Harbingers survive.

"A king need not conceal themselves behind curtains of falsehoods and murders. We will bring them to light soon enough..." Rael finally replied, as his hand brushed up over his right eye.

Flashes of nonsensical images passed him by briefly. One moment he was upon a desolate mountain, the next he was back at the SMI. Rael resolved that he was in no state to bear the responsibilities of a leader just yet. He was still reeling back between his past and the current name that he has been living with. Before long, another figure appeared, one that he subconsciously acknowledged, despite having little memories of their background.

"We will abide by our time. If this... False King is in play, then so are we. I have yet to comprehend my true purpose here. I do not expect all of you to entrust your lives to a surrogate amnesiac as I." he said to the White Wolf.

Sertek turned to Hassan, placing his hand upon their shoulder with a firm grip.

"Until my purpose is clear, I entrust the Harbinger's survival in your hands, Hassan. All of you will obey Hassan's words as if they were my own." Sertek announced.

Beneath his confident gesture, Rael was still surprised as to how he was able to levy those words without preparations. He was truly no longer the same man that Sylvia saw, if that man ever existed. Rael was disturbed by his own words and actions, almost as if his body and soul have been relinquished to another hand by the Creator's seamless transition of puppeteering leisure.

"I have much to relearn. Only Hershey possess actionable schedules and knowledge of my sealed memories."

"Harbingers. Hershey. Now." Rael added, turning to Hassan and the others.

Perhaps this was the right course of action, thought Rael.Despite his firm words, he was still caught between what was expected of him as a Daemon Lord and his mundane life as a househusband. While he was keem on managing both, he knew it in his heart that one day, he will have to decide one path over the other. Perhaps this was his second chance to atone for his past sins. Until he come to understand his purpose on Grozny as the feared Daemon Lord, it was best to stay the course. In the end, he had already made up his mind. Surely, Sylvia will understand. But even if he was optimistic, he could not account for the inevitable confrontation with his beloved wife. Perhaps they will have a fight over it - one marked with wrathful steel and torn hearts. Even so, Rael found comfort in the simple fact that this was the Creator's trial of his worth. After all, all marriages are either strengthened or shattered by internal disputes. Who was he, a powerless Daemon Lord, to challenge the one who was responsible for his dwelling here on Grozny? It was best to acknowledge the rough course of Fate, but never give in to the calling of the past or what the ominous future may bring. What he was going to do in the present was all that mattered, Rael steeled himself.

 

[Huntertabbysandshark3]

Galious
interaction: Pilgrim59 Celestial Speck Soviet Panda Nessi ElenaIsCool​

Galious couldn’t decide if he was happy and relieved or annoyed at this current moment. It appeared as of ra’el or as the Harbringer‘s knew him lord Sertek was back at least partially the strange otherworldly aura of their leader washing over him and those present.. awe-inspiring and amazing if not for what Sertek did next. While he’d essentially shut down any further assaults by the mages he‘d also irreparably damaged every last Sentinel that Galious had control over.. thusly the Golemancer‘s conflicting feeling of anger, even now his skills were just thrown aside. yet he recalled his first meeting with the demon lord.... the first to give him any genuine respect...

standing tall upon a ruined building the metal dragon watched the burning and crumbling landscape around him a whole village leveled in but a few minutes several large stone constructs Continued to pulp whatever looked vaguely salvageable for the dragon intended this place to be stamped out of existence, for each and every building and those that had previously inhabited them had slighted them.. now little more than smears upon the ground a revenge decade in the making finally fulfilled In cold steel and silence. A small chuckle emitting from within its armored hide. “How...funny“ the dragon's voice echoed softly, only to be followed by the clapping of a single individual. “very Impressive work, you managed to wreak the place all by yourself you know I could use someone with your natural talents“ a voice spoke out to the dragon who turned to give a little bow, whoever this voice belonged to. Finally, someone who appreciated him.

Galious’s mind was made up at the moment he‘d choice to ignore the Setback and just go along. The comment being made on the distinctive lack of Hershey, “last I spoke to her she’d run off to redirect reinforcements so if she’s anywhere it’s likely deeper within the halls of this accursed place “ he’d add and now finally Bisi through it appropriate to show her smug little face only serving to piss Galious off, even more, he‘d give the girl an earful later. “hassan it would perhaps be better for me to carry lord ser’tek he’s in no condition to be fighting and your skills are much better served without encumbrance” Galious offered in a purely pragmatic sense... for now the golemancer was little more then an armored pack animal or personal armor, however, it seems his gesture was entirely unnecessary as Sertek had seemily made it clear he was technically ok tho galious doubted that was true, Hassan was then placed in proper charge of the group, though was it a good idea? Probobly so far Hershey had been the one that had provided them all with guidance as to where and what they where doing much to everyone's concern the dreamweavers safety and yet again his lack of golems annoyed him so... it would have been much easier.. "while it's not my place to make orders... splitting up seems stupid, with whatever entity is prowling here whatever this king is, and the entities that serve it, are a matter for after we find Hershey" galious finished point a metal limb at the direction of where he'd last seen Hershey run most certainly there would be a trail to follow... if not... prehaps they where doomed.

