Kingdom Hearts X(cross): Cadunt ad Caelum

You groan softly, rocking your weight up and down from your heels to the balls of your feet, trying to shake some feeling back into your limbs. The river's wide but you have precious little time to prepare. You need to make every second count. The pig rights itself in the mud behind you with a quizzical oink.

"Run to the farm," you pant. "Get help. I'll hold them here."

You lift your gaze to the river, scanning the foaming white wake rising behind the swimming Huntsmen. You feel the pig prod your ankle once, twice, in a feeble attempt to get you to reconsider. But soon enough you hear it scampering away, climbing the hill as fast as its stubby little legs will carry it and disappearing from danger. Of all the strange things, that does make you feel better. Something as valuable as that oracle pig can't be allowed to fall to the hands of darkness. The same hands that will soon be pummelling you senseless unless you do something.

You take a long, deep breath and you focus. You focus on the sound of the water and you let it drown out all else - your rasping breath, your pounding heart, the grunts of the Huntsmen and even the wind rustling the long grass behind you. Nothing but the water, fast-flowing and strong. Strong enough to slow even the likes of them, buying you precious seconds. You can't just throw Blizzards at them, it'd be trivial to dive down and hide. You can't just throw lightning willy-nilly either for the same reason. You must delay them with what little power you have - but what little you have does count for a lot, doesn't it? The Huntsmen are crude creatures, brute-forcing facsimilies of spells with the raw power of darkness but you have training, you have finesse. And you will show them the grace of the Cobra.

You raise Starlight as a conductor would raise their baton, and you play your symphony of sorcery.

Admittedly it's a bit more like an arabesque at this stage, but it feels plenty impressive to you. With great, sweeping motions of the Keyblade you command the river to rise up, to roil and swirl and scoop the individual Huntsmen up in grand and impossible waves. Foaming arcs of crystal-clear water catching the sun, rainbows flickering in and out of sight as loose droplets fall like rain. One you freeze solid, consigning him to his own iceburg that soon topples under its own weight and submerges him the wrong way up. Another you strike with lightning, the bolt landing dead-on in the middle of his scalp and arcing down in a dozen brilliant bolts that wind through the water like plasma-bright brambles. The third you simply send spinning backwards, commanding the water to roll in a disorienting riptide fit to send him spiralling all the way back to where he started like rolling up a carpet. The deep-muscle ache in your body intensifies, leeching into your bones like moisture. Your arms shiver. You find yourself tempted to step into the shallows just to quench the burn.

None of them fall. The frozen man blazes with dark power and breaks free with a snarl of effort, shattering the ice entombing him from the shoulders down with a single mighty flex and swimming back on-course none the worse for wear. The thunderstruck man is briefly stunned, beginning to sink and be swept away, but this two is false hope - once he shakes off the shock, he only redoubles his efforts. The man that you swept back to the far bank only dives back in, kicking off the mud and silt at the shallows so forcefully that he rockets forward faster than he was ever swimming. Soon enough all three are back in formation. Still coming.

You were never the most powerful mage in your class. You've always known that. You were no prodigy. You were high in the middle bracket, but in the middle bracket nonetheless. But what you did have was stamina. You could command the power to flow long after other cadets were forced to stop and rest. Just like in sparring, memories of aching shocks running up your arms and blunted strikes raining down on your shoulders and arms and sides flashing to the forefront of your mind unbidden. So many bouts where your body cried out to tap but you forced yourself to rise. Sometimes the winner is just the one who gives up last. So you choose not to, and you cast.

The Huntsmen gain ground inexorably, but you force them to fight for every inch. Lightning strikes the river like a storm at sea, the 'waves' swirling and crashing and shattering against each other with the roar of churning water and spray of white foam. You can only imagine what it'll look like downriver with all the thick chunks of ice you're leaving in there. The Huntsmen are utterly furious with you, you can see it in their eyes in how they burn like three pairs of sickly yellow suns. This graduated from a simple conflict between warriors long ago. They are going to make you pay for this, and as the first man finds the water shallow enough to get a solid footing he breaks into a wolfish, malevolent grin from ear to ear.

You gather your power with one almighty shout of defiance and raise up as much water in the shallows you can, sending a breaking wave rolling over all three men only to freeze it, leaving a gleaming ice-white half-pipe in its place. The Huntsmen don't even bother with their faux-spells. They just break through with their heads and bare fists, every savage strike sending deep cracks and fissures racing through the thick ice as if it were but a thin pane of glass. You don't stick around for the moment they break through. You turn tail, casting the weakest Blizzard crystal you can, and alight on the rail. It bears you quickly up the hill, and though you stumble as you try to hop back onto solid ground you manage to right yourself through some miracle.

