The color's almost more interesting than the words, which are fascinating in their own right. Zang Kong's hex code is back again, same as Praehihr's title
and The King Stands Alone. Though The King's gilded, probably to denote the Solar connection. TKSA's not only an option in An End to Innocence, it's also the name of one of Ambition's Evocations, which discounted Odyssial's melee excellency based on the number of worthy opponents he was facing.
The effect echoes what a completed Peerless City would've done (presumably
did do, for the Accursed), multiplying his strength so that he faces every foe as though in single combat, the final victory of quality over quantity. The traitor stars can plot betrayal and weave their schemes, but against the might of the Most High such things are futile. Fitting, that the Accursed seems to have begun his journey by literally rising higher and striking down all the stars in Heaven. Verschlengorge called Hunger an Implement, but now he's one that can wield the Accursed's tools.
Letrizia had decided she was going on a self-proclaimed 'undercover' mission to investigate colony's magic, while Gisena was happily examining each and every technological advancement Human Civilization had made since the Renaissance. While they did so, he studied the blade.
The only stealth our party's capable of is the Malfean sort, as soon as the party rolled up in an Imperial Armament discretion was a lost cause. The Sovereignty's intelligence apparatus has got to be having fits over a noble Armament pilot walking around and investigating their carefully-cultivated trump cards. In their shoes I'd be considering assassination to prevent their status and whereabouts leaking back to the Empire, I can't imagine the Emperor looks kindly on separatists.
Then there's Verschlengorge to consider. We don't know how well it'd take to a new pilot afterward, but it's probably not
impossible, if Armaments are bones of contention in Imperial politics. They have lots of hot-blooded teenagers to spare and badly need power to get rid of the Rotbeast. Taking out Letrizia's a risky gambit, especially given her mysterious bodyguards, but to the Sovereignty's shotcallers it might be a risk worth taking. Hopefully that doesn't happen, it'd destroy the last vestiges of the veneer that this is an actual vacation. At least Gisena's having fun? The tech may not be cutting edge, but the Forebear's Blade makes up for that!
The power of his ring hampered low-stakes training while enormously amplifying improvements made in actual conflict, so naturally he asked the soldiers if there was any mercenary work available.
"Well yeah, we've got Rotspawn coming in every day of the year. It's not totally out of control, but we've been losing ground week by week." The man looked warily at his sword and cloak. "If you're some sort of... sword-based wizard, we could probably use your help."
Man, between Letrizia claiming Accretion doesn't make us a real mage and this guy giving us the side-eye, I'm feeling attacked. Poor ImperatorV...
"I'm not cheap," Hunger warned, "And I don't work well with others. Don't expect me to integrate into your command structure."
The first statement's arguably a lie, Hunger is working for Letrizia entirely on credit! She hasn't paid him a cent, though there's an argument to be made that knowledge is a harder currency than anything that comes out of the Imperial mint. Assuming their money's not totally digital, anyway.
"That's all acceptable," the officer said, "We just care that Rotspawns are destroyed. If you're willing and able to deal with the Rotbeast itself, that would be even more ideal. We can pay in goods and services, or precious metals at a 20% discount."
Yeah, the nature of the Voyaging Realm complicates trade. Is the Sovereignty on the
gold orichalcum standard or something? It's an interesting conceit, you could have an entire quest set in the Voyaging, with no end of foes to face or places to explore, but likely not as a Progression-type Cursebearer. IIRC it's possible to outscale everything within, otherwise Pillars wouldn't provide as much value.
He tapped a device on his wrist and small leaflet printed from the VTOL's side cabin. "Here, these are the rates we pay to all wandering mercenaries. On the back you'll find a map of the region. We're here, at the border, and the Rotbeast's invasion is alongside this other border, here, with enemy territory beyond. This mountain-range shaped area is the actual Rotbeast."
Of... course it's the size of a mountain range, why did I expect anything sane? If it's slow enough that they can print maps featuring it that aren't invalid the following month, at least it's a stationary target? Nigh-impossible to miss; if Kakuzumaru's final form's anything to go by, sessile strength loses to speed nine times in ten. Then again, we're planning to take Stranglethorn.
"Fine. I just need to bring back proof of my kills?"
"That's right. Scalps for ordinary spawn, while Elite and Primary Spawn have cores made of golden crystal. Those are a bit easier to transport."