 

[Celestial Speck]

Soviet Panda | Pilgrim59 | Huntertabbysandshark3 | ElenaIsCool

Hassan Nox I-Sen

Starline Magecraft Institution, Aurelian District


​

He immediately stood still as Ra'el raised a single hand to stop him. It was a simple, powerless gesture, yet Hassan still felt like he was caught up on a spell none of the same. He admittedly felt a certain degree of shame for being stopped on his tracks by Ra'el so easily like that. While Hassan knew he still cared and worried for the man like he was a brother to him, he still had a certain degree of self-respect that seemed to be falling below Ra'el (or Sertek) every time he spoke or even acted. It made Hassan ashamed of himself to a certain degree: Feelings that were quickly washed away as he heard chatter behind him- a familiar annoying voice. Hassan's face and feeling of embarrassment both went stone cold as he turned around and saw Bisi.

To her, she was fashionably late. To Hassan, she was unreasonably so. The look the Harbinger gave her was one that didn't speak of rage, annoyance, or anything. It was just a cold, distant feeling that if it were to be given to a normal soldier would likely make them bow their head down in shame and nervousness. There was no pressure, no noticeable feelings on him, just the clear look of cold stoic faces that Bisi received that spoke of disappointment.

"Next time," He spoke simply and to the point, not giving Bisi a chance to answer. "Arrive in time. I'm not sure if you noticed, but one of our own is missing."

He knew that Bisi couldn't have done anything to stop it: His words didn't speak of blame to this situation to Bisi in any noticeable way, the White Wolf knew Hassan that well: Despite being an idealist, he was a realist first. If he were to blame her for Hershey's disappearance, it would need to be very clearly her fault. This wasn't it: No, he was telling her to take the disappearance of a team member, of family more seriously.

Before the air could get any tenser from any particular reply from Bisi however- Ra'el's words cut his thoughts after his touch on his shoulder forced his attention to go to him. Hassan blinked at the orders; he wasn't particularly surprised or suddenly shocked at them: As the second in command, there were a few, rare times in which such thing happened. In this one, it was more understandable than ever. But it was still surprising to Hassan to be given the torch so quickly. He still felt like he was walking in darkness without Hershey here, but now while he has a torch, nothing is stopping him from falling into a pit and taking them all with him.

He took a sharp, understanding breath. Hassan spoke no words to Ra'el as he simply stood himself up.

"Harbingers!" He spoke, his voice becoming loud, but not too loud. "You have heard him. Until further notice, I am in charge of leading us. As such, our first and most important objective is finding Hershey and escaping from the premises," He sniffed the air, that strong smell of sewage that would make any normal man's stomach swirl still present. "Authorities will no doubt arrive at the scene: It's likely they are at this moment. The sewers are our most likely method of escape from the city and this place as well."

He didn't stop there; it was somewhat obvious as well that their target would choose such an escape route as well. "There is a possibility however has our Dreamweaver went through the sewers as well. It is the most logical place to start. Notice the smell in the air: Our trail and escape route stands before us."

"Fealca, you shall stand next to Sertek as will I. Bisi, Gallious, you will both stand behind us three: However, make sure any golems protect our sides and behinds if possible. Danger looms over us all, even if our potentials were unlocked by our Lord, being safe at the edge of danger is no dishonorable act. Now to me!" With a motion of his hand, he walked towards their dark and damp objective: Disgusting liquids and half organic things born from human bodies no doubt stood everywhere on Dragonsreach's sewers, but at the same time, Hassan knew such simple gross things would be the least of their issues.

There was a shadow looming over Hassan, casting doubt over him: Of him sparing those guards at Bisi's prison break, of the fact Ra'el was now a househusband, of Hershey's disappearance, of all such things that happened in less than a week despite living an entire year here. Hassan knew; while he wouldn't be leading the Harbingers for long, he finally understood what it was like to walk on a single rope alongside people you care about.

'Very well, Dragonsreach,' he thought, almost somewhat hauntingly. 'Show me your secrets, your sins, your Fake Kings. Show me them, so I can devour them all just like you wish to devour us.'

 

[Pilgrim59]

Episode 2 Ending​

Sewers, Scene 1

Sylvia
Sewers, Central District

Laure
Sewers, Central District
Larry Worthlessplebian Doctor Nope
Written With: Malphaestus ​

