necariin
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Chapter 388
🕑 Added 2022-02-12 17:58:09 +0000 UTCEnjoy!
* * *
Chthonic Tribute!
A storm of Essence and Mana thundered into him as he ran, massive Blade of the Fang slick with molten sands and granular ichor. The blade of the weapon glowed brilliantly with an acid-green virulence, which proved immensely useful in mowing down dozens of the Wraiths at a time. He had killed almost a hundred by that point, butchering at least one with every swing and ensuring their death with liberal uses of his Tribute.
Yet more kept coming.
His Skill levels were stacking up, streaming past his face in bursts. His lesser used Skills got a chance to shine, certainly, all channeled along the length of his Blade.
Wild Threnody is level 74!
Corrosive Strike is level 70!
Arrow of Perdition is level 46!
Green Shaping is level 34!
Rime Shaping is level 37!
Each Skill transformed his weapon as he summoned it through his Wild Threnody, which allowed Mana to imbue his strikes. Rime Shaping expanded the already huge Blade to twice its width, forming a massive cutting edge of ice that sundered a number of Wraiths. Green Shaping was harder to utilize, only making the Blade glow green-gold; once it made contact with the enemy, however, woody growths sprouted from their wounds. This not only slowed them, but sometimes ended up binding a few in a tangled nest of vines. Arrow of Perdition, of all of them, had been relatively useless. While the golden-azure energy shined and burned the Wraiths, it didn't affect them like it would a normal opponent.
"They do not contain a core, Felix! That Skill is useless against them!" Karys had buzzed at him.
He soon dropped it in favor of his old standby. Corrosive Strike had fallen by the wayside when he earned himself Wrack and Ruin, now Rain of Cataclysm. Now, however, his Rain had proven too unfocused. Adding the sizzle of acid to his six foot long sword meant it cut through them in a much more direct way.
And down there, on the ground, he could rip their Essence out with ease.
"Fee...lix!"
"Find..!"
"Bring!"
They're not stopping, he thought while ducking below another iron-clawed swipe. His own transformed hand tore upward, frost glittering off the tips of his talons and sending a spike of ice up through the Wraith's braincase. They're streaming out of the tunnels like a river of bone plates and iron teeth. Where are they all coming from? How many of these things does the Primordial have?
He'd absorbed over a hundred of them already, until his core space swam with diluted pieces of Primordial. Felix had hoped that by consuming so many he would be able to salvage a Memory or even a Skill or two. It was all scraps, however, too shredded and malformed for it to carry anything more than the physical potency of their Bodies. Whatever constituted their Minds and Spirits, or of the Primordial itself, was too mulched to result in anything more than a swelling sense of satiation.
Adamant Discord!
A blast of omni-directional force swept from Felix. He drew on the connections he had to each and every one of the Wraiths, one of shared curse and blood, stronger than most links he made use of; it blasted a full thirty of them in half. Before they could heal, he sent his voice ringing into the air.
"Pit! Lay it down!"
His Companion shrieked and the area around Felix was suddenly bombarded by eight foot tall icicles over two feet thick. The undead annoyances shrieked and skittered backward, only a few slow enough to become impaled. Either way, it let Felix disengage from them with relative ease.
Let's get back to the caravan! he sent to his friend. This fight is pointless, and I'm worried about what they may have run into!
Pit sent back a soaring affirmation before he sped off along the ceiling. Felix flared his Agility and Strength and kicked off. The stone roadway shattered and burst, flinging razor edged debris behind him and into the undead horde.
In seconds, he had left them in the dust.
"Karys! You still there?" he shouted as he ran.
"I am."
"You said the undead didn't have a core. Explain, please."
Karys hummed to himself, the sound transmitting as the droning of a soccer ball sized bumble bee. "They do not need one. They are controlled creatures. Puppets, unable to move without the Will of another. Necromantic Mana invigorates their flesh and bones, strengthens them, but it does not return life to them. No Skill, no matter the rarity, can resurrect the dead."
"Puppets," Felix said, stretching out the word in thought. "And their connection to the Primordial is—"
"Very strong. A normal necromancer would have a limit on the range of their control. This Primordial...I cannot get a sense of its limits. Perhaps it does not have them, at least not in the same fashion as you or I."
"A Primordial without limits, how new and exciting," Felix joked. His steps broke the road beneath him, but Felix fought back the wince with each footfall. No on used the Latticeways regardless.