"Sounds simple enough."
Bounties for scalps, very frontier chic. This whole exchange is a window into the life of a Champion, I guess. The soldier's nonplussed by the gaudy adventurer garb, proceeds to tell us to collect twenty bear asses to complete our daily quest. Bearic would be right at home here, baddies to kill for XP and he can end the day with degenerate slice of life shenanigans. In an onsen, no less! Multi-genre drifting: living the MMO and visual novel life in parallel. Though his definitely-not-a-harem's gone now, the downtime pared away, leaving nothing but the grind. I still want to know what his deal is, though not even the black magic of interludes can make Bearic sympathetic.
The contested border was well to the opposite side of Sovereignty land, a semi-mountainous region of rocky hills that sloped downwards into an immense swampy forest. It was from that direction that the Rotspawn invasion occurred, a steady flow of weaker beasts intermittently disrupted by the emergence of an Elite. Elixir troops had access to decades-old Imperial surplus, but it was all decommissioned gear, meant to be sold to civilian organizations. They could maintain what they'd purchased, manufacturing munitions to a limited extent, but outright replacement of high-grade gear like Armor Prototypes was beyond them.
The front line was a series of heavily fortified trenches 'manned' by automated turrets and anchored by mid-sized Armor Prototypes. From Letrizia's earlier remarks, Hunger had gathered that unmanned autonomous craft like bomber drones were adequate for weaker foes, but severely underperformed against peer-level enemies due to a lack of Astral Rank. Though their weapons encampments were more than capable of raking the valley with plasma fire, any group of Elite Rotspawn risked breaching the lines with their focused Pressure.
Having the high ground isn't always enough. Attrition's a stock strategy for necromantic warfare. Just bury the enemy in an endless deluge of bodies to wear them down, bleeding them with the proverbial thousand cuts. When fighting the undead, your loss is their gain. It's more complicated here, since the Rotbeast can't reanimate anything made of metal. Custom organisms designed to patch and pilot downed Armor Prototypes would be unpleasant, but if that's possible we've yet to see it. Slowly chipping away at the Sovereignty's irreplaceable assets that are its only answer to enemy Rank's bad enough. Curious how bombers versus ground-bound Rotspawn favors the latter, Pressure or no. Biological surface-to-air missile batteries, an airforce of reanimated fliers? Sniping with supernatural strength by Elite or Prime Spawn?
For the most part, the Rotspawn were a ragged and motley lot, corpse-grey limbs twisted and disfigured by the necrotic force of their progenitor, each beast an unnerving medley of animal parts. Their jerky movements and eerie relentlessness made for a disquieting aura.
On my first pass I wondered if we'd get offered unique picks that would discount Supper Juggernaut Undead Chimera, since that's essentially what the Rotbeast is fielding. Interesting that the fodder's made up of animal parts. No doubt the swamp's native life was expended long ago, so it probably recycles biomass from downed creations. Fire-themed Surges and plasma weapons to deny it workable flesh are a good idea, though if the Beast's gargantuan size is anything to go by it's got reserves. Man, the Elixir Sovereignty's close to going the way of Thorns...
With the average Rotspawn weaker than Verschlengorge's usual attackers, Hunger was unconcerned by their numbers and took the time to experiment with his sword technique. He mimicked Amarlt's thrusting stance, attempting to capture the intangible purity of that unadorned thrust, but while his strength was more than sufficient to slay Rotspawn in this manner, no special insights came to him in the doing.
It was clear that there were horizons of swordplay far beyond his meagre achievements, and while Amarlt had possessed the soul-based magic of the Outriders, Hunger had the Forebear's Blade, which ought well be capable of surpassing anything the Outrider had done.
The regret about betraying Inheritor at the last minute's mostly gone, but Vanreir was a compelling character, so I'm glad to see his name crop up in Hunger's narration. If Unerring
had won, could he have given Hunger tips? Language can only reduce things so far, but blood always tells. The Rank-up feat for killing Van
was called Kinslayer.
An enormous crustacean-like creature thundered abruptly out of the forest, its shell the deep blue of the far ocean, claws rending wood and steel with the schlick of scissors through paper-mache. Between its beady sapphire eyes was a jewel of brilliant gold, the only spot of aberration against a carapace fully blue.