As it’s destruction rampaged unmolested throughout the tunnels deep-down, little seemed to have effect. Only through the combined coordination of the entirety of the Companions did things seem to sway their way, as the beast’s left arm turned from stump to nothing, prompting a perfect avenue for Eryn’s calculating tendril strikes to pluck the exposed flesh of the beast’s interior like one plucks feathers from a bird, thanks in large part to Ódhran’s omnipresent distractions, proving a perfect avenue to absorb most of the Vulture’s destruction without much consequence. Even so, whilst the destructive beam managed to edge itself closer towards the combat-medic, they proved themselves most capable of avoiding the Gospeller’s apocalyptic beam; digging into the walls of the sewers like a sharply edged blade cleaves through flesh. The strange blood spewing out from within, not unlike a fountain, fighting against Eryn’s brutality with its immense regenerative properties. To his benefit however, it would appear that his heightened state of being proved most useful, for as he targeted the most essential internals, he was out-pacing the beast’s regeneration. Laure and Sylvia, in their preceding attack, had managed to expose even more of the beast for Eryn to entertain his sadism, the back of the creature blown open with immensity, and the right arm now torn, and ablaze. Even so, it remained unperturbed, it’s function limited by its physical condition, though it’s function functioning all the same; it had been pure coincidence that the Companions’ attacks had managed to bridge the gap between the Beast’s non-existence, and existence: still all for naught.

As all the companions darted about the sewers, finally beginning to show signs of on-coming collapse, the Beast, in its absurdity, remained staunch, not even flinching or giving way to its attackers. The magic ceased, and a bellowing steam emerged from its every orifice, perhaps some manner of aetheric overload? As Eryn continued to pluck flesh and organ from within, glimpses of mechanisms turning, and aether spilling gave way, the creature now clearly the product of some strange magi-technology. The aether latched onto anything in its path, turning rubble into ember, and the air into rain, the chaotic energies contained within clearly the only weakness the beast entertained as its power controlled and utilized it to its benefit.

As Preston darted about the environment, no doubt surveying the Beast for its weakness, his keen insight and quick wit would prove themselves most useful. He had correctly assumed the majority of the underlying functions involved within this abomination: embedded was a grozite reactor: the holy grail of conventional technological understanding; an impossible creation whose function made mockery of the laws of convention and pre-existing research paradigms. Perhaps for the best, if a beast such as this was needed for its usage, then its usage was not needed by morality. Even so, it stood proud, surrounded by heroes and warriors whose fame equalled the Empress’ in volume, and whose popularity earned them great favours ever since the on-set of peace, the peace which had now shattered.

Its existence was a war upon the empire, no doubt. No patriotic imperial could possibly shepherd it’s construction; how could they when it went against all understanding? Clearly it was the herald of the return of the Harbingers. The return of evil to be slain, though if the sewers were to be believed, it had never left. The beast turned slowly, it’s eyes shadowing Preston’s heightened movements, it’s back now exposed to the Heroine and her loyal aide; the perfect opportunity to strike; with Eryn and Ódhran doing their share, all onus for finality was squarely placed upon the duo, as the Vulture found itself too occupied with the trio. It’s remaining arm aflame, waved around as it blocked every other intermittent metallic tendril, limited in its actions by the accumulating structural damage the party had begun to deliver. Limited little by conventional mortals’ need for some semblance of internal structure, bone and muscle, the beast’s strange blood seemed to control the creature not unlike how wire does a marionette: the Vulture instead faced with difficulty due to the immense amount of excess that flowed out from within due to its gaping injuries.

The hero mustered her strength, reeling in from her recent impulsive course of actions. She finally adhered to Laure's words and took a gander at their current disposition with a now-alleviated mind. Despite having given her youth to the war, she could not make sense of the Vulture's exposed organs. While she conditioned herself to believe that this was the work of the Harbingers, the Vulture's case posed a far more sinister ordeal. By Sylvia's rally, she managed to shift their formation accordingly - keen on one decisive blow. Her Solomon steadied, as she leapt forth again in concurrent movement to Laure's. Sylvia headed straight for the Vulture, alongside her trusted vice-commander. This was their moment to seize the day.

The Dovean paired her pacing with Sylvia's, where they were outside of the Vulture's presumed peripheral vision. Raising her leg back and her shoulders forward, she pulled all of her strength for an akimbo smash with her Able and Baker. Sylvia, on the other hand, had her Solomon Edge in tow for a charged lunge. With a confident heart, Laure gave it her all for the final attack, while Sylvia would follow up with a piercing strike. It was the perfect execution of combined might between them. Laure's strength was further augmented by her resolute faith in Sylvia. Her Able and Baker closed in, primed to pommel the Vulture's flank into oblivion.

Their accumulated power no doubt all-encompassing in devastation, it was not allowed to fester. As Laure was about to impact the exposed gore of the beast, it’s torso twisted with force enough to rip it off of its lower body: now facing a no doubt perturbed duet, the Vulture’s arm, in its momentum, delivered its own hammer as it impacted squarely upon Laure’s waist, deforming her flesh as she went flying against the slowly collapsing cobble of the Underground. Blood now flowing from its seperated body, it congealed around its now ‘odd’ anatomy, reforming and molding itself into place to better fit the circumstances.

Sylvia, in her determination, and immense trust in Laure, was too far gone in her own attack, though her choice of action no longer aligned with the situation. Her ideally piercing blow found itself landing squarely upon the Vulture’s heavily reinforced chest, the one place still remaining upon it’s upper body which remained impervious due to its strange metallurgy. Instead now faced with the all-consuming eyes of its hateful gaze.