"Find out if it is a Lesser or Greater Primordial, Felix. I...I cannot recall what that should tell us, but there is something there," Karys said. "Be careful."
The Wraiths appeared to be gaining on him again, and Felix flared his Agility once more. Within his core space, he fed the glut of Primordial Essence into the dark abyss. The pressure of it all vanished. "I'm...unf...I'm always careful."
* * *
Kuyyt Ma'ar, neophyte of the Temple of the All Burning Flame, did his best to scrub the Cathedral's floors. His thin arms quivered beneath the strain of his fourth hour toiling atop the white marble tiles and gemstone inclusions. His skin was cracked with repeated exposure to the harsh soaps and scalding waters, split but not bleeding. Never that. If he bled, it would get in the cleansing solution and that...that would be bad.
Kuyyt shuddered. He couldn't help it. Holy Flame, please forgive me. I shall not spill my blood upon the Walk.
The Walk of Scintillating Facets had existed since time immemorial. Since the founding of the City, according to the Matrons. It was maintained by the neophytes of the Temple, and contained the Altars of Ancients. He didn't know what the Altars did, or who the Ancients were, as that was not information given to neophytes of the Temple. His role was to cleanse.
So when one of the Altars began glimmering with swirling, sparking vapor, Kuyyt was frozen with sudden fear. Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees and prostrated himself before the Altar, as the vapors of power washed over him. The billowing light tingled against his skin, drawing a pleasantly surprised gasp from his chest. A note, proud and pure, shook through the air like the tolling of a tiny yet profoundly resonant bell. It...rippled his soul.
And then the voices came.
“What in Yyero’s blighted backside is this?”
“It’s a message array, you uneducated lout! Get away! Hear me! This is Atar V’as, once apprentice of Sig'nyh Kel'lyv, Grandmaster of the Desert's Fire and sitting Council member! We are under siege! We require you to open this gate immediately! Hello? Hello!”
The neophyte stood on slow, shaky legs. His skin still tingled with the light that caressed him, and his mind was awash with mad voices. This was the work of gods, he was certain. Of She Who Burns. Yet…it spoke of one of the Masters. Trembling, he stepped toward the Altar, screened away like all the others by an intricately carved wall of stone.
Atop an ornate marble plinth shaped as a rising wave of...sand? The shape confused Kuyyt, but he quickly disregarded it, for atop the plinth was a green crystal. The crystal was the size and general shape of his head and polished until it was utterly smooth. From within it the vaporous light emanated, flaring now with purple lights, interspersed with intense golden shimmers. The lights intensified as Kuyyt drew close, causing him to squeak in terror. But when he opened his eyes, the lights had congealed into an illusory image of a bloody and tousled young man. Their eyes met, and the bloody man smiled.
“Ah! The priesthood! Please send someone down to open this door! Notify the Council! By She Who Burns, I swear we are without guile in this!”
The man’s image briefly glowed with a brilliant yellow flame. A testament to his word.
Kuyyt gasped and stumbled away, body clipping the carved wall and skidding across the slick marble tiles. He did not care. The Matrons must know!
* * *
“Hello? Where did you go?” Atar shouted into the door. The Mana construct that had formed from the door's frame fizzled and popped, vanishing entirely. "Damn it!"
“You scared him off.”
“Shut up, Evie," Atar said off-handedly. He'd spent entirely too long frantically searching the door for some way to operate it. The sigaldry was all but impenetrable, however, so dense with restrictive layers that he would need to break them all to get at the opening mechanisms. And if he could do that, he wouldn't need to open the damn thing. "The door won't open. Not from out here. We need someone in the City to open it."
Evie paused after drinking another Stamina Potion. "I thought you said know one knew about these roads?"
"The common folk do not," Atar corrected. He ran his hands through his hair, for once not caring that it made him look a madman. "I am hoping that those on the Council do, however. And that the neophyte we just spoke to isn't as idiotic as he appeared."
The battle was not going well. Zara had fallen back behind their shields before taking them over entirely. Alister had passed out, too strained by the effort of holding that working together. Darius, at least, had woken from his healing slumber and pitched in—his spinning air attacks scythed through the undead without mercy. Vess was out there, as was Harn. The rest of the Claw contributed too, all of the squads pouring their Skills and Stamina and Mana into the horde, hoping to see the end of the night. Hoping that Atar would save them.
And he'd failed.