Hunger leapt to its left flank, plunging his blade into that carapace, which folded like a punctured egg before him. With lightning speed it skittered and turned, but he was faster still, darting around to its other flank, dragging his blade to split it widthwise like an oyster. The power of Ruin tore branching seams out from the clean line of that wound, shell shriveling and flaking away all along its thorax.
The creature reared back as if to bellow, but he sprang towards its front, leaping onto the clacking claw-arm to strike directly at its core. As the jewel shattered the creature swiftly went inert, a golden mist like faerie dust spilling from the gem.
A crit from Fall of Night or Uttermost at work? Either way, if you come at the king, you'd better not have weak points to hit for massive damage.
That was anticlimactic. He was not Vanreir, but the power of his blade sufficed to dispatch these things with a minimum of fuss. Shaking his head he plunged deeper into the valley, past the plasma-pocked slopes of the grassy hillside and into the territory of the Rotbeast proper. Down into the fetid mist he ran, past the cloying outer perimeter into the heart of the forest, where the ground was soft and putrid but the fog was thick as steel wool.
It pressed down upon him, a slightly damp heaviness, a noxious fullness in the lungs. Were he an ordinary man, movement would be impossible under such conditions, but his strength these past weeks had increased by great bounds, and it troubled him little. A pair of crossed slashes dispelled the fog around him, small tempest of wind carving a clearing in the mist. Creatures emerged from that pale soup of fog, half a dozen disjoint monstrosities each bearing a golden jewel upon their brow. Eagerly he set to work.
Wow, this sequence is giving me Terrascape flashbacks. Not Imperia-themed, for once. Coldbriar's mist was dense as well (though not as much as the man himself), had a bunch of subtly deleterious effects, and we dispelled it with waves of our overpowered sword. I wonder how Hunger compares to Arthur, power-wise? Cut Through's a step in the right direction but he's not yet capable of scouring nations from the face of the earth.
Their speed was explosive, their movements so erratic as to be unpredictable, but that mattered little against him. The complete Forebear's Blade could channel his techniques with perfect efficiency. The windup and exertion associated with his sevenfold strike were reduced to a minuscule fraction, so much so that he could apply the technique to every flick and lash of the blade.
Each humming blade-wind dispatched from its edge struck now with murderous force, a staggering crescent of sheer devastation that toppled the Rotspawn, power of Ruin tearing them limb from limb. And yet it was not enough. For all his terrifying speed and force, his was still not the equal of even Vanreir's technique, much less the power of the Forebear that lay slumbering within. What was he missing?
It hammers home the speed of Hunger's growth that he's treating multiple Elite Rotspawn as a training exercise, experimenting with techniques. Literally Studying the Blade, exactly what the option said on the tin. Despite having gained the ability to spam his ultimate attack from an enemy who did the same, he's still not satisfied with his progress. 'Well-adjusted' is subjective, so I'll just call this behavior well-adapted to the Apocryphal Curse.
Hunger frowned. One hand was inadequate to the task of handling the restored Forebear's Blade, though its immense destructive force more than compensated for the slight unwieldiness. As he grew in strength, would his lack of limbs become a progressively greater limitation on his technique?
Seems so, since the Forebear's Martial Stances are gated behind Zweihander. One Arm Fury's an interesting name, apparently would've featured strongly in the Muscle Wizard path? But since we didn't take Doom of the Naturalist it was a suboptimal, sinful path anyway. Humans are tool-users by nature. And who wants to imitate Anys Syn?
Dozens of Elites fell before a greater monster emerged, the fell wind of its Pressure forcing down his shoulders at its approach. The ground beneath him gave way, muck and grime hollowing out as if pressed by an industrial stamp. He leapt back, launching downward blade-winds to go airborne, but every movement felt stilted and slow in the grip of that Pressure, and he was not able to clear the fog as he would've liked.
If you kill enough of the rank and file, obviously you'll get the attention of someone higher-ranked... in multiple senses of the word. This enemy's rank-smelling as well. Puns aside, this was a predictable consequence of stabbing so many mooks. Hunger would say that's a feature and not a bug, but this is the second time we've rolled poorly for enemy response. Vanreir wasn't the worst possible outcome of breaching the Middle, that was probably a patrolling Inner or something, but we can't rely on the mercy of the dice when probability's ruthless enough even with the Apocryphal Curse on vacation. On reading Sky Above Sky for the first time I was halfway convinced we won only because of Accursed Favor.