The blaring impact upon the Vulture’s body began to dull, as the Solomon Edge’s heavy thrust and vibration were nullified by the reticent void. Her surroundings became absent of activity. Everything had seemingly froze for the hero, as her crimson eyes relinquished any claims of a preconceived achievement. Instead, her strength waned, as she could see the vivid sparks of her lance’s edge striking against the Vulture’s ory flesh. From the corner of her eyes, her friend was no longer beside her. In their stead, only remnants of a vacant shockwave - a retaliatory gift of their foe. Sylvia clenched her teeth with a scornful pair of berserk eyes, as she turned herself with speed and spun back for a rebound in the form of a smashing strike. Borrowing the forceful impact to break their engagement briefly, Sylvia slid backwards. Her hands trembled, unsteady in her strength as she was in her mind. Her Solomon dissipated, as she paced herself towards the rubbles with haste. Clawing her way through the pile of damp bricks and grimy metals, Sylvia sullied the ground with her already-bloodied hands. Before long, a familiar visage found her, yet her hands continued to dig. A pair of fading emeralds.

“Sylvia...” a feeble voice called out.

Sylvia attempted to pull Laure from her heavy blanket of cinderblocks, but her hand was met by that of Laure’s. Their joint hands maneuvered towards Laure’s sides. Sylvia’s eyes homed in on the runny sensation upon her gloves. She felt its warm flow pouring incessantly, as Laure’s attire began to seep red. Sylvia’s hand administered some pressure upon the trickling point, but Laure’s countenance only grew dimmer by the fleeting moment. Laure’s spine was beaten to a pulp, while her sides were torn open - what was left of her pelvis anyways. Sylvia felt her heart ejecting from herself. Laure’s hand rose, brushing Sylvia’s cheek with purpose. The hero’s face was now tattooed with a red tone not of her own flesh. Laure's breath was filled with intermittent gurgling of her own blood, as she desperately gasped for air. An unnerving display of tamed despair.

“L-Laure… No… stay with me… Laure! Don't do this, please… I beg you… Don't… Please!” Sylvia’s quiet voice spiked at the end, as Laure’s hand fell from the hero’s face and onto their chest.

Ruby optics upon jaded emerald. Laure, despite their drowsy eyes and immobile state, had chosen to smile. Blood tainted their lovely Daffodil neckline. She gave Sylvia an acknowledging glance, as the dribbling waterways lulled her. Despite Sylvia’s inaudible protest, Able and Baker shattered. At last, the Dovean’s hand fell onto the cold hard ground. Angels absent, deities neglect, and blessings nowhere to be found. Sylvia was on her knees, petrified and consumed by the discomforting silence. She found herself staring at a pair of bleached greens - robbed of their once glorious bloom and shine. Sylvia’s forehead met her friend’s, as rogue tears flowed against her will. The hero held tightly onto Laure’s hand, struggling to conform to the cold reality. So much so that she could not utter any withheld words. Her cries became silent - a solitary lament.

Her pain would find an answer in the ensuing actions of her compatriots, now diminished. The moments had been so rapid, that the reality of the situation had not had enough time to reach the three others, as they fought tooth and nail against the Vulture. However, in a bizarre twist of fate, what would deliver Laure unto the livingless, would spell the same fate for her deliverer. The Gospeller, with its torso twisted out of place to murder Laure, now proved an open site for Preston’s adrenaline fueled escapades. So consumed in the absurdity of his own actions, the arachnid was too rapid to realize the plight of Laure and Sylvia, but perhaps this would be for the best. Undisturbed he twirled about the tunnels, the blessings of Laure lingering just long enough for his tumbling to lead unto salvation.

As he threw his limb with a fury most fervent, and righteousness personified, the defiance of the entire Companions took shape and form, guiding the limb firmly against the back of the devilish beast opposing them. It penetrated deep, the gorey flesh proving itself no opponent to this personification of their unified will. With Laure’s spirit watching over it, the spear pierced the beast’s internal reactor, and unleashed from within it an immense storm of energies which spewed in every direction as the Arachnid found himself firmly planted against the floor.

Bolts blitzed around the tunnel as they connected and pulverized anything they came into contact with, the destruction atomizing the Vulture in its unbridled potency from within. The walls evaporated and the oxygen vanished as the room entered vacuum; the pressure drawing everything into the now destroyed core of the beast as a shockwave soon latched out from this aetheric nucleus; the Vulture’s death accompanied by its own parting words: “BEHOLD: A GLIMMER OF TRUTH!” It’s roar seemingly accelerated its own destruction as its death took form, its last gospel lingering amidst the dampness as the void drew every last remnant of its existence into the ensuing chaos.

Collapse began, and it ended shortly after, a vacuous implosion allowed the shine of the sky to enter the ‘Neathworld as the roof fell and the ground rumbled.

