Catalyst Quest: Wild Growth
- Thread starter Alaric
- Start date
- Original Mature Fantasy Horror
Chapter 76: The Final Bow
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 76: The Final Bow
You shrug off your robes, drop your mace, take up Furor, and set your satchel to the floor. No matter the spectacle it would cause, mundane weapons have no place here. Not with what you're about to do.
Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself up against the side of one of the nearby steps. You can only hope it will keep you steady, as one name leaves your lips.
"Storm."
Wind whips through your hair, ripping the airborne demons above into nearby walls and an inert audience. The gale picks up speed with each passing second, while sparks build in your eyes.
Clouds form atop the theater, and fresh rain falls. The droplets blur your sight. It blurs your mind.
Sparks rage and rise higher, blinding you.
You're numb, and sluggish, and can barely register the demon that's patiently waiting for you to fight him to the death.
You take a slow and heavy step forward, awash in a sea of disaster.
The rain is an ocean, tossing you to and fro. You stay with the waves, the motion. Despite your best efforts, you're battered. Beaten. Shaking.
You're convulsing.
Dragged under the tide, you're unable to gasp for air. It feels like you're dying.
Darkness is a stranger to you, at the bottom of the world. There's no earth. Only air.
Light flickers all around.
Light is not only running in currents, miles upwards to the surface world.
It's in you.
He's in you.
An umber God extends from the height of the sky, beyond the moon and stars. He is the air. He is the sea. He is the flame, the lightning, the wind.
The Tempest has no need for a more tangible form. With an eyeless face, He gazes upon your intent.
The desire to kill.
The desire to burn.
"Ravage the earth. Destroy Our enemy. FULFILL your oaths. Do this, and carry Our blessing."
The world gives out from under you.
You're soaked to the bone, collapsed against the side of the theater's steps. A torrential downpour falls from the heights of the theater. Water gathers at its base, causing streams to run around your shoes and discarded gear. You're still shaking hard, but you stagger to your feet, sweep Furor back up from the ground, and smile.
Lightning is in your ochre eyes. Fire is in your soul. Currents of electricity pump into the cane in hand. The bolts lick around your arms and all along the rest of your body.
A single, heavy, determined step is taken forward. The ground quakes. Fire bursts from beneath your feet.
You look up to Drazhan with the fury of a God— though you still possess the faith of a Goddess.
"Prepare yourself."
He moves to the furthest reach of the theater. From the shadows, the demon pulls back a black curtain. Within the space is hundreds of weapons in every shape and size. The light that's coming off from your body reflects off his spikes, shields, and exotic weapons that you cannot begin to fathom the use of.
You couldn't be more excited, and step onto the stage.
The second you enter the wet sand, Drazhan pulls hard on another rope.
From the top of the ceiling, an entire piano comes falling down.
Rather than dive to the side, you thrust Furor towards the air, and let loose a cry.
Lightning sparks and builds, releasing a single bolt in a white-hot flash.
Thunder booms throughout the entire theater.
The bolt cleaves the piano in half, seconds before it can collide with your skull.
Broken keys create a deafening screech as it crashes to the ground.
Drazhan comes charging through the wreckage of strings and ivory with an entire battering ram in hand.
You have absolutely no time to react, and take the hit to your chest— grabbing onto the ram as you do so.
Stuck to the weapon as Drazhan keeps charging forward, the wind isn't knocked out of your lungs. You ARE the wind. You laugh at the excruciating pain you're in, and discharge flame into the entire ram.
A cry escapes from your attacker as the red-hot weapon nearly burns his hands. He stops the charge, drops the weapon, and in the process drops you back to the floor.
Staggering backwards, you fling bolts of lightning at the demon. The first shot nearly connects, but the monster quickly shifts form into a slender woman, dressed in an ornate gown. The bolt flies past her side harmlessly, though it crashes into a packed group of demons seated just beyond. They convulse through their paralysis, and slump over, dead.
The second shot skims the top of Drazhan's head, as he turns into a squat man who nearly resembles a halfling at the last possible instant.
The third shot fires straight towards the creature's chest, but it never hits. The demon becomes a pool of shadow.
All the lights in the theater suddenly go out.
Flame flickers in your vision. The lightning dancing along your body creates a small, orange glow in your immediate area.
You take your empty palm and gather a miasma of flame, and grow the ball larger by the second— illuminating the entire stage.
Drazhan is standing at the far wall with a strange device in his hands. It's a metal tube with a handle for him to hold. At the back is a large reservoir of oil.
"Let us fight fire with fire."
He runs straight at you. Flame bursts from his weapon, blowing through the rain of your creation in a lethal stream of liquid agony.
You hurl the tremendous ball of fire at the demon's attack.
At the middle of the stage, the stream of liquid flame that Drazhan has been firing explodes. Chunks of molten terror fling around the theater in all directions. Bodies char by the second. Those who are aflame can't respond to what they're going through, and burn to death without emitting so much as a scream.
You relish the sight of the collateral damage. Before Drazhan can get his bearings, you sweep your arms across the air. A gale follows in its wake, ripping your enemy's weapon out from his hands.
He takes swift steps backwards, and starts pulling on ropes frantically. From the ceiling descends boulders, statues, entire prop buildings, and a monstrous chandelier.
You hold your ground, bring both arms high, and splay your palms. From them, a steady stream of flame emerges. It casts a canopy of fire over the entire peak of the theater. The inferno puts no sweat on your already-slick brow, though the rain evaporates within seconds. Most of the falling weapons ignite.
You drop the flame quickly, until it's just above your head. Drazhan is forced to duck, to not be caught in the embers.
You will the flame higher, and watch as every falling object is completely engulfed by the colossal blaze. The surrounding seats catch fire as well, burning even more of the enemy.
Mindful of your allies at the peak of the theater, you keep a small cloud of rain and mist over them— and nearly miss Drazhan firing a prop bow at you.
The arrow goes straight for your gut. You don't dodge— you simply drag the flame in your hand downwards, and send a bolt of lightning into the tip of the weapon. It's blasted aside, and bursts into splinters.