The farm. It seems so tantalisingly close, close enough to think that maybe- no, no time for second-guesses. You skate your way down the other side of the hill, verdant grass flattening beneath your feet, stumbling again as you hit the bottom but forcing yourself to race on. A wide meadow stretches out between you and safety, no doubt grazing land kept close-cropped by any number of farm animals. To your left you see a wide vegetable patch dotted with bright green leaves, no doubt ready for harvest. To your right you see an orchard, rows upon rows of fruit trees sitting undisturbed. The farm itself is small, small enough for only a single family or so, so small you wonder how it could ever contain your salvation, but you really hope looks can be deceiving. Your wheezing breath is the only sound left in your world, the only thing you can hear. Your technique's getting sloppy, your arms flailing more wildly. Just a little but more, just a little bit more.

But no. You're getting greedy. You look back just in time to see the Huntsmen crest the hill, bounding down the far side towards you. They're fast. So fast you can scarcely imagine how you ever kept pace in the forest, how you ever caught up to those that outstripped you. Fast enough that reaching the farm ahead of them seems a fool's errand.

You stumble to a stop. You turn and face them, stand your ground once again. They seem to sense your weakness, all rushing as one with knives outstretched, but you still have one trick they haven't seen yet.

You lunge forward to meet them, hurling your Keyblade forward in a whirling spiral of lavender light. They skid to a stop just short, wary of of your sorcery, and you press the advantage. Forward one step, forward two. Flinging your Keyblade back and forth in wide arcs, warding them away with the glowing weapon as if it were a burning torch. Racking your brain for all your instructor said about the style, shouting to force your body to breathe.

The centre Huntsman lashes out, slapping your Keyblade down with his knife-wielding hand. The light fades. Starlight unceremoniously falls, landing with a near-inaudible thump in the grass. Your eyes widen, panic turning your insides to ice, making you forget you can simply re-summon it for a crucial split-second. You duck a savage slash, the blade slicing the air with an audible swish as it passes overhead, overworked legs buckling beneath you. The man lunges, following your clumsy attempt to dodge. You lurch backward, finally recalling your weapon. A wild, artless uppercut diverts the thrust for a moment, just a moment. The Huntsman drops his knife, smoothly catching it with his left, and simply thrusts again. Your Keyblade's not close enough to block. You can't save yourself this time.

You're going to-

A blade sings through the still air, steel flashing silver-white in the midday sun. The Huntsman freezes, the bright arc of its passage traced straight through his body where he was most vulnerable, but it doesn't end there. The wielder steps into the swing and follows up with a backhand blow, follows that by expertly rolling his wrists into a punishing downward chop with both hands. Executed so crisply, so swiftly. You'd expect that kind of skill from one of your own teachers, not a world-native. You gape open-mouthed. Even the Huntsmen seem stunned, most of all the one struck.

Smoky, oily, liquid-mist darkness flows from the wounds. The Huntsman's eyes go wide and glazed as he slowly, ponderously, falls. First to his knees, then simply toppling forward like a felled tree. His body dissolves before it strikes the earth, rendered down into Lux crystals and charcoal-black wisps that rise to join the mass of expelled darkness all his fellows left behind. Your saviour steps in beside you, facing the surviving Huntsmen in the kind of picture-perfect stance that can't simply be taught.

The sun gleams off his sweat-slick, bald head. He's not particularly tall, but he's broad and stocky enough to make up for it and more. His bare arms flex and ripple, wound taut as his fists tighten around the hilt of his sword. He wears the thick leather apron of a blacksmith and the mud-stained boots and trousers of a farmer, but hefts his weapon like a professional soldier.

"You alright?" he asks, jarring you from your trance. You stagger to your feet and suck in a deep, almost defiant breath.

"Not hurt," you pant. You notice him backing up, so you figure backing up too can't hurt. "Who're you?"

"Coll, local farmer," he replies. "My prize pig wanted me to come rescue you."

You stumble, throw out your hand and grab onto Coll's stony bicep to steady yourself. He doesn't seem to mind. The two of you watch as the defeated Huntsman's black 'heart' bursts, shards of empowering darkness embedding themselves in the two left. The survivors let you make space, far too absorbed in the intoxicating rush of power that follows the loss of their comrade.

"Brave of you," you pant, "rushing in to protect a stranger against foes like these."

"Odds are fair now," he replies. "Two on two. 'sides, we don't need to win. We just need to retreat."