 

[Pilgrim59]

St. Keed's Chapel, Scene 2

Friedhelm
St. Keed's Chapel, Central District
​

Cpt. Hellriegel
St. Keed's Chapel, Central District
Zariel
Written With: Malphaestus
​

Friedhelm’s eyes met Sigismund, disturbed by what was coursing through the latter’s veins in this instance. While Friedhelm rarely had the opportune time to burn his Astartes dampener, disguised as aetherium-laced cigars, Sigismund for all his strength, should not be able to withstand such exposure. Friedhelm’s concerns, however, were cast upon the source of Sigismund’s strength. Despite their words, it was too much of a coincidence for the Breaching Troop Commander to choose this as his moment to break the waves. Friedhelm eventually accepted the fact that he could not reason with Sigismund. The fact that Friedhelm had neglected the man’s role for the past few years was in itself his own hypocrisy. He had been so entwined in the pursuit of righting the wrongs in the name of the Empress, that he had cast his own brother-in-arms aside. To him, they were kept distant from one another, even if they were given the same set of uniforms. Even then, he saw Sigismund’s conviction then, as he did now. Was Friedhelm himself truly the cause of all this? He refused to believe it, or rather, he wanted to keep his stance - staying true to his own goal of serving his country. At least, that was what he told himself.

Friedhelm kept his next words to himself, finally unsheathing his Solingen. The Grandmaster’s cane was undressed in two pieces. A reticent resonance upon a magnificent estoc piece, complemented by Armadyl runes. While he did not utter a single word, his intentions were clear with his blade leveled and balanced above him. The edge facing towards Sigismund. His subordinate, despite their zeal, kept to themselves. Hellriegel stayed her hand, gulping nervously at the sight of Friedhelm’s simple response to Sigismund. There was no turning back now, Hellriegel contemplated.

A grey pair of glowing optics trailed the Grandmaster’s sudden launch forward. His grips tightened, while his shoulders relaxed upon sudden charge. Within sufficient distance, Friedhelm wove left, relinquishing his left arm from his weapon, while he rotated his right wrist with purpose. His legs came to a sudden halt, as he angled his torso forward, finally directing all his built-up momentum towards his arms. There, his left palm augmented the end of his hilt - poised on driving it through his target. His Solingen aimed straight for Sigismund’s seemingly open right flank.

In a flash, the ‘traitor’ vanished, and in immediate succession, re-appeared in different pose; where he had once stood stalwart, his form now appeared more primal as the Black Watch’s own Swordmaster unleashed his prowess; his torso leaned forwards, his hands firmly planted against the hilt of his sword, as the Zweihänder connected against Friedhelm’s far more conservative sword-style. The brute of the blades connecting allowed a roaring tang to echo as sparks flew under the force of their wills.

The Zweihänder flew back under the immense power upon them, but Sigismund proved more than capable of guiding it back unto its destined path, as his whole body turned loose like water, absorbing the might and arcing it into a rising slash at the Grandmaster’s lower body. Sigismund’s posture rising tall in combination; he was one with his blade. Accentuating its already substantial momentum after such an impact with the combined brute of his own muscle.

Friedhelm’s eyes shot to his side, mindful of the impending counter-strike that was soaring its way towards his side. Rather than meeting such a force with his own blade, the Grandmaster leapt from the ground, briefly leveraging the Zweihander passing metal as a platform for a backwards sommersault. His rough landing gave him a brief moment for a sharp breath to augment his hasty retaliation. Rather than going for an attack from above, Friedhelm kept a small profile as he aimed for Sigismund’s legs. Weaving right, he attempted a feint cut to the left, before unveiling a concealed lunge at Sigismund’s left leg.

A lunge whose essence had already been read, the Grandmaster instead finding himself presented with a most devious kick made under perceivable duress; no doubt catching the Swordmaster by some semblance of surprise even through his reliable response. The sword found itself flung towards the heavens without its target, however, before Sigismund decided to fully commit to his kick, he stomped his foot into the cobble, and sent his sword into a descending cut like lightning commits to the earth.

The Grandmaster’s hand felt the vivid effect from his opponent’s raised leg, no doubt with intentions to utilize their powerful Zweihander for the finale. Yet, there was no perceivable way of parrying Sigismund’s smite that was coming down to bear, at least to those that bear witness to their silent duel. With his lunge interrupted, Friedhelm had his sword already in position pointing upwards. He thrust his blade upward at Sigismund’s exposed arm and elbow, in hopes of throwing their descending strike off.

The action had proved most beneficial, for whilst the Solingen saber did not impact with any immediately ideal cutting force, it had nonetheless managed to disrupt Sigismund’s posture, opening him up for immediate reprisal. A brazen adjustment, followed by a swift puncture that echoed across the square. The shining Solingen protruded from beyond the black knight’s back. It’s point of entry was facilitated by the Grandmaster’s firm hands. His grey eyes closed, barely visible beneath his ruffled locks. Neither fancy glints nor vibrant aetherium amok. A fitting clash of ideals upon jagged metal and bear arms. Friedhelm felt Sigismund's fading heartbeat upon his tainted sword. Their dangerous waltz of muted-altercation has finally come to an end beneath the melancholic sky.

