"How do those things even fly?" says Simon. He then takes a long look at Ebrietas' threadbare wings. "I retract my question."
"Some things we just weren't meant ta know. Up for a tour o' the grounds?"
"Might as well. Ebrietas?"
I think the interference is coming from somewhere in the lake. Is it okay if I go take a look?
"Knock yerse-" you begin before catching yourself. "Go ahead."
With a nod, she ambles into the air and cruises leisurely above the lake's surface. A lever sits on the opposite side of the closed gate, but the architect apparently failed to take into account your ability to climb over the chest-high wall beside said gate and pull said lever. Not entirely unsurprising.
A faint chittering fills your ears from an indeterminate distance, a rather fitting leitmotif for the college's decrepit grounds. The cracked tiles teem with grass and lichen and the blatantly Great One-shaped busts along the shoreline wall have been worn down into vaguely-phallic lumps. Of course, you can't be certain that wasn't the intention. Art majors are weird.
"Ever visit this place back in yer day?" you ask your companion.
"Never got the opportunity, unfortunately. The Church was rather insistent on Byrgenwerth being forbidden ground."
"How insistent?"
"An acolyte tried to sneak there on a dare and the Church cut his feet off."
"That's pretty insistent."
A hunched shape lurches at you from the now-open gate, aiding your discussion of corporal punishment by offering itself as an example. Neither the insectile legs sprouting from its back nor its bulbous, many-eyed head do anything to save it from a rapid and merciless shitstomping.
"So what'd they use ta chop 'em off?" you say, scraping off bits of bug-person from your boots. "We talkin' bonesaw, machete, what?"
"They went with an axe. Some of the Executioners wanted to mash his feet into paste with giant wooden wheels, but they were overruled."
"I like the cut of their jib."
You take a left and stroll through the pillars holding up the second-floor balcony; knowing the architect, it's probably not safe to spend too much time underneath it. A light, dangling from a fleshy stalk, swings into view from around the corner and manages to produce an eldritch glow for about half a second before Simon plugs it. Whatever creature it belongs to gives a gurgling hiss that swiftly peters out.
Turning the corner reveals a long, thin, faceless creature with way too many legs and a mouth like a pointy zipper. It's like someone stapled the business end of an angler fish to the front of a stick insect and shoved an entire WWE stable's worth of steroids up its ass. Probably used that light to draw in animals or particularly stupid, Protestant-like humans into its maw.
With a few kicks to ensure it's properly dead, you turn to walk inside before a series of synchronized footsteps draws your attention to the far end of the walled enclosure. The three figures you saw in your flight approach, silent in their march and trailing a wake of dismembered bug-people (beeple?). One holds a curved blade, another a shorter sword and candle, and the third a mace.
The third one's other hand is on fire. It does not appear bothered by this fact.
"I got the one who's on fire," you say to Simon. "You got candle-boy?"
"I do, indeed," he replies before nocking an arrow. You roll your shoulders and swagger towards your oncoming foes. You flash a thumbs-up at Ebrietas, who's peeled off from her search effort and is currently hovering just offshore.
You've got this.
The hooded men don't even get the chance to react to the white-robed Hunter that crashes down behind them before she ravages the swordsman's neck with a spiked whip. Simon buries a shaft in the back of candle-boy's head when he turns to look at the new challenger and you cap off the wipe with an onslaught of bayonets that takes the last of them off his feet.
Despite the massive damage, the three bodies writhe and bulge in a way that just screams "powerup." Unfortunately for them, she cuts off any chance of an epic comeback in short order. In one smooth motion, she pulls a silver lookalike of Gilbert's flamethrower from the recesses of her robes and sprays the fallen fighters with an acrid mist. They sizzle and hiss as it eats away at their robes and the flesh beneath; the ones you and Simon sniped soon go still, while the one with the fucked neck continues to writhe until she drives her boot clean through its chest.
Fuck, that's hot.
PREY SLAUGHTERED
With the assholes rather thoroughly disposed of, you size up your saviour. Her white robe, similar in style to Gale's from Upper Cathedral Ward, is stained here and there with blood and you're not certain how she sees through the odd tricorn-blindfold hybrid atop her head. What little you see of her face is smooth and unblemished, a thin mouth atop a strong jawline. Though the fight's over, she remains poised to strike, hand resting on her cane with all the murderous promise of an open bomb bay.
"A Great One carried you two to Byrgenworth," she rasps in a husky voice. "I have questions."
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