You summon Starlight back to your grasp with a defiant, violent flourish and press your free hand to Coll's back for support. Step by step the two of you retreat, ever watching, ever vigilant. Waiting for that split-second when the beasts in man's clothing remember you're here.

CLANGGG. The fight resumes and you don't even realise. Coll does. He steps in and deflects a blow like lightning, faster than your exhausted senses could follow. The Huntsman that attacked recovers too fast, his remaining friend skirts around to flank and follow up too fast. You let out a strained groan but you attack in kind, sending Starlight spinning forth like a lavender disc and warding the second man back into Coll's line of attack. The farmer fights like a man possessed, his sword singing again and again as he deflects and parries the Huntsmen's shorter knives, as he leverages its greater reach to simply attack in kind and force the Huntsmen to disengage or be struck down. You use him like a shield, swinging the Keyblade past and 'through' his body with the secrets of the Spellweaver style. There may be two Huntsmen of impossible strength, but even they don't find this dual-layered defence such an easy thing to pierce.

You wonder why they don't make space and conjure more fireballs. You wonder if maybe they're just too furious, too desperate to see it end from up close, to think of such a tactic. Maybe surviving so long has wounded their pride. You hope to injure it even more deeply.

"Drive them together!" you bark, and pray Coll listens. Starlight slackens and unfurls into a silver chain, and as Coll disengages the next parry he drives one Huntsman into the other with all the strength in his body. The corrupted men softly bump into each other, as if bewildered by what you expected to happen. That moment is when you strike. Starlight's whip-form wraps around their bodies, binding them together in links you know they can trivially escape, but not yet. Not in time to escape before you to strike.

"THUNDER" you shout, to strengthen your own resolve if nothing else. Leashed lightning crackles and leaps down the length of the Keyblade, hissing and spitting and stinking of the storm. The Huntsmen have been running and fighting, but their wolfskin clothes soaked up too much water. They're still dripping wet, all but drenched. They start jittering and convulsing as the charge strikes their skin and wraps around, but they roar in pain and anger as the spell reaches the tip and erupts like ball-lightning.

"THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER" you keep shouting, pulsing spells down the whip until your throat is hoarse, wide- and wild-eyed, thrusting your arms back and forth as if to physically push the magic onward. "THUNDER TH-thun... thunder... thun-"

You trail off into a dry wheeze, Starlight's hilt slipping from numb fingers. Your legs simply give out beneath you. If Coll weren't so quick to catch you, you'd be a nerveless heap in the grass. Instead you lie draped over his knee like a sodden blanket, staring up at him as he crouches by your side, sword raised. Your mouth feels like it was swabbed out with cotton, bone-dry and aching for cool water. Your head's pounding so hard it's like something's trying to get out. It feels like the most heroic effort of will in the world just to turn your head.

The Huntsmen shake off the links with almost offended-sounding grunts. They're singed, their wolfskin clothes blackened and smoking in places, but they're still standing. They don't even have the courtesy to look winded. You almost want to laugh. You almost want to whine and complain. Whose idea was it to send you here on your very first solo mission?

Oh right. Yours. Shows you for listening to yourself. Now you get to watch as the implacable Huntsmen stalk forward, knives in one hand and growing orb of swirling dark flame in the other, as Coll vainly drags you away toward the farm. You part your lips, winding up to tell Coll he should just go, that it was never your intention to drag others into a fight that you couldn't win.

"That's quite enough," comes a stranger's voice, old and measured but very much strong. The Huntsmen freeze, practically mid-stride. All eyes turn to the newcomer.

He doesn't look like much. Certainly not fearsome enough to stand between the Huntsmen and their prey. Just an old man, face ancient and weathered, serious and intelligent eyes set within deep hollows beneath thick stark-white eyebrows. His hair is thinning on top but his beard more than makes up for it. He carries no weapon or notable adornment, simply a slightly dusty grey robe.

"There has been enough bloodshed for one day," he continues. "And while I understand your anger at the loss of several comrades, as you were attempting to steal a pig that was very precious to me and my friend here, I must say I do not sympathise too deeply. And now it ends. You will turn from this place and flee, return to your master and report your failure."

One of the Huntsmen chuckles, baring stark white teeth that seem far sharper than they were earlier. He steps forward once, flexing his spell-wielding hand. The old man's eyes track down to the swirling orb of black flame, then back up to meet the corrupted man's eyes.

"I warn you," he says softly. "As sincerely as you care to believe. Do not escalate this further. Your life is in your own hands."