“Stubborn to the end… This isn’t what Freya would have wanted…” he muttered softly beneath his breath, enough for Sigismund and he to hear alone. “You are the fault,” Sigismund retorted under bated breath, a choked cough quickly forcing its way through his throat to interrupt his words. Blood began to slowly mete its way through his flesh, and along the Grandmaster’s blade, escaping through any avenue it found itself upon. Even so, in his dying moments, the warrior could not help but grin as his eyes gazed upon the chaos before him. A cool laughter was what he began to conjure as Friedhelm no doubt saw it only fit to listen to the Old Man’s final words. Though, they were not what he could have possibly expected, or desired.

Instead of an earnest request for forgiveness, a statement of wrong-doing, an affirmation of Friedhelm’s correctness, the Old Man would crush any semblance of such ideal finalities. “The Companions, unlike us, Friedhelm, serve a just goal.”

He forced himself to breathe, a dry wheeze modulated by the accumulating blood flowing into his penetrated lungs. “They do not politick, they do not vaingloriously believe themselves to be servants of a justness which no one but one person perceives; they serve a far more righteous path.”

The ground began to rumble as Sigismund’s words began to be overshadowed by the growing loudness of the depths beneath their feet: his words now clouded by this clamour, only Friedhelm being receptive to his truly final words: “I wish I could serve them better, the Companions, and-”

He wheezed heavily, taking whatever life remained within him to his mouth. “Hail the Daemon Lor-” The ground began to open, as the rumble turned to a loud explosion, some of the plaza succumbing into the depths as the sewers beneath them collapsed then. A chaos had been surging beneath them this entire time, one which Friedhelm had no doubt noticed, though not realIzed the extent: a chaos which was now equalled with the evil woven into being by Sigismund’s last whisper, one which he could not complete, but one which Friedhelm had heard far too clearly.

Friedhelm’s eyes widened, as the ground beneath them stirred. He had his speculations, but had failed to act on it. Before he could press on, the fallen warrior was consumed by the collapsing grounds before them. The Grandmaster tried to reach Sigismund, but was unable to reel the man back. By the Creator’s twisted sense of impeccable timing, Friedhelm had no choice but to recall the troopers on the scene. He glared at the lone Companion some paces away, but ultimately gave in to his responsibilities to those around him.

“Fall back! Now!” he ordered, prompting the uniformed squarebacks and Watchers to break formation and brush back.

The tremors towed along the barricades that were set by the Imperial enforcers, as well as some that were in the immediate vicinity. As the dust settled, Sigismund and Irelia were gone, presumably consumed by the sewer tunnels beneath them when it collapsed. Friedhelm recollected himself, as a familiar voice reached out to him.

“Grandmaster! Where are ya?! Oh- There you are. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Hellriegel said, brushing alongside Friedhelm as they cleared the sunken ground before them.

Before Friedhelm and Hellriegel could decipher the cause of the sewer’s collapse, a Watcher in black arrived on the scene, still catching onto their breath. They saluted the Grandmaster and passed on a small piece of parchment. It seemed that in their final moments, Sigismund still had their honor intact, even if it was a sinister one. The man crumbled the parchment between his clenched fist.

“What is it, Grandmaster?” Hellriegel inquired, with a concerned expression.

“The world’s gone mad. Get yourself over to the Starline Institution, Captain. I’ll rally with you as soon as I’m done here. Take your entire company if you have to. Move.” Friedhelm replied, shoving the piece of parchment into Hellriegel's hand.

Hellriegel fixed her cap and scurried off with haste, gesturing her complement of comrades to fall in line behind her. As she did, she found Friedhelm’s dispatch from earlier, which had piqued her interest. Her eyes lit up, taken aback with disbelief. She turned back towards Friedhelm, who was seemingly upset but had chosen to keep their emotions in check while on the clock. The captain continued their jog, heeding Friedhelm’s orders. Friedhelm shook his sword clean of its tainted state, before sheathing it. He was upset at himself for losing Sigismund, and the unforeseen complication of this case. Everything that the Iris Company had done since the siege at Preston’s clinic to Irelia’s resolute ground, all of it a mere diversion from the real prize - The Shard of Kaen. While he refused to believe it, the facts were hard to ignore. He eyed his men, contemplating the best course of action with this intel, while lamenting the Breaching Troops Captain's demise. Irelia, no doubt, had used the collapse as her means of escape. A grand exit for a tragic turn of events.

"We should have seen our ends in Onyx as brothers…" Friedhelm muttered beneath his shallow breath, maintaining a stern visage to conceal his silent lament. He could not let the squarebacks and Watchers see his troubled mind and pathetic woes. The truth was perhaps too difficult to bear. It mattered little, as he had set himself on this road of his own accord. The least he could do was to follow through with it.