The series of boulders disintegrates overhead first, coating you in ash. The massive, fully-lit chandelier falls at your back as you begin walking towards Drazhan.
Before he can respond, you fire a chain of lightning bolts straight at him.
The light behind your eyes is blinding.
You're one with your God.
The first bolt hits. A single porcelain mask shatters into hundreds of pieces. Drazhan clutches at it as if he's lost a chunk of his own body— but he quickly exits, stage left.
There's no trace of him. You turn in a circle, scanning the stage with turmoil in your eyes.
It takes less than a second for the demon to reappear. He's almost dressed as a priest of Dream. The fifteen-foot tall creature casts a shadow over your flame, covered in light blue cloth, while he raises a hand to the sky.
Buckets of cobalt paint pour over you, snuffing out your flame. The mixture persists through your rain. At the same time, more of the substance coats the surrounding steps of the theater— stopping the inferno from spreading to yours and Drazhan's allies.
Wielding arcs of solid electricity, you let loose a scream, and blast Drazhan straight through the chest.
The demon goes flying into one row of seats, demolishing it as he slides even further beyond. He keeps skidding, crashing into a series of wooden supports as he struggles to come to a stop.
You charge after him, firing bolt after bolt.
"BLASPHEMER!"
He catches hard on a support beam, and far underneath the theater's steps, he slides to a stop. Porcelain has shattered in all directions, but so far as you can tell, the demon hasn't suffered from any grievous wounds.
Your opponent shifts sharply and suddenly, standing upright with enormous difficulty.
"Our audience could do with a little more participation!"
Arms above his head, and with a single heave, Drazhan shoves two solid rows of seats towards you. Dozens of inert demons fly your way.
Your eyes go wide. There's nowhere to run.
From your free hand, a cone of flame blasts directly above your head and just to the side. You crouch down, shielding your head with Furor— and pray.
"Storm, be my guide."
The audience and their seats smash into the ground. Your teeth clatter. The earth quakes.
A single hole is carved out of the wreckage with just enough room for you to climb out. You do (with extreme difficulty, given your weight), only to see Drazhan standing right beside you.
"Prayer has no place here, Father."
The demon stands atop the wooden seats and dead bodies in a pair of studded heels. While you're still on hands and knees, he kicks you squarely in the face.
When the monster makes contact with your forehead and nose, a bolt of lightning courses from your body straight into his.
Drazhan seizes for a moment. It stopped his kick in its tracks, leaving you only with a serious headache— and exactly enough time to unleash a series of lightning bolts straight into the monster. You laugh through it.
"THE FINAL BLOW IS OURS, DRAZHAN! REJOICE! FOR YOURS WILL BE A SWIFT DEATH!"
He's blasted backwards. You keep up the continuous stream of lightning, channeling it straight through Furor. The other hand conjures a similar tool to Drazhan's flamethrower, though you need no oil.
A single torrent of flame joins into the relentless barrage. The demon begins to melt. Pieces of the theater are flying towards Drazhan's body in an attempt to reconstruct him, but as soon as each piece connects, you blast off even more. He simply can't keep up with the assault.
You cry out over crackling electricity and the roar of flame, "ANY LAST WORDS?!"
"I would like to thank my understudies."
A small army of animated mannequins are hot on your ass. There must be fifteen of them, all in the same style as Drazhan, all his same height, and all armed with historical weapons. Three launch mechanical bows at you.
You're forced to stop the assault on Drazhan and throw yourself to the floor, while the demon laughs hideously to himself. Arrows whiz above your head while your opponent drags himself upright, dripping porcelain to the ground, fighting to regain his composure.
Right at your back, five more mannequins come at you with swords. You sweep your hands towards the sword-wielding enemies, dousing them with flame as you remain on the ground. They remain animated, even through the attack.
"Impressive—!"
You scramble backwards, flinging bolts of lightning at each dummy. They go up in flames, and only once they've exploded into shreds of cloth do they stop moving.
You're breathing hard, and turn on reflex as something large and heavy swings right by your side.
Drazhan bludgeons you with a massive manuscript. It must be a thousand pages long.
You go flying, and laugh in mid-air. You ARE the air.
Coaxing the wind around you, you ease your landing, and step down with fire in your smile. Turning hard towards the enemies still facing you, you bark, "what are you waiting for?"
Every monster charges simultaneously.
You sweep your arms horizontally. A massive wall of flame rises up from the ground, sparking and catching on every one of your foes.
One fearlessly throws itself at you, despite the flame. Before it hits, you bring Furor above your head, and invoke a massive current of water in mid-air. It douses the dummy just as it plows into you— sparing you burns and certain death— and still leaving you space to bring Furor down.
The force of your blow breaks the mannequin in two, dropping its halves to the floor.
More mock-Drazhans limp through the wall of flame. You throw several bolts of lightning at them, but rather than pick them all off, you hurl one last bolt towards your real opponent.
The demon of theater was waiting on the opposite side of the wall of fire, and lets loose a scream. Your hit connected perfectly.
You walk through the fire of your creation, casually blasting away at the few remaining mannequins.
The image of you coming through a wall of fire, coated in ash and blood, and wielding an electrified cane made of solid gold actually makes your enemy draw back.
Drazhan is lying on the floor, struggling to move. You stop just shy of the demon, and point Furor at his face.
"Though my title is no vestige, I am afraid that there is no place for Mercy, here."
He relaxes completely. The monster's robes are in tatters, and are smoldering in places. He's bleeding black blood from every limb, and his mirror has completely shattered. Behind the shards of broken glass lies a void.
A pair of spiked teeth hover in the maw's center, which gnash up and down as he speaks. "All the world's a stage."
"As some might say."
"Life is but one long road. Our greatest journey."
"Yes."
"The hardest steps I will ever take are the ones that will bring me offstage."
Drazhan suddenly reaches out, and grasps as hard as he can onto Furor.
"This will be my final bow. My last good-bye."
He calls out to a theater in flames.
"Thank you! Thank you all! You have been a beautiful audience!"