The Huntsman draws back his hand with a roar of defiance to throw the calamitous fireball-

-and is consumed by flame. It springs from the ground itself like a geyser, as if some underground spring were spitting fire rather than water, so hot that you have you lift your arm and shield your face. The Huntsman's cry is extinguished, drowned out by the roar of the flames that envelop him, and a moment later so is the rest of him. When the flames die down only Lux, and the man's 'heart' of darkness, remain. The old man watches, his gaze hard and perceptive, as the 'heart' transforms into a single handspan-long spike of obsidian and buries itself in the sole survivor.

Once more all thought to his fallen comrade seems to flee his mind. The Huntsman actually laughs, shoulders shaking as his muscles physically swell. The veins bulge out in kind, straining against the skin, and the black aura wrapped around him thickens like a heavy cloak. His breath turns to harsh puffs of translucent steam despite the warm day, his nails blackening and sharpening, and when he opens his eyes his sclera are so jaundiced that they seem to blend with the burning, molten-yellow irises more often than not. Even more monster than man.

"I wonder what good that power will do you, selfish and callous as it is, when it finally overwhelms your heart?" the old man asks. "Will it bring you comfort, or some kind of cruel pride, knowing as your thoughts fade into shadow that you were the one to survive long enough to go mad?"

The Huntsman slowly lowers his hands, eyeing the old man. The old man doesn't blink.

"Go," he says. "We are done here."

The Huntsman slowly backs away in an almost ape-like amble, keeping his poison-yellow glare fixed squarely on the three of you before he makes it back to the hill. Only then does he turn, climbing to the peak with heavy, deliberate strides, and then he's gone. Down the other side, out of sight, and hopefully out of mind for a good long while. You breathe a harsh sigh of relief, going limp in Coll's arms as you stare straight up into the bright blue sky. It was really touch and go for a minute there, but you think you pulled through okay!

"And who is this?" the old man asks.

"Some kind of enchanter I think," Coll replies. "Weapon's like nothing I've ever seen before. Didn't get a name, but Hen Wen vouched for 'em."

"I see."

Oh. Follow-up questions. Rats.

The old man leans into view, bent almost completely horizontal to make eye contact with you. His beard dangles pendulously, swaying with the breeze and the movements of his jaw.

"Allow me to make proper introductions," he says. "My name is Dallben, and this is my associate Coll. He is the rightful owner of this land, but allow me to officially welcome you to Caer Dallben all the same. Our pig tells us you fought with courage and skill today trying to protect her, and I believe that deserves at least one good night's rest under our roof."

"Oh, she's safe then?" you ask. He nods. You let out a relieved sigh, head lolling back. "Was a little touch-and-go in a few places there, but... I'm glad."

He offers his hand. "Come, can you stand?"

"I... think so," you mutter, taking the offered hand. For such a wizened appearance he has plenty of strength in that bony frame, and he manages to haul you upright easily. You're a little unsteady on your feet still, but Coll offers you his arm and you take it gladly. He turns you around and guides you in the direction of the farm -Caer Dallben- as its namesake keeps pace beside you.

"... how did you do that?" you ask, brow furrowed. "That spell- you didn't even have to move and- I threw everything I had at those guys and they were barely feeling it by the end, and you stopped that one like it was nothing."

"Yes, the Huntsmen of Annuvin are deadly foes," Dallben replies gravely. He focuses his gaze on you, continuing in a more pointed tone. "But as to what you saw, I should think that in this case I am entitled to a few secrets from strangers, am I not? As you, in turn, are entitled to yours."

That nauseous, icy feeling is back. They may have saved you, and you may have ingratiated yourself saving the pig, but you don't belong here and at minimum Dallben knows it. The question is, what will he do about it? What's he hiding, that a man of his raw power would be living all the way out here on a farm when the forces of darkness gather across the river and roam the forests freely? Or- no. The real question is how much you're willing to volunteer to a man you suspect already knows, or has a very good idea about, everything. And how much you want his extremely skilled warrior-farmer friend to overhear.

[ ] Remain as tight-lipped as possible. You're already treading dangerously close to breaking the non-interference pact, you're in no mood to even risk giving away Citadel secrets - especially to a man as powerful and inscrutable as Dallben.
[ ] Explain your mission, but keep your wording as cagey and ambiguous as possible. Youre a 'knight-enchanter' from 'a faraway land' sent by your 'lord' in search of an 'artefact'. That should be good enough.
[ ] Take a gamble. Explain yourself to Dallben, at least as much as he's willing to actively ask you. He's clearly perceptive and powerful, and he co-owns the oracle-pig you were sent here to find - for all you know he had her scry all this head of time, and asking at all is just a test.