 

[Pilgrim59]

Underground, Scene 3

Ra'el / Sertek
Sewers, Central District

Sylvia
Sewers, Central District

Eleven
Sewers, Central District

Five
Sewers, Central District
Zariel Larry Worthlessplebian Doctor Nope Nessi Celestial Speck Huntertabbysandshark3 Soviet Panda ElenaIsCool
Written With: Malphaestus ​

Pungent aroma greeted the Harbingers as it did the Companions a while ago. Having entrusted the task of seeking out their dreamweaver to his estranged Harbingers, Sertek was keen on bringing her back. With Hassan as their leader, he was sure of their current course - at least, until Rael could regain his former strength and memories.

Amidst the aftermath of the Vulture's grand display of destructive demise, Sylvia remained where she was, shielding her friend's lifeless body. Her attire took the brunt of the raining cinder blocks. Contusions formed upon her skin, yet the hero did not stir. Their interlocked hands did not relinquish. Even in their triumph over the Vulture, their victory could not alleviate her shattered heart. Sylvia was caught in a loop of stinging emotions, a purgatory between spiking contempt and petrifying void. Fiery anger and solemn grief were all that she could make sense of. It nearly drove her to the edge of insanity, where many before her have gone. She did not want to admit the truth. The bleak heavenly light had descended upon the crater.

Voices and movements from above them encroached upon the hero and her companions. The reticent but audible noise of metal brushing up against Axian fibers were more than enough to distinguish their guests as none other than the squarebacks. Sylvia reeled back, trying to dig her way through the debris to carry Laure out with her, but to no avail. The corruption had robbed Sylvia of her strength, that she could barely address to her own wounds. Before long, Laure's pale visage caught her attention. A mere smile that spoke volume. Sylvia then finally understood her fallen friend's unspoken intentions but had chosen to stay with her beyond the end. Sylvia bled her lips with sorrow. As the soldiers closed in on their position, Sylvia finally adhered to Laure's unspoken words. To honor her dying wish, the hero has to see this through no matter what, Sylvia resolved. Her gloved hand relinquished Laure's cold grips, as she finally tended to the latter's eyes - finally shutting them in respect. The hero dragged herself from the ashes, towering over the half-buried Dovean. Her tainted bangs concealed her gloomy eyes, as she finally turned to her comrades.

"Companions! To me! We are leaving!" she finally shouted, all the while maneuvering her way through the rubbles. She lent a hand to Ódhran and picked up the others on the way. This was what Laure would have wanted, Sylvia contemplated, as she gave the ground where Laure fell one last glimpse before leading Preston, Eryn and Ódhran out into the main sewer tunnel with intent to escape the now opened ceiling above their former battleground. Upon closer inspection, the hero caught sight of a faint glint as they maneuvered past the flattened ground of snowy halation. From the looks of their distinct attire and armaments, it was none other than the Swordmaiden. Sylvia tended to Irelia, with her words sealed and her bearing fixed on their escape route. The cold sensation of the descending snow faded, replaced by the heated depths of the pungent labyrinth. With every step they took, Sylvia’s home seems to grow ever farther. It gnawed at her, the further they ventured east. The hero knew that sooner or later, one of them would inquire of Laure’s disposition. But until then, while they were distracted by the urgency of their discretion, Sylvia swung her comrades forward. The time for reckoning and lament will not be neglected, on the condition that they must survive in order to weep, Sylvia settled.

Nearing the end of the district’s waterway, Sylvia was caught off-guard where she stood. Despite Sylvia’s effort to spearhead their exfiltration, her preoccupied mind had failed to safeguard their forward awareness. A figure in black stood before them, with something packed upon their shoulders. As her eyes adjusted to the dark horizon, the grozite tunnel lights gradually unveiled a man whose attire was a trenchcoat. What disturbed Sylvia was that the man had a small-profiled figure upon his shoulder. The hero halted the Company’s advance, wary of what this man might do. Of all times and places, his timely presence here as well as his enigmatic aura were as sinister as his choice of fashion. While he could have passed as a Dweller, one minor detail could not escape Sylvia’s vigilant eyes. The fact that he was donning an immaculate set of clothes with barely any blemish suggested that he had only taken to the sewers recently. He was no dweller.

Meanwhile, Rael and the others had caught on to the Imperial Agent’s scent. The intertwining corridor eventually led the Harbingers to the waterway, where they spotted Hershey just beyond the opening. As they pushed forward, silhouettes sprouted from beyond the blindside of the grand entrance. The Harbingers had arrived just in time to find themselves side-by-side with the Companions.

“Hershey!” Rael’s voice echoed across the intersection.

“Rael?” Sylvia turned to her left, locking eyes with her husband.

Before them was the mysterious man that took Hershey into their own custody without the consent of their Harbinger counterparts. The Harbingers gathered beside the Companions. Judging by Rael’s reaction to the man’s presence, Sylvia could only deduce that the girl was someone he knew. Thoughts ran through her as to why Rael was accompanied by a cast of diverse personnel so foreign to her. However, their combined might seems all the more familiar to her than she would like to acknowledge. The immediate circumstances made her stow away these thoughts, as she was content to see Rael still alive.

“Are you hurt? Did Friedhelm get to you?” Sylvia brushed up against Rael, clinging onto him with unsuppressed strength.