It emerged at last from the mist, a golden-eyed creature whose skin was bleached pale, its face an uncanny mix of sublime and grotesque, fine-angled bones above a tusk-bristling maw that drooled syrupy blood. Three meters tall at the very least, with four powerful arms, each holding a curiously curved halberd-like weapon.
Shame Gisena's not here, she knows what to do with golden-eyed, tusked monsters. This is a poignant description, did the Rotbeast construct this Prime Spawn from a mix of elves and orcs? That it was 'deployed' is interesting, implies its creator's got malign intelligence as opposed to the stereotypical hunger (heh) for brains and/or springs.
It was no Tyrant, but this was the greatest disparity of Pressure he'd felt since coming to this Realm. Hunger attacked without hesitation, knowing that the only way out was through, three dozen blade-winds in the blink of an eye sent screaming towards the foe. One arm snapped forth, halberd twirling, each successive arm taking a guard position behind the last. It weathered the storm of his attacks with sullen indifference, though the one projection that got through tore a deep strip of flesh from its cheek.
Don't you just hate level-scaling? The projections that shredded the Elites just give this thing a flesh wound. At least let us savor the curbstomp song for a couple more updates before the inevitable record scratch mid-loop! Depictions of Pressure are always fun, though, helps to understand what fighting Hunger must feel like. That raw will dominating the battlefield, the sort of thing that's represented by a monochrome filter and the screen shaking in a shōnen anime.
No visibility on the ground, and the earth was unsteady. Too difficult to change directions in midair. He parried the thrown halberd that was the thing's counterattack, jolt of the impact sending cruel shivers down his arm, hurling him backwards. All of a sudden the monster blurred, closing distance with furious speed, and scarce had his arm recovered that he was forced to parry fourfold whirling strikes, the creature having casually recovered the copy thrown as it charged.
This was unsustainable. His stance would break or his bones would. He tumbled to the side, attempting to get within the monster's reach, taking a searing cut to the sternum as he moved. His blood sense gave him a good idea of its future movements, but its overwhelming Pressure prevented much direct influence. He whipsawed his blade as he rolled, firing sword-projections towards the creature's wrists, buying him an instant to move freely.
Tentatively ascribing the bad matchup to Rank and this thing having four times the number of arms, blade-winds can only compensate for so much versus General Grievous: Rotspawn Edition. It's physically and spiritually overwhelming: taller, faster, higher-Ranked. I'd been wondering about exsanguination, it's not bloodless but apparently the Defensive Rank's too strong. Where does this thing fall on the Letrizia scale, anyway? This exchange of blows is a strong argument for Prime.
Sprinting away, he cleared distance, Evening Sky shuddering behind him as it partially absorbed the impact of a thrown halberd, casting him to the ground. Even as he fell he conjured more blade-winds, intent on pressuring it, furiously burning his well of energy to keep it at bay.
Some vacation this was. In a way this situation mirrored his fears of the Inner Temple: fodder he could basically ignore, commanded by a guardian that was well above him.
If only he had two arms, blocking would be so much easier. A melee exchange would be more feasible, and in the chaos perhaps he could find an angle, take out its eyes and search for its core...
A lot of things would be useful in this situation. Not just two arms, but the Hero-Defeating Stance. I did note the golden eyes; if Elites have a jeweled core is the Prime Spawn animated by a larger structure within? Presumably this is the resource limiting the Rotbeast's creation of its stronger troops and the fodder don't merit an investment. I bet we'd find a motherlode of the stuff if we cracked open its mountainous hide. Gold's aesthetically strange for the undead, it might be worth taking a sample, something for Gisena to poke at? On the other hand, it could be unsafe if it's also a remote control mechanism.
He knew what he had to do. Cut through, even if it could not be cut. But what did that mean here? Scheming and tricks weren't useful against an inhuman enemy, and unlikely to work given its greater Rank. A single, fulsome attack guided by absolute purity of technique, paring away all that was inessential, mind and blade become void, the path of its stroke an inevitability?
That was Vanreir's art, which he'd tried and failed to imitate. At last he could fire no more blade-winds. Exhausted, he fell to a knee, supporting himself with the Forebear's Blade. It would not take long for this supreme Rotspawn to clear away his swarm of projections, and then it would come for their originator. He could not outrun it for long.