You release a blast of lightning into the demon's face, intertwined with as much flame as you can muster.
The demon lets loose a scream of agony and delight, which rises into the air higher than the next roll of thunder. He chars, and burns, and within seconds there is nothing left of the demon of theater but ash and memories.
You aren't offered even a moment to look at the smoke rising from what little is left of Drazhan. You're breathing hard and fast. The heavy rain you conjured has extinguished all of the flame around your allies, but smoke is rising in all directions.
There's no time for you to process what just happened.
Over two hundred demons suddenly come to life.
Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel also regain their ability to move and speak. Both instantly let loose a series of screams, while blasting demons in all directions.
"ANSCHAM, I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!"
"RICHARD!"
"GET YOUR ASS UP HERE!"
The theater begins to shake.
This was Drazhan's domain. With him dead, this building isn't long for this world.
Dread and terror sinks into the pit of your gut. You whisked your Relic away from Father Wilhelm before confronting the demon of theater. The burnt priest must be in agony, which is only going to get worse if or when he comes after you.
You gather your things as quickly as you can, and know that you need to rejoin your allies immediately.
Leaving Storm would be incredibly wise, but you're also certain that the second you end this invocation, you're going to drop on the spot.
At the dead center of the theater, on its lowest level, ankle-deep in water and covered in blood, you look up to over two hundred demons.
They all descend on you.
>The following are mutually exclusive.
>Majority vote will decide.
>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>A] Dual invoke Storm and Mercy. You will hopefully not have to rely on the Gods for a long while after this, because you know it's going to hurt.
>B] Rely on your allies to help with this situation. Get your ass out of this theater as soon as you can, and lead these demons through the last of Drazhan's domain.
>C] Scream to Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel to get out of the way. Go nuclear, and try to kill every demon in the theater before the building is destroyed.
>D] Write-in. (Intelligent and/or creative strategies may garner additional bonuses! Given the severity of this situation, entirely new plans are subject to QM approval.)
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To destroy is to serve!
>D] Write-in. (Intelligent and/or creative strategies may garner additional bonuses! Given the severity of this situation, entirely new plans are subject to QM approval.)
Once you've secured you belongings, grab both Fathers as you draw up a Tornado the likes of which never seen before! You reach for the unseen sky above while you draw the very air of the theatre into two swirling columns of drilling winds that seek to remove the stone seperating them.
This destroys every demon in attendance while also ripping the theatre rood from the inside out with enough force at least to bust out of the stone above towards the surface. Once the last of the demons are hurled off the roof and their bodies thoroughly pasted, ride the tornado along with the Fathers for a quick ride back to the surface.
Take note of the resulting hole in the earth and surroundings before removing up your clothes and take a quick bathe with cleansing rain. Aftherwards promptly end invocation and sleep it off.
>D] Write-in. (Intelligent and/or creative strategies may garner additional bonuses! Given the severity of this situation, entirely new plans are subject to QM approval.)
Once you've secured you belongings, grab both Fathers as you draw up a Tornado the likes of which never seen before! You reach for the unseen sky above while you draw the very air of the theatre into two swirling columns of drilling winds that seek to remove the stone seperating them.
This destroys every demon in attendance while also ripping the theatre rood from the inside out with enough force at least to bust out of the stone above towards the surface. Once the last of the demons are hurled off the roof and their bodies thoroughly pasted, ride the tornado along with the Fathers for a quick ride back to the surface.
Take note of the resulting hole in the earth and surroundings before removing up your clothes and take a quick bathe with cleansing rain. Aftherwards promptly end invocation and sleep it off.
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Florin
Priest of Yech
D] Write-in. (Intelligent and/or creative strategies may garner additional bonuses! Given the severity of this situation, entirely new plans are subject to QM approval.)
WE ARE THE WIND. Use the gale to form circular currents that funnel them into the middle of the collapsing building and keep them there, use this crowd control to let Pevrel and Willhelm get out of dodge while also dealing with the demons. We can safely end the invocation after that and take a rest in the now safe ruins.
WE ARE THE WIND. Use the gale to form circular currents that funnel them into the middle of the collapsing building and keep them there, use this crowd control to let Pevrel and Willhelm get out of dodge while also dealing with the demons. We can safely end the invocation after that and take a rest in the now safe ruins.
Zedalb
I just started a Patreon!
- Location
- Washington
>D] Write-in. (Intelligent and/or creative strategies may garner additional bonuses! Given the severity of this situation, entirely new plans are subject to QM approval.)
Once you've secured you belongings, grab both Fathers as you draw up a Tornado the likes of which never seen before! You reach for the unseen sky above while you draw the very air of the theatre into two swirling columns of drilling winds that seek to remove the stone seperating them.
This destroys every demon in attendance while also ripping the theatre rood from the inside out with enough force at least to bust out of the stone above towards the surface. Once the last of the demons are hurled off the roof and their bodies thoroughly pasted, ride the tornado along with the Fathers for a quick ride back to the surface.
Take note of the resulting hole in the earth and surroundings before removing up your clothes and take a quick bathe with cleansing rain. Aftherwards promptly end invocation and sleep it off.
Once you've secured you belongings, grab both Fathers as you draw up a Tornado the likes of which never seen before! You reach for the unseen sky above while you draw the very air of the theatre into two swirling columns of drilling winds that seek to remove the stone seperating them.
This destroys every demon in attendance while also ripping the theatre rood from the inside out with enough force at least to bust out of the stone above towards the surface. Once the last of the demons are hurled off the roof and their bodies thoroughly pasted, ride the tornado along with the Fathers for a quick ride back to the surface.
Take note of the resulting hole in the earth and surroundings before removing up your clothes and take a quick bathe with cleansing rain. Aftherwards promptly end invocation and sleep it off.
Alaric
⠀
(Please note: To reflect the excellent write-ins cast, parts of both write-ins will be implemented in the next update (leaning heavily towards the winning vote). The bonuses below reflect these contributions from our voters.)
>Roll 1d100.
