I could almost laugh. It’s like my life has come full circle, only now, I don’t have anyone to rely on, I just have others relying on me. The last time I was the target of an assault of dozens of poisoned spears by bully frogfolk croaking, “Bully, bully,” I had first began learning how to help Lil tether up their evolutionary line to their Lilagnewt form. What I wouldn’t give for a fraction of my Can’Z’aasian power to be instantly on demand.
Instead, I snag several spears out of the air as a cluster, with my telekinesis, and I rotate them perpendicular to the ground, so that I can swipe them hard from side to side, knocking other spears off-kilter. While I’m focusing on that, I try to gently ease it into a mental subroutine, and thankfully I don’t have a brain embolism or anything by doing so. I may have destroyed a significant portion of my multitasking center of my brain, or at least the segment that can maintain simultaneous spells, but at least I can still multitask to some degree. When the telekinesis is working nearly on autopilot, I begin carefully blocking spears that make it past my makeshift rotating barrier, using the Valkyrie buckler on my left arm, while I begin taking shots at the nearly-hidden creatures lurking at the edges of my sensory range.
Having my eyesight would be really useful right about now. My aura vision doesn’t reveal their locations, sadly. Either they have no auras, or their auras are so muted that it blends in with the natural energy of the landscape. Everything else is just awash with gray. Whatever. My armor is fairly sturdy, my shield and cover are sturdy and provide plenty of protection, and they’ll tire themselves out or have to get in range to pick up their spears to keep attacking me, eventually. I’m not going to risk anything stupid like empowering a lightning rune and shocking the crap out of myself to supercharge a lightning leap. I don’t need to spend any more time unwillingly unconscious, risking yet further injuries and problems with my body and nervous system.
I’ve created a lot of problems for myself since the last few months of my life on Can’Z’aas. I went overboard with mana on Lord Deckard Agni’s back, which was the beginnings of my mana residue sickness, and that messed with my head so badly, that I went into one of my worst depressive funks upon returning to my family. I—. I have to end this line of thought.
I shout a challenge, a single question, one to which I already know the answer, “Why!?”
The response, as if cosmically comically mirroring something from early in my life on Can’z’aas, is, “Croaaweeeaak arreoooaaaak Bully, bully, bullies.”
Sighing, I roll my eyes behind closed lids. Every time. Some people seem to relish the violence, desire it, thrive in it. Some are driven by it, or because of it. I just want it to end. I’m sick of violence, but I almost would rather choose this life of violence, than the one in my memories of Fakeworld. On Fakeworld, there’s corruption, people starving, authorities and people in places of power creating a world that benefited corporations, rather than people. There’s thousands of underprivileged, under-represented, marginalized groups and communities, that have their rights trod upon, and stamped out by those in charge that try to pander to a lowest common denominator voting base. There’s—. This is a really incredibly unproductive line of thought. I honestly can’t tell which is more depressing any longer. Worlds of violence, where I at least have a chance to make things right, get justice for, and protect the weak and innocent, or a world of subtlety and lies, and trickery used to get people to follow leaders that actively strip them of their rights.
Hey Reggie. Yeah? Could you imagine it? Imagine what? Going there? And doing what? Righting the wrongs, violently, protecting the innocent, marginalized groups, violently, supporting social progress, violently. I—. My fractured psyche at work again. I heave a sigh. Of course I could imagine it. I’m the one posing the question, to myself. Could you imagine it though? Me, in Fakeworld? What a disaster that would be. I’d probably have to swear myself to some sort of hands-off approach. Try to integrate into society, and lay low. What would I even do there? I guess I’d have to find an affordable place to live, food, a source of income, like work, maybe something that could be done in bursts, maybe something that leverages my abilities, like prize-fighting or something. That way, I could devote the rest of my time to trying to find a way home.
Pft, snrk. I snort as I laugh, accidentally inhaling rainwater, which, thankfully, the neckchain of the ever-breathing prevents from choking me. As I continue to block spears on my shield, and take pot-shots at shapes in the mist with my crossbow, I can’t help laughing at the absurdity of it all. It helps distract my mind from the hurts, the losses. Everything is so stupid, and effed up. No matter where you go, there’s always something wrong. In the Heart of the Wilds? There’s some sort of conspiracy within the courts, that has the neutral party outside of the courts worried. That conspiracy led to muggings that may have also been assassination attempts. I don’t even need to mention what happened in The Brook. Fakeworld is so screwed up, Can’z’aas is undergoing an apocalyptic event. My mindscape is cracked and torn.
There is no peace, no solace for Reggie Shellcracker anywhere in the universe, is there? Wait. Solace. The Mountains of Solace and Solitude, the realm Drakkheim, at the Spine of the World. The endless torrent of the Medusa falls, that cascade endlessly, despite whatever bitter chill might dominate a given season. Somehow—. Somehow I know, I can find serenity there, in some way, for a time. Is that were Lil is? Where Luni is? Where Lucky is? My breathing quickens, almost in excitement. A direction, a plan. I can almost make myself believe it. A direction, a plan. I gulp, swallowing sticky saliva, before my lips quirk into a wry grin.