Hey, at least Hunger considers retreating? He discards the notion in the same thought, but that's proof the tactical blinders aren't locked in place. Even now he's treating this like a learning experience.
The Forebear's Blade had endured untold eons of conflict in its master's hand. Was there some shadow, some imprint of those battles upon its spiritual essence, as there had been for Verschlengorge? He was the Blade and the Blade was him, but even he was not aware of every psychic shadow that swam beneath the waters of his conscious spirit. Desperate as it was, and uncertain, still he had to try. What would the Forebear do?
A question the thread's asked many a time! Hunger hasn't gone to the same lengths to become one with the Blade that he has with the Ring. All parts of Hunger's panoply are essentially his organs, but taking the Ring's name is a spiritual marriage of sorts. If he'd named himself for the Blade, would Hunger have had more success in imitating Vanreir, subsuming his entire being into a single strike? Who knows.
Was there some secret? Some trick of the blade? Some hidden technique? Some forbidden art? What did the Forebear draw on, when the hour was dire and death approached like the fall of night?
Ultimately, there are no tricks here. All well and good to look outward for strength, to steal the innovations of others, but more important than the skill with which one wields a sword is the will behind the blade.
He remembered, for a moment, the cruelest hour of his life, his victory over the Tyrant.
Catherine with hair of gold had thrown herself before the Tyrant's blade. He remembered the cornflower blue of her eyes, bright with unshed tears, her smile of forgiveness and absolute conviction, spill of her hair like a saintess' halo. He remembered his body moving automatically, exploiting the rare opening the Tyrant had presented him, culmination of ten thousand drills and desperate fighting retreats.
"Win." She'd whispered as he passed her by, her final words on this earth. "Win. That's all that matters."
He remembered the final upward stroke of the Blade as it shattered against the Tyrant's flesh, shards like shrapnel rounds tumbling out and through, the excruciating fire as his soul splintered alongside his weapon. He remembered the final gasping moments as the Tyrant expired at last, body reduced to a slurry of blood and ruin, shell of his murderer standing wide-eyed and broken above him.
He would never discard that memory. He would never cut it away in the pursuit of mere strength. That memory was his strength. It was the reason he'd chosen vengeance when the Accursed had offered happiness instead.
I've been waiting for this memory, and its arrival didn't disappoint. You can feel the surreal intensity of hindsight, how it's a moment that's been scraped raw by recollection, lending it mythic importance in Hunger's mind.
Her death, the proverbial one strike that tells, the Tyrant's grisly demise. If everything that he is was fed to the fire, he'd clutch this to his breast until the very end.
So, now we know the name. Catherine, meaning pure. It's also the name of a martyred saint, which is... appropriate, to say the least. I'm increasingly torn about passing up Ceathlynn in hindsight. Was there a connection there? There have been so many similarities in the magic and ontological parameters that maybe I'm seeing parallels where none exist. You said we'd regret not taking her when we had the chance, was that referring to more than just the power of the Unerring Blade? On the other hand, if I'm jumping at shadows, having someone whose nickname matches our dead wife would've tapdanced on traumatic memories. In that sense it's a bullet dodged.
Catherine's only had six words of dialogue, but exhorting him to victory in her last moments, imploring him to make the sacrifice worth it? I like her already, and not just because of the argumentative ammunition she just handed me! She knows what matters. Catherine's final words also retroactively paint Hunger's decisions in a different light, might be time for another reread.
Vanreir's path would never be his own. The Forebear's Blade demanded something else. Something heavier. Something crueler. He recalled - the heft, the mountainous solidity of the Blade in hand, the terrible crushing momentum of its falling stroke, the sharp bitter bite of its edge like ice against marrow -
Grief. Fury. Regret. And the indestructible resolve created thereby. That was its well, the tenor if its strength, wrapped heavy around the limbs like a funeral shroud, such weight and horror that it felt as though he were sinking into the world, sinking down beneath it, tearing through the meager filaments of its foundation to the impossible blue beneath -
Cut. The Cut of the Forebear was not a thing of separation. Its purpose was not so shallow and feeble a task as the mere division of one object from another.
The Forebear used his cut to murder his enemies. That was its purpose. The avalanche force of his Blade bearing down, the pure inevitability of its falling arc - this was not a thing of beauty, nor grace to be admired; not a technique of prowess and certainly no way of life. It was merely, and nothing less than, a thing that took lives.