>Because you are blessed by all of the Gods, the best of the first three rolls will be used.
>The total modifier for the winning roll will be -10.
>Roll 1d100.
>Because you are blessed by all of the Gods, the best of the first three rolls will be used.
>The total modifier for the winning roll will be -10.
-100 SOUL ACHE (Mercy's summoning, your successful dual invocation, and now a prolonged invocation of Storm seriously hurts.)
-35 OVERWHELMING ODDS (Two HUNDRED demons have their eyes on you. Storm or no, you are outnumbered.)
-30 DOMAIN OF THE IMPOSSIBLE (Escaping from this building in one piece won't be easy.)
+65 TO DESTROY IS TO SERVE (Storm is MOST pleased by your strategy, skill, and enthusiasm.)
+30 THE LORD OF WRATH (Before he escapes, you can count on Father Pevrel not fucking around.)
+30 THE SEER OF SOMERILDE (Father Wilhelm's foresight and skill could turn the tide of this battle.)
+20 COMBAT VETERAN (This won't be your first fight.)
+10 INDOMITABLE (You're in a LOT of pain, but you should be able to control your response to it. Right?)
-35 OVERWHELMING ODDS (Two HUNDRED demons have their eyes on you. Storm or no, you are outnumbered.)
-30 DOMAIN OF THE IMPOSSIBLE (Escaping from this building in one piece won't be easy.)
+65 TO DESTROY IS TO SERVE (Storm is MOST pleased by your strategy, skill, and enthusiasm.)
+30 THE LORD OF WRATH (Before he escapes, you can count on Father Pevrel not fucking around.)
+30 THE SEER OF SOMERILDE (Father Wilhelm's foresight and skill could turn the tide of this battle.)
+20 COMBAT VETERAN (This won't be your first fight.)
+10 INDOMITABLE (You're in a LOT of pain, but you should be able to control your response to it. Right?)
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Let's see if my luck holds up
Alaric
⠀
(Shame you haven't made any omakes yet.
Kidding. No rerolls. Really though, a 51! Could be worse! It's too late tonight for me to update since I have work tomorrow, but I will get to this first thing tomorrow night.
If anyone has anything they'd like to say to Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel, now would be the time to do so. Or any other write-ins anyone for anything you'd like to say to Storm, or anyone else for that matter.)
Zedalb
I just started a Patreon!
- Location
- Washington
Why would you write this while we are listening to "Thanks for the memories" by fall out boy.
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 77: The Unseen Sky
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 77: The Unseen Sky
"Run."
Your command resonates throughout the entire theater. The two priests that your word is intended for hold their ground, frantically trying to fight their way to you. Father Pevrel skewers three demons through his sword at the same time, awash in blood. At his back, Father Wilhelm is sweating bullets.
The wounded man gets one good look at what's raining on your head, and screams, "RICHARD!"
Bows are loosed. Swords are hurled. Dozens of demons throw themselves at you with reckless abandon.
It makes little difference. A hurricane is in the palm of your hand. You shift your stance hard, and gesture towards the enemy above— releasing a lifetime of torment in one, fell motion.
"We are the wind. The unseen sky!"
At the center of the theater, a tornado instantly forms from floor to ceiling. It picks up every demon set to collide with you at once. They're thrust into the air— and as they're lifted from the ground, their skin and flesh rips off their very bones.
Screams sing through the air, increasing and decreasing in volume as your enemy whips past you in dizzying patterns of crimson gore.
Horns, spears, swords, and barbed devices in shapes and sizes you couldn't have previously conceived of still comes down. You can't keep up the gale and dodge them all. Sweeping a current of air across the center of the tornado is the best you can do. It knocks aside countless small implements, but several make it through.
You swing your shield high, and cry out as dozens of weapons batter your defense with enough force to kill. The impact shakes you to your core.
The wind would have ripped an average man off the ground. You count your blessings. Though you are one with the sky, the very earth is your lover, and you do not need to ground yourself within the eye of the Storm.
Your allies, however, are almost instantly ripped off their feet. Both men scramble to get a hold of something to not be sucked into the screaming gale.
Father Pevrel manages to stop fighting for just long enough to grab onto Father Wilhelm by the waist, stabs his sword into the theater's wooden floor, and nearly gets beheaded as three demons streak past him. Father Wilhelm's side catches on one of the monster's weapons. Blood flies into the air as his robes and skin are ripped open.
The God of Destruction flares in your sight. It still feels like you're shaking, while lightning discharges from your eyes and hands. You don't scream Father Wilhelm's name. You focus the wind on the demon responsible for injuring your ally, and whisk it into the hurricane. Without lifting a finger, you tear his limbs off.
The gale is your hand. It is your sword. Your shield.
Your allies fade from sight.
The air grows thin and cold.
As more demons are torn apart, the wind turns red. Flecks of blood and chunks of gore whip past you in rapid succession, blinding you to what lies beyond.
The walls of the theater are crumbling, closing in by the second. You risk plunging into the side of the tornado, and part the current around you so you have safe passage to the steps out of this nightmare.
"To destroy is to serve," you curse.
At least where you can immediately see, the wind has ripped the foundations out of the steps leading out of Drazhan's domain. There's no way up, unless you can find another path, or suddenly learn how to fly.
You lean into the gift of a Goddess, and reach out to whatever wood and earth is still being rattled by your attack. You locate an intact route of sturdy, untouched steps on the opposite side of your tornado. The glimpse of the lumber grants you enough clarity to chart a haphazard path up to the peak of the theater.
To your immense relief, the wind of your creation has an outlet at the top of the steps, too. It would seem that Father Wilhelm destroyed a portion of the wall up above, giving your allies enough room to escape. It's being widened by the second, thanks to the sheer force with which your Storm is raging.
Where your friends are is a mystery.
Your most pressing concern is that with each passing moment, more of the wooden building crumbles. Rather than walk, you leap through the air, using a hurricane to lift your steps.
As badly as you want to make it so, flight seems impossible. You don't have anything near mastery of Storm. Even doing so much as lifting yourself more than a few feet is an exercise in straining your soul even further.