The spears have stopped coming, and a few foolish bully frogfolk are venturing into my sensory range. I’ll let them get closer, get as many within range as possible, as they attempt to sneak in, grab their spears, and lunge at me. I’m almost—. I’m almost happy. I can feel wrath simmering beneath the surface of me, across my entirety of my being, and yet—. Yet I don’t have to fight, or resist it. It stays of its own volition. It knows I’ll act, that I’ll handle this. It knows I’m driven, that I once again have hope. Something planted a destination in my brain, somehow, some vague memory of Rayileklia’s geography sprung into my recollection, and my subconscious snagged on it, lunging at a tidbit of knowledge like a starving animal, convinced by some genre sense.
Drawing a deep breath, I exhale a slow, smooth sigh, almost a whistle. Now! I drop the orichalcum, and whirl, with my left arm raised, firing a torrent of holy halefire bolts from my double-barreled crossbow, at eye-level for the bully frogfolk. Several lunge at me, either missed by my bolts, in my hasty spin, or protected by bodies of their allies who fell before them. Willing my muscles to cooperate, I flood my cored out nerve pathways with electricity, and leap into a spinning backflip over the nearest bully frogfolk to keep from being surrounded, swarmed. Utilizing telekinesis, I aid my leap, basically granting me a solid segment of air to handspring off of. I land shakily, jitteringly as a jolt rocks me to one side, but I find my footing, despite the slick of the muck beneath my feet. In a matter of moments, I’ve unleashed a torrent of icy rays, and holy halefire crossbow bolts. I snag a cluster of spears with telekinesis, and set them rotating around me, parallel to the ground in an expanding spiral wiping out the rest of the frogfolk contingent with ease.
I pant for only an instant. The entire fight lasted a mere few minutes, and the lantern on the carriage far behind me is still faintly visible, not signaling, nor even slowing down. It didn’t so much as flicker during the fight, and I haven’t yet signaled them to stop. I don’t need to either. The swampy path is littered with the remains of the fallen bully frogfolk, their once menacing forms now reduced to lifeless corpses. The air is now thick with what I’m sure would be the pungent scent of mud and decay, mingled with the acrid tang of blood. The dark, murky waters of the swamp likely cast a reflection of the grim scene like a distorted mirror, similar to a stop motion horror film, in the brief flashes of light from the lightning overhead.
The bodies of the bully frogfolk are sprawled haphazardly, their tattered hide armor is muddied and stained with gore. The once hostile creatures now lay defeated, their aggressive postures frozen in death. I almost pity them, almost. I can sense their bulbous eyes, which must now stare blankly into the murky horizon, devoid of life. The scene is a poignant reminder of the fleeting nature of existence, and the inevitable consequences of conflict. It’s something I so dearly wish to avoid, yet I find myself thrown headlong into, again and again and again.
I busy myself rolling the corpses off of the narrow path, making way for the carriage. I forget whose turn it is, but whoever is driving is fearless, to have kept advancing while I was obviously causing explosions, fireballs, and even a firewall. I want—, no, *have* to believe that the bully frogfolk are the spirits of the swamp, and that a mass of them dying suddenly will cause others to think twice about jumping the refugees to cause further problems. Perhaps I’m wrong, and there are other dangers yet lurking out there, beyond the hydra, or hydras, but I need the comfort of believing that I’ve done my duty for the day, and that the refugees are safe for at least a while longer yet.
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I let myself tune out for a while, enacting the necessary preparations to make the path passable while on auto pilot. I find myself chucking several corpses far into the murk with telekinesis, while physically rolling some just barely off of the path. I’m almost tempted to enact a campaign of fear, and strap some of the corpses to the carriage, to help dissuade further attacks, but the gruesome brutality of the act is something I can’t muster giving any serious thought to. Perhaps just a few spears, dipped in their blood, will be dissuasion enough. Once more, I allow myself to tune out, simply following along with my plans, subconscious and subconscious ones both. I know I take care of my needs, eat, sleep, scout, practice runes, but I don’t think I run into any further trouble.
I blink in surprise. I’m not certain how long it has been, but the isthmus is ahead, surrounded on all sides by a wrought-iron, or cold-iron fence that must be thirty feet high. Even the massive stone pillars that support the fence, are themselves surrounded by more of the tall bars that stand like spears held at attention. The construction itself is foreboding, like some sort of sentinel, guarding a forbidden realm. I’m beginning to believe the Altross estate might be a safe haven for travelers, with such a massive edifice constructed around it, offering protection.
Approaching the formidable barrier causes me to balk, and double over in pain. My head swims with agony, as my intestines tie themselves in cramped knots. What—. What’s going… on? My thoughts race about my brain in a jumble. Cold-iron. Fae. Spirits of the swamp at bay. I—. Minutes pass in agony. I think I see