I can feel the KSBD references bubbling up inside. Vanreir's technique was elegant, poetry in motion, a martial marriage of man and weapon. It was as beautiful as it was deadly... and it failed, as beautiful things often do. I won't go as far as to say that nothing good can stay, but in this dog-eat-dog cosmos raw determination will serve you well. Fury directed at the Titans that built a cruel world as their playground, or hatred of the Fates that presided over the cycle of Ages. That's the sort of fuel that'll carry you forward for eons.
There was no treachery here, merely Age, merely the hammered-down experience of a billion brutal eons made a single blade of steel and hate. Failure to imitate was only an excuse. Lack of arms was only an excuse. Enemy Pressure was only an excuse. The Forebear had no patience for excuses. Neither did his Blade.
Speaking of time, I'm increasingly doubtful of the claim that the Forebear died peacefully at an advanced age. After a billion brutal eons, how could time lay him low? He doesn't seem like the kind to give up, either. Rather the opposite! There are so many unanswered questions about the nature of both the Blade and Ring. Thankfully the Evening Sky's just vanilla extradimensional fuckery, a loyal symbiote doing its best to keep us alive. The only mystery's the identity of its first bearer, now thoroughly eclipsed.
Murder, even if it cannot be murdered. That was the essence of his Cut.
'Immortal' just means an Exalt hasn't put serious effort into killing it yet!
Slowly he advanced, a juggernaut building momentum, Blade aloft and pointed at his enemy. The muck beneath sucked and pulled at him, threatening to drive him under, but sheer inertia kept him in-line as the foe stupidly lunged to meet him. Down came the halberds, but he did not bother blocking. They transfixed him, skewering him four ways, but could not stop him, could barely slow his advance as he tore through, himself impaling, torso falling away, streaming contrails of blood as he finally entered range.
Ouch, the Forebear's tactics are calibrated for someone a lot more durable than Hunger is. Our build's not exactly a glass cannon, but you can see where abilities like Dreadnought and Iron Curtain would come into play. Instead of an indefatigable, unstoppable advance, we have... total disregard for bodily harm. Which works, but we just ditched Chill of the Grave and I'm not eager to get reacquainted.
He struck at last, calling to mind all the wretched moments of his long insurgency war, hate and sorrow weighing him down, giving him heft, heft become force, force become might, and the might of his cut split reality at the seams, smashed through the eye-wall of his enemy's Pressure and into its guts and back and through and beyond and further beyond.
Despite going even further beyond the phrase is conspicuously absent. Just as well, this isn't the end of the road, merely the beginning of a journey into unfathomable power. Imitating the Forebear requiring bitter resolve makes me more curious than ever about Once and Future. Who was he, what motivated him? Why such hatred of pretense, cleaving to Age alone rather than the treachery that traditionally accompanies it?
He twisted the Blade, an upwards diagonal cut, separating its head and right shoulder from the mass of its body. A downward strike of the pommel, and that body became a morass of flesh and shattered bone. At last his Ring could keep him alive no longer.
Going for a headshot against a zombie's always a safe bet.
The wake of his blade was a cold fathomless blue, like the eyes of the Armament that day at the lake.
Praehihr, it'd called him. Accursed Implement. His wraith form stepped free of his corpse, staring at what he had wrought, the blue fading slowly from the plane of this world, leaving scars of mere reality in its wake.
This is literally
deep lore, revealed by cutting through the Lower World and exposing whatever lies beneath. As we explore the Sword Praxis, perhaps more information about this will be revealed, but for now the blue screen of confusion's all we've got.
Sparing nothing, he'd charged into his enemy's attack, charged until he could cut through. Perhaps Vanreir had taught him something after all.
Hunger smiled. This was turning out to be a great vacation.
The full-body Thrust was totally unexpected but neat. Thank the Accursed we didn't fight Vanreir at full power. Thanks are also owed to the nameless fellow R-type who died in the battle, whose deal we'll never discover. Anyway, the total 180 of opinion in the wake of quadruple impalement is a bit jarring. But hey, Hunger did just have a major breakthrough, even if the philosophy of the Forebear's reminiscent of Ichigo's boneheadedness back in Bleach Quest.
It's a bird, it's a plane... no, wait, it's 2470 more words of Arete! Cranked this out to get it in under the wire, the index should be complete once again.