The pain is excruciating, even through the throes of your God. You're certain that were it not for the distraction, you would have already escaped. It's infuriating— but you press on, dodging the occasional attack from the stray demon that's survived your assault.
In mid-air— halfway up the theater, with the exit in sight— a demon that's been shredded down to its brutally spiked skeleton suddenly emerges from the wind at your back, and stabs you straight through the back of your right arm.
It will be a second before the pain registers. A second that your enemy can't be afforded.
You twist yourself around in mid-air, and clutch onto the monster's skull.
Flame and lightning discharges from either hand.
Your foe's head is incinerated, while the rest of its body twitches long after death.
You drop the demon from the air, and let it be whisked away by your tornado.
There's no Time to stop to inspect the damage, but thanks to your intimate knowledge of personal injuries, you're certain that there's something protruding from the back of your arm. It must be at least a few inches deep, with a handle sticking a few more inches out from the skin. The hit was nowhere near deep enough to pierce bone, thanks to your bulk— so you keep ignoring what your body is being put through, and rise to the top of Drazhan's domain.
A series of gasps (and more indecent utterances) fall from you in the meantime, praising all of the Gods.
Several demons— closely resembling over-sized pincushions— have stuck themselves into the walls around the exit that Father Wilhelm made.
They launch a barrage of pins at you. Each projectile is a foot long, dripping with venom as it streaks through the air.
You sweep your arms horizontally, and slam the entire tornado in their direction. It utterly destroys the floor between you and the exit, ricocheting chunks of wood all directions. Their barbed attacks are caught in the gale, too. Each pin is swept aside by the violent wind, taken safely away from your path. So are the monsters, which are ripped out from their place of hiding, and are torn apart piece-by-piece.
For a single second, you have to leave the tornado unattended, and sweep a massive current of wind beneath your feet. Maintaining concentration on your body and the forces of nature that you're controlling feels nearly impossible. It takes everything you have to eye the expanse below. The hope is to jump to the exit.
The drop to the bottom of the theater is endless. Drazhan's stage no longer exists. His body is nothing but ash, and at the peak of his evaporating domain, you have nothing but faith as your guide.
On a teetering plank of wood— precariously perched dozens of feet above an endless abyss— you get a running start, and leap towards the light.
At the peak of your jump, soaring through the air, the force of a hurricane picks up at your feet.
The current rips you up and sideways towards the exit, nearly tearing the skin off your body. You blow through the opening at the top of the theater, are slammed to the ground outside, and despite the horrific pain you're in, force yourself to roll several times away from the building.
Blessed ground is beneath you. The instant the roll ends, you plant a single kiss to the earth.
Without looking back, you stagger to your feet, and keep limping away. The sound of the ruins crumbling is deafening. Wind burn stinging at your hands and face, you hazard a glance behind you, then stop in your tracks.
A giant crater is left in the earth. You're so intensely reminded of the abyss within Ostedholm, you nearly fall over. It's an endless night. You stand on the precipice. There's no sight of the tornado you made. Not a single demon remains.
Whatever was in Drazhan's domain has been lost from reality as you know it.
The sound of footsteps rapidly heading your way makes you turn hard towards the source, shield high, ready to loose another bolt of lightning at whatever it is.
Father Pevrel has his bloody hands up— though he's still holding his sword— with Father Wilhelm draped hard over his shoulder. An open, bloody gash is on Father Wilhelm's side, though it looks shallow.
He should be fine, given some basic treatment and rest.
The leader of the Church of Dream smiles weakly at you. "Thanks."
You simply nod, then stagger towards the nearest intact building with your friends in tow.
The abode you choose is one of the smaller structures, covered in paint from Father Wilhelm's earlier invocation of Dream. You are so caught up in Storm's presence, you barely look around its smoldering interior once you step inside.
There's some furniture caked inches thick with dust. Skeletons litter the floor. Once again, your expertise with the dead and injured makes quick work of identifying what happened. Most of the deceased look like they went down without a fight. A man's skeleton is draped over the bed, in a position akin to prayer. A woman's skeleton reclines beside a dusty hearth, forever caught unawares by intruders in her home. There are no other residents that you can make out in the simply decorated common area, and that's good enough for you.
You watch with amazement as Father Pevrel strides up to the bed, gently sets Father Wilhelm down, and respectfully moves the skeleton of the man aside.
The priest of Dream gestures for you to come over, which you can't argue with. Not at first.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Father Pevrel swiftly clearing the rest of the building. He doesn't seem to find anyone, and returns within seconds, sword finally sheathed.
The current of energy running through you is so intense, you can't sit down. The urge to rip the building to the ground is unbearable. So is the need to see how far you can push yourself. To go beyond all human limits.
To see just how close you can come to triggering your Catalyst.
This isn't Vengeance.
You're one with the air. The sea. What you love.
Who you love.
"Take my Relic as soon as you're able."
You're shaking. Gods, are you shaking. You set your shield, mace, and satchel aside, and clutch onto Mercy's gift in the palms of your ash-covered hands.
All the pain in your body evaporates. You nearly pass out from relief, but close your eyes purely to concentrate.
This is my vessel.
Keeping all your focus on the golden locket in hand, you will yourself to stop shaking. You are not at the Mercy of the Gods. You hold evidence of your own strength, and pour Storm's invocation into your Relic.
A sudden, harsh, and cold emptiness seizes you.
The absence of God.
Forgive me.
The invocation ends, and with it, the world gives out from under you.
The world is shaking. It looks like Father Pevrel is trying to hold you down while also keeping you on your side, with your stabbed arm off the floor. His teeth are grit, he's sweating bullets, and relief washes over his features.
"Richard. Hang on. Atticus! He's—"
There's a hand on your forehead. It's uncalloused, and coated in something oil-based. Father Wilhelm's quiet voice is behind you, though you're having an incredibly difficult time hearing him. "I know. Don't hold him down."
It's like there's still sparks behind your eyes.
Not again.
Mercy.
There's more than sparks.