“I’m fine, Sylvia. Hey. It’s alright. Your face...” Rael said, shaken by aetherium corruption upon Sylvia’s cheek and neck. His hand felt her crystalised skin with concern, bringing her closer to his chest. The man nodded at the Companions, a gesture of his grateful gesture for keeping Sylvia safe.

“Who are they?” Sylvia asked, shooting a glance at the odd personnel behind Rael.

“They are… my associates. Worry not, my dear, they are good folks. And that man currently has one of us.” Rael replied, neglecting most details, but enough to reel Sylvia back to the task at hand. Perhaps with the Companion’s might, then it would all be a walk in the park, so thought Rael.

While Sylvia had questions, doubting Rael was something she could not bring herself to do. Admittedly, thanks to Rael’s persuasive methods in tranquil words, he was able to prevent Sylvia from throwing the Companions their way instead. Timing was everything, he thought. The hero shifted her gaze towards the trenchcoated man, as she stepped forward.

“You there! What are you planning to do with that girl?” she asked with a firm tone. “Bait,” the Trenchcoated Man responded, his face firmly planted towards the distant passage he found before him. With such an eclectic cast of ‘interesting’ individuals such as these which now found themselves behind him, why should he not entertain them?

The Trenchcoated Man turned then towards the ensemble, dropping his hostage, allowing her to fall flat against the hard surface they all shared between them; Hershey still unconscious. “You’re a horrendous liar, whoever you are,” he retorted, with his gaze now firmly scanning over Rael’s rather strange presence amidst the sewers, entombed within the confines of a shield of bodies. “Or maybe you’re worried your wife won’t appreciate the concept of her husband playing hero with Harbingers?” His words stung as they loomed amidst the waterway, his vision firmly placed upon the texture of Rael’s skin, looking through his attire, and filling in the blanks within his own cognition.

The rather lithe man towered above even the most monstrous of the group he now found himself in front of, the strangeness which surrounded him the only reason for progress to remain stagnant between their on-coming battle. He was most confident, nevertheless, as he crossed his arms above his chest, and stared daggers into the others who now seemed more than willing to impede his work.

The ground between the Trenchcoated Man and his oppositions cracked, as a swirl of pure cyan energy erupted from it, unfurling blinding petals like a blooming flower with a deafening sound in concert. A strong whirlwind of sizzling aether and torn fabrics marked the entrance of a mysterious figure. They rose from the defective surface with their back towards the lone Trenchcoated Man. The inevitable and expected skirmish was quickly disrupted by the timely arrival of this enshrouded person. Despite their elegant form and physique, their blood-red eyes dissuaded the Companions and Harbingers from any hope of intervention.

“That is as far as you’ll go, Harbingers and Companions. It is not yet the time for you to ascend upon the Grand Stage. All in due time. You’ve done well, Eleven, but it’s time to take our leave.” the woman spoke, before turning over their shoulder.

“Horrendous!” The Trenchcoated Man immediately responded, his posture instantaneously agitated as his arms twitched in their place, “All I need to do is simply collect a few of them, the work of farmers when compared to what I can accomplish.” He proceeded to edge his hand deep into his trenchcoat, procuring from within an elaborately decorated bronze clock. His eyes paced themselves upon it, taking pause from staring down what he could only consider prey so he could handle this new intruder: “There should still be time.”

“Stand down, Eleven.” The woman’s voice flared up with a stronger emphasis this time. “Or do you truly wish to defy the Director’s command?” Her eyes lit up with a rigid gaze, nonverbally suggesting her associate to relinquish their captive. “You will get your chances soon enough. She has proven herself useful to our cause thus far. Leave her.” She concluded, raising her hand towards Sylvia and Rael. Her fingers were sharp talons, darker than the night, while her mesmerizing eyes became the source of her overbearing yet appropriated malice.

The Trenchcoated Man’s eyes flared with the fumes of infernal furies impossible to voice, as they darted about the strange mix of Companions standing side-by-side with their most hated foe. “Stand down, Five,” he responded in mockery. A snap of his finger, and the woman lying against the hard floor immediately adjacent to his boot, found herself transported against Rael’s leg, weighing down upon him as she remained unconscious, her body like a sandbag. “I’ll make this painful if this does not go as you planned,” the man finalized, giving in to the words of the new arrival.

The obsidian raven eyed their Trenchcoated accomplice with a stern glance. One could almost see a hint of subdued irritation in her eyes. “As for you lot, in due time, you will come to learn of the True Gospel. Au revoir, False Heroes.” The raven announced, as a whirring sound conjured forth a swirl of blazing red aetherium. The surge of raw energy enraptured the two, forming a spherical barrier that was bent on consuming everything within its immediate radius. It grew louder until a blinding light nullified the shrieking cacophony. The eye of the storm had dissipated, with the dreamweaver upon the cracked concrete. The mysterious assailants were now long gone. What they had left behind, however, was a legacy of fractured implications that now plagues the Harbingers and the Companions. A short-lived breather, for they now face the possibility of a war none-too-soon from the last.