Panic clutched at his chest, but Atar shoved it down. He had long since resolved to break down later, when there was time. His elevated Willpower was a boon—if a temporary one—in suppressing his emotions and unhelpful worries. Long ago his Master had told him of such benefits, but Atar had not appreciated their true applications. Now he understood, though he almost wished he did not—it would mean they weren't in terrifying mortal danger.
The shield that Zara had created was buckling. Everyone knew it, most of all Zara. She had...expended herself, somehow, fighting the Wraiths. His heart raced at the thought, and his core churned as a cold sweat manifested across the nape of his neck. For all the vaunted power of the Chant, the unflinching endurance of the Primordial Spawn had exhausted it. His Willpower felt as if it creaked with the force of his emotions.
"She's got the curse," Evie said with a sour grimace. "Where is Felix?"
"I don't know!" he snapped. His control slipped and a bundle of lit coals tumbled into his gut. "I don't know! And I don't know how we'll survive, Evie! I don't!" He spun back to the impenetrable door and slammed it with his fists. "Blood and burning ashes! OPEN UP!"
All at once, the sigaldry flashed with green, gold, and deepest blue light. The massive door shuddered, and a section perhaps twenty feet tall and twice that wide...opened at the base.
"Are you kidding me?" Atar whispered. His Mind felt suspended in mud. "I just...had to ask it?"
The opening door blazed with a brilliant, fiery light, and no less than thirty figures in orange robes trimmed in gold. Armor was placed atop the robes, each piece seemingly also made from gold, and they bore staves and blades that raged like tiny infernos. A young woman was in the lead, a Faun with tiny horns atop her head and white tattoos across her brow and cheeks. She stepped forward.
"Who dares step upon the Ancients' Causeway?" she intoned.
Atar and Evie shielded their eyes against the sudden blaze of light, and the mage spoke up. "We did. A special delegation from the north! Help! We are under attack!"
"Who is 'we?'" the Faun asked. "The Causeway is not for the—AAH!" Her eyes widened in alarm, and the weapons of all her associated rose in answer. Atar heard a tremulous note alternating between basso and tinny from them all. "You have brought an army to our gates!"
"No we didn't, you fire-blinded matchsticks!" Evie shouted right back. "We're runnin' from one!"
Only then did the fires among them die enough that the massive barrier was clear...and what lay beyond it.
"Burning ashes," one of them said, and the tremulous note was back. Atar recognized it this time as fear.
"What have you done?" the Faun demanded. "You've led the Cursewinds to our gates? How?"
"Shut up and let us in!" Evie demanded.
"Answer the Disciple!" another said, leveling their burning staff at the chain warrior. Evie didn't even flinch. "You—"
"I am the former apprentice of Sig'nyh Kel'lyv, Grandmaster of the Desert's Fire! I am Atar V'as, citizen of this City and I demand entry!"
The Temple Guards—for they could be nothing else—went still. The Faun peered at him with wider eyes than usual, as if peeling back the blood and sweat that coated his face. "Atar?"
Atar blinked as well, realizing he knew the woman. "Fiammetta? Thank the Flame, you must let us in."
"I—" She hesitated, the nodded firmly. "Bear witness: I stake my Oath upon this man. We will bring them within."
The others all nodded in unison. "Witnessed and accepted."
The Faun's serious mien broke into a wide, if frightened grin. "Let's save your people, V'as."
Atar felt his chest unclench, and an answering grin spread across his face. Which was when, of course, the shield behind them imploded.
The undead surged, slamming into their frontline fighters.
"Get everyone out!" Evie said before leaping up and hurling her chain into the air. Some trick of her Born Trait sent her flying after the weighty thing, straight for the thickest of the battle.
"Go go! Now!" Atar screamed to his people. "Everyone! Into the gate!"
Those nearest him were already running, having watched the interaction go on, but now others turned from the horrifying carnage. Eyes brightened as they ran through the gate, the Temple Guards letting everyone pass with stoic gazes. Atar hefted Alister onto his shoulder, but soon realized a second pair of hands was helping him. Fiametta nodded and the two of them carried the force mage into the gate, before setting him down to the side.
"Ensure no one harms him!" Atar demanded of one of the Temple Guards, who only raised an eyebrow at him before nodding. Atar tore back into the tunnel, the Faun on his heels.
"What are you doing, Atar? You're a mage, not a warrior!" she shouted after him. "Get into the gate!"
"They need more time!" Atar said, and conjured three Stars between his hands. "Get everyone out, please!"