There's the sky. The sea. Clouds that rise for miles, up and into the throes of divinity.
Power unrivaled.
Lightning whips and cracks at the edges of your mind.
"S-Storm—?"
It feels like your heart is going to jump out from your chest.
You try to reach out, to grab at the sight of a God. You want to hold Him and to be held in return.
Your hands are shaking so badly, you can't manage the motion. Your ears are ringing, and unwanted noise is intermingled with the jerking, erratic, and hard motion that's running through you.
You can't move, and at the same time, you're convulsing.
"I thought you said getting him awake would make this easier—"
"He'll be alright."
"How do you know—?!"
There's no sea. Not unless you count the puddle of sweat and blood that you're lying in, on a decrepit mattress a mile below the earth.
"We have seen this before, though not with waking eyes."
There's no power here, save for the inhuman pain tolerance that's keeping you from screaming on the spot. It feels like the blade wedged in your arm twisted at some point— likely when you started convulsing— and the pain in the rest of your body almost rivals it.
The leader of the Church of Vengeance stops his complaints, looking to you with extreme worry. The hand on your forehead doesn't leave for an instant. It's insufferable— making you feel like you can't even close your eyes.
At least a full minute must pass by, with nothing but the sight of Father Pevrel looking at you like you're marked for death, and the incessant thought that the Gods are Merciful.
Your body finally starts to relax. Gasping for air is the most you can do for several long moments. The urge to moan is almost as intense as the urge to scream.
Ultimately, you settle on groaning and curling in on yourself, trying to ease the pain on you. You have won the battle for decency, but it feels like the entire war is about to come crumbling down around you.
Father Pevrel doesn't back away, even when you try to get up. "Stay down. Just for a minute."
The hand on your forehead releases. A heavy, ragged sigh leaves Father Wilhelm. He shifts around to the side of the bed— still clutching at the wound on his side— and gives you a weary smile. His face is horribly pale, but he couldn't look more relieved.
"Richard. I'm so sorry, but we couldn't let you rest just yet. You're hurt."
You badly want to drag yourself upright, but Father Pevrel puts an arm to you to keep you down, while Father Wilhelm places your Relic into the palm of your hand.
The sheer degree of tension that drops off your frame nearly makes you pass out again. You're breathing so hard that your chest should be hurting— but the locket in hand keeps you free of all physical pain.
The ache in your soul is still excruciating. This verges on the worst it's ever been. The contrast between your physical relief only heightens the agony.
You know that shifting positions isn't going to make it any better, so you simply close your eyes, and try to not hyperventilate.
The world goes dark—
"Richard." Father Wilhelm's voice is firmer than you've ever heard it. "You're hurt. There's a poisoned barb in your upper right arm. I know you've told me that you're immune to poison, but it's eaten away at some of your Flesh. I need you to let us know how we can help."
You can manage a few words. "Caustic—" You try shifting upright again. "—poison. Demon's. Not blood. Something worse— Mercy— it— it has to come out—"
"Wait just a minute." Father Pevrel has such a firm hold on your side, he practically shoves you into the bed.
You can't stay put. It's bad enough that you have reduced performance in one of your legs from being shot before. The thought of your arm being compromised is unthinkable.
"Richard!" The lord of wrath barks at you. "Stay the FUCK down and LISTEN. It's not that severe. Yet. Will you stay still for a few seconds and LISTEN?!"
You stop struggling. As the lord of healing, you possess the skill to operate on yourself, even in these dismal conditions. You can wait one more minute.
"We need to know before you go digging around in there that you are NOT going to go passing out on us AGAIN." He lowers his voice just slightly. "If you need to invoke Mercy, do so."
Father Wilhelm winces, his smile faltering. "I will do whatever I can to help, but neither of us will blame you if you need to call on Her. We're just worried—"
"I'm not worried," the lord of wrath spits, still keeping you down. "I'm sick of you trying to solve all of your problems by yourself." His tone lowers to a growl. Those empty eye sockets linger on your injured arm. "We're here, Anscham. So let us help you, before you're of no use to anyone."
The green dahlia is keeping your hands steady, now that the convulsions have passed. The work should be straight forward enough, if you can keep it together.
The Storm in your mind is still raging.
>Choose one option from both A and B.
>All of the following are mutually exclusive.
>Majority vote will decide, barring write-ins that make sense to combine.
>A] You have to do something about the barb stuck in you.
>1] You've accepted that your soul ache is not going anywhere for a good, long while. Invoke Mercy, and heal through the injury rapidly. You'll take extra measures in the days ahead to look after yourself.
>2] Show your devotion to the Goddess of Healing. Build some faith in yourself. Use your own two hands (and the correct surgical tools) to remove this barb, and recruit your allies' help while you're at it. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>3] Write-in. (A roll may be required.)
>B] The gift of your God saved your lives, killed over 200 demons...
>1] ...and left you wanting more. Do not besmirch Storm's name. If you're asked about your invocation, you are only going to praise Storm's will.
>2] ...and while you're patching yourself back up, you'll ask Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel to fill you in on what they saw during your invocation of Storm at minimum. You're hurt, you're scared, and you need answers NOW.
>3] Write-in.
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Florin
Priest of Yech
>A] You have to do something about the barb stuck in you.
>1] You've accepted that your soul ache is not going anywhere for a good, long while. Invoke Mercy, and heal through the injury rapidly. You'll take extra measures in the days ahead to look after yourself.
Considering we now have something like a -200 modifier for the soul ache I would like to stay wayyy the fuck away from any rolls thank you very much.
>B] The gift of your God saved your lives, killed over 200 demons...
>2] ...and while you're patching yourself back up, you'll ask Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel to fill you in on what they saw during your invocation of Storm at minimum. You're hurt, you're scared, and you need answers NOW.
We need some more reliable narrators to tell us what actually happened.
>1] You've accepted that your soul ache is not going anywhere for a good, long while. Invoke Mercy, and heal through the injury rapidly. You'll take extra measures in the days ahead to look after yourself.
Considering we now have something like a -200 modifier for the soul ache I would like to stay wayyy the fuck away from any rolls thank you very much.
>B] The gift of your God saved your lives, killed over 200 demons...
>2] ...and while you're patching yourself back up, you'll ask Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel to fill you in on what they saw during your invocation of Storm at minimum. You're hurt, you're scared, and you need answers NOW.
We need some more reliable narrators to tell us what actually happened.
>A] You have to do something about the barb stuck in you.
>1] You've accepted that your soul ache is not going anywhere for a good, long while. Invoke Mercy, and heal through the injury rapidly. You'll take extra measures in the days ahead to look after yourself.
Yeah no. The negative modifiers are stretching us thin for any major encounters. Best get this over with while the injury's relatively superficial. The days ahead will now be split to personal care to reduce soul aches and physical gainz to bolster our noninvocation related rolls.
>B] The gift of your God saved your lives, killed over 200 demons...
>3] A sober realization settles upon you as you take in the gifts of Storm. An echo of the numerous times people around you have reminded you of overwork and physical neglect. That you too needed to rest lest you destroy yourself. Thank Storm for his gifts and zeal in destroying our foes and the his will that we must achieve. Like the wildfire that burns the weeds to pave the way for ne crops must we respect Storm's will. Yet Anscham realizes through Temperance even these must be taken in caution, lest you also burn your own house down.
Anscham needs to reflect further upon his experiences with invocations with Storm. Though the psychological effects are good for battle, gainz and conquering, right now your body requires attention that runs counter to Storm's mindset. You remind yourself yet again that you are all too human in this. There would be a Time for this once again, but now you must temper yourself once more- this lack of knowledge on Storm no doubt playing a big factor in our current predicament.
Accept your limitations and rest! Reccuperate and learn because soon enough we shall ride the wind once again!
>1] You've accepted that your soul ache is not going anywhere for a good, long while. Invoke Mercy, and heal through the injury rapidly. You'll take extra measures in the days ahead to look after yourself.
Yeah no. The negative modifiers are stretching us thin for any major encounters. Best get this over with while the injury's relatively superficial. The days ahead will now be split to personal care to reduce soul aches and physical gainz to bolster our noninvocation related rolls.
>B] The gift of your God saved your lives, killed over 200 demons...
>3] A sober realization settles upon you as you take in the gifts of Storm. An echo of the numerous times people around you have reminded you of overwork and physical neglect. That you too needed to rest lest you destroy yourself. Thank Storm for his gifts and zeal in destroying our foes and the his will that we must achieve. Like the wildfire that burns the weeds to pave the way for ne crops must we respect Storm's will. Yet Anscham realizes through Temperance even these must be taken in caution, lest you also burn your own house down.
Anscham needs to reflect further upon his experiences with invocations with Storm. Though the psychological effects are good for battle, gainz and conquering, right now your body requires attention that runs counter to Storm's mindset. You remind yourself yet again that you are all too human in this. There would be a Time for this once again, but now you must temper yourself once more- this lack of knowledge on Storm no doubt playing a big factor in our current predicament.
Accept your limitations and rest! Reccuperate and learn because soon enough we shall ride the wind once again!
>A] You have to do something about the barb stuck in you.
>1] You've accepted that your soul ache is not going anywhere for a good, long while. Invoke Mercy, and heal through the injury rapidly. You'll take extra measures in the days ahead to look after yourself.
>B] The gift of your God saved your lives, killed over 200 demons...
>2] ...and while you're patching yourself back up, you'll ask Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel to fill you in on what they saw during your invocation of Storm at minimum. You're hurt, you're scared, and you need answers NOW.
Also supporting MoonSerpent's sentiments. Also, let's not hold anything against the god personally, he's just doing what he does.
>1] You've accepted that your soul ache is not going anywhere for a good, long while. Invoke Mercy, and heal through the injury rapidly. You'll take extra measures in the days ahead to look after yourself.
>B] The gift of your God saved your lives, killed over 200 demons...
>2] ...and while you're patching yourself back up, you'll ask Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel to fill you in on what they saw during your invocation of Storm at minimum. You're hurt, you're scared, and you need answers NOW.
Also supporting MoonSerpent's sentiments. Also, let's not hold anything against the god personally, he's just doing what he does.
Alaric
⠀
(Love the enthusiasm! Just so you're aware, only when I call for a roll is it counted.
Looks like the majority vote goes to A1 and B2. Really lovely sentiments all around you guys, making sure to note all of them. The vote is locked! Writing now.)
Chapter 78: Gossamer
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 78: Gossamer
For a split second, you entertain the idea of healing yourself with your own two hands— but being stabbed in the arm is superficial, compared to the pain within. Even fighting to sit upright is agony.
When you do manage to struggle enough against Father Pevrel for him to relent, you instantly clutch at your chest, gasping for air. You take in the scent of burnt bone and flesh which clings to you and your companions. Your soaking wet clothes, the dampness of your hair, and the trail of blood that you tracked into this ruined little home is still fresh.
You look to the ash on your hands— which have finally stopped shaking— and find your breath. You too need rest and recovery.
You utterly lack any control over Storm while He is working through you, and the relationship you share is imbalanced in every way. Even the thoughts you're having now run counter to your God's will.
A sober realization overtakes you in the absence of lighting, fire, water, and air. It's more than a lack of knowledge, or misunderstanding of what makes Storm someone you'd die worshiping.
It's love. Love for yourself, and for all the world around you. Because at the end of the day, you do want to accept your limitations. The thought is foreign to you, but no matter how much you have tried to run from it, it is always there. The name of everyone who has ever reminded you of overwork and physical neglect. It is the name of your very lover.
Temperance.
For all your difficulties with Dream, you do truly wish to rest.
Closing your eyes shuts out the worried faces of your allies. With a poisoned dagger sticking out of your arm, you knit your hands together, and pray.
"Storm, I thank you for your gifts. Thank you for your zeal, through which we have destroyed every foe that has stood before us. Thank you for sharing with me your will. I have been granted a priceless gift: the treasure that is your word. I will not so easily cast aside this priceless message. I pray that I may one day understand your works in full." Verve and devotion rings out as you pray. "Thank you for our lives. Thank you for granting me the strength to complete our mission— and for the opportunity to achieve another. You are Merciful."