He took off, into the crowd.
* * *
He's gone mad, Fiammetta thought. That fire has burned his last sense clean out.
The Causeway was in turmoil. The men and women raced past her and into the gate—which was thankfully big enough for all of them and more besides—their appearance startling her more than anything else. Half-elves, Hobgoblins, Dwarves, Orcs, Gnomes, burning Henaari and Frost Giants of all things. All together.
How? What is this assemblage? Why?
The Faun's Mind raced, positing theories while she ensured that the wagons that rolled up were brought safely within the gateway. She could come to no satisfying conclusions, however, before the flow of people dwindled and all that she could see was a sea of ruinous undead.
Vile cursed ones, she thought. How could they come so close? Are the Causeways no longer warded? And...and how...
Words failed her as no more than six people held back the raging flood of monstrosities. A woman with sea-green hair wove strange, watery constructs that tore apart the enemy while beside her a bandaged man wielded a blade made entirely of white-green light. Some distance from them was a woman that danced among the undead, silver spears floating and thrusting in a wild, incomprehensible rhythm. That chain wielder was nearby, herself a graceful force of violence. A whirling dervish that send the undead falling backward, most severed in half by her spinning chain. A man in full armor wielded axes that sent slashes of silver fire careening through the enemy, a tireless engine of destruction.
And Atar...he burned.
White-hot shapes surrounded him, four-pointed conjurations of heat and flame, and they spun in a complicated dance. Any undead who so much as approached was cut apart or set aflame. Often both.
And still—still—the undead pushed them back. Sheer numbers could not be overwhelmed, and if her Analyze was not failing her, Fiammetta noted many dozens among the hundreds that were evolved versions of the common Dustwight. She licked her lips, judging the battle, but no calculation she made ensured that she could save these five and prevent the undead from entering the gate.
Atar...you brave, stupid man. You still haven't seen how much higher I've risen than you. Dying now...
She had no choice. Fiammetta turned and ran back to the gate. "Morren! Close the—!"
An explosion swallowed the sounds she made, so vast was its roar. Fiammetta skidded across the stone ramp, her armored robes striking sparks from the ground that were likewise overwhelmed by a blue-white radiance. A heat rose in her breast, one that shimmered into two System notifications.
Status Condition: Stunned!
Slowed Cognition For 10 Seconds!
Status Condition: Rallying Cry!
Double Regeneration For All Allies In Range for 45 Seconds, Reduce Chance Of Frightened Status By 50%
What—what is this?
Her head spun. She couldn't figure out how to stand, until two sets of arms scooped her up. A man in full armor, the one with the axes, held her up. The woman with the spears was there too.
"Ho there, kid. Best not to linger," he grunted.
"Wha?"
The spear woman looked back, and her face flickered with that blue-white illumination. "He arrived just in time again. I have a feeling he has grown a taste for the dramatic."
"Not gonna argue with a good Rallying Cry," the armored man said. They were still dragging Fiammetta toward the gate. She valiantly marshaled her Willpower and planted her feet. "Hm? Kid, I don't recommend stayin' here. Felix is good, but he can't hold all of 'em."
Fiammetta shook her head and the clinging tendrils of her Stunned condition, and turned.
She gasped.
A figure stood behind them on the Causeway, a massive sword in his grip and lightning—lightning!—playing about his body in brilliant arcs. The undead were burning and dying in droves, their withered bodies bursting apart whenever that strange energy touched them, and not even the evolved versions could draw close enough to harm him.
One man held back a horde of nearly a thousand undead.
Who are these people?
Comments
Silver Beard
The real question with all these skill ups... how close is he to tempering his body?
VoidAutarch
1 vs 1000!! CANT WAIT FOR MORE!!!!!!
Tim Johnson
know one to no one*
DCRangeRange
Wow, what a ride
DCRangeRange
Thanks for the chapter
Seijax
Atar talks through the Altar
Tom Roettger
This chapter was a rollercoaster that ended in a cliff...noooo...neeed...more...feeelix...
Batelthda
Thanks for the chapter! [:D] I look forward to more of Felix!
Firinen
Judt with sword instead of hammer
Azgaroth
Thank for the chapter. I am sure they will have some problem either with the Council or the Urge, just from the few interaction at the end..... But i am sure just a reveal of Felix race and Title, and they will shut up...
Leaored
is it just me or does this scene looks like the one in Thor: Ragnarok with the Immigrant song in the background?