You open your eyes, and part your hands. "Soon enough, we shall ride the wind again."
The pain in your soul feels just a little lighter.
Father Pevrel's jaw is hanging open. Father Wilhelm seriously looks like he needs a smoke.
Neither one of them interrupt what you're doing, as you put your left hand to the knife on the back of your arm, and close your eyes once again. The instant that your fingers touch the serrated demon's bone, you cry, "Mercy!"
A blanket of heat and comfort wraps up, around, and into your entire body. Mercy's hands walk along your back, intertwining with the hand you're keeping on the blade.
Gold floods into the site of injury. Steam and the smell of cauterized flesh fills the air. A sigh of relief leaves you, before you extract the weapon from your body, then pause to look over the source of your suffering.
In your hand is a foot-long barb. It's covered in spikes from end to end. Each one is hooked, designed to snag on muscle as it's pulled out. None of your Flesh is stuck to the item, as Mercy enabled you to extract it with no further injury. No poison drips from it, either.
Contact absorption.
The Goddess of Healing has not stopped Her work for a moment. The sensation on the back of your arm would be disturbing, if it weren't for Mercy tempering your every movement. Starting from the center of your wound, something hot spreads beneath your skin. You realize that Mercy has burned out the rest of the poison, and carefully set aside the barb.
Another long moment passes, and surely enough, all the exhaustion and pain throughout the rest of your body has faded away. Mercy's healing has done nothing for the ache in your soul, but so much love and devotion is running through you, you can't even think about being bothered by the pain.
Not when there's someone else in need. You look to Father Wilhelm with gold-plated eyes, and the light of a Goddess.
"Please, let Us see to your wounds."
The priest of Dream pauses for a moment, before nodding to you. "Alright. Go ahead."
You place a hand to his tense shoulder. The amount of pain that he's in puts a new ache in your chest.
He's been running on burn wounds.
While the man moves to take off his shoes, you rip off your Relic, and force it into his hands before he damages his feet any further.
Father Wilhelm's entire body goes slack for a moment. A few tears well in his eyes out of sheer relief.
Only once you're certain that your friend's pain is relieved do you help him get off his shoes, and raise his lower body completely onto the bed. Both of you wince. Bits of skin stick to the fabric as he removes his socks. Raw, angry, red skin weeps in the open air.
With a wave of your hand, a wave of blazing heat and searing light cleans the entire area of all debris. There's no stopping you once you've gotten started. Your motions are deliberate but practiced, as a man who has absolute mastery over his craft.
From thin air, you pull out strands of radiant gold. Each beam of light is wound between your hands, until aureate bandages take shape. "You will still heal naturally. This will speed up the process, and will provide far more comfort than any mundane bandages ever could." You gesture for Father Wilhelm to remove his shirt, while you dress the wounds on his feet. "You'll be safe to enter bodies of water, and will not need to change the dressings, either."
"Thank you both so much."
The sight of raw muscle and oozing blisters makes way for a clean, neatly dressed pair of pseudo-socks. The priest must not plan on going anywhere, as he leaves his shoes off, and finishes getting off his shirt.
Father Wilhelm is incredibly pale, and even skinnier than you thought. There isn't single scar on him— and there still won't be. Not on your watch.
Knowing full well that you won't be capable of much once this invocation is over, you murmur your thanks to Mercy, all while mending the small series of abrasions and cuts on Father Wilhelm's side. The same gossamer bindings are made, though on a much larger scale, and only with one hand. The other picks out the ash and debris from the site of injury, by incinerating them with the light of the sun.
It takes less than two minutes to totally clean and dress the priest's injuries. He bows his head towards you, eyes down.
"Thank you both again."
You smile, and end your invocation of Mercy.
It's not like there's an ache in you anymore. It's like you had absolute relief from all pressure, and now have someone crushing your innermost being. A cry of pain escapes you, and you almost fall forward, clutching onto the bed's filthy sheets underhand as if it could help. It feels like you can't breathe.
"Richard?"
"Richard— for fuck's sake—!"
Your breath keeps catching. You can hardly breathe.
Is the pain in my heart?
My chest?
There's absolutely no pain in your upper arm. The thought of your partner, your work, and something bordering on sanity gives you something to focus on.
You manage to wrest your hands free from the bed, and tease the spot with a few fingers to see how much sensation you've lost. It seems that there's a fine network of metal running underneath the skin in one or two areas— likely from the poison— and a larger, solid gold plug where the barb entered your skin. It's an incredibly weird contrast to the area around it. Your softness and the muscle hidden underneath is deeply comforting. Another reminder of your lovers. A reminder of what you're working towards.
Your breath has normalized, and the second that you feel like you can speak, you look to your friends.
Father Pevrel gestures to you angrily, looking to Father Wilhelm for help. The older priest looks to you and says, "lay down."
You do. The pain in you persists. It doesn't matter. "Listen, I—" Standing beside the bed with his arms crossed, Father Pevrel starts to interject. You talk over him. "I know that I'm hurt! This is the limit. I know." Staring at the ceiling, you close your eyes just for a moment, and relish the lack of further interruption. "Thank you."
Turning to look at your elders, you're taken aback by the looks on their faces. Neither one of them looks like they recognize you.
There's no weakness in your voice. Only brutal honesty. "I'm scared, but I need answers. NOW."
They're keeping quiet, but both of them obviously want to speak.
You choke down everything else you could say. "I need someone to tell me what happened. I NEED to hear it from someone who's perception I can trust."
>A] POV swap to Father Wilhelm. We will rewind time to the beginning of your fight with Drazhan. (This will not be a permanent swap.)
>B] POV swap to Father Pevrel. We will rewind time to the beginning of your fight with Drazhan. (This will not be a permanent swap.)
>C] Remain with Richard's POV. Hear your friend's perspectives out in whichever way they wish to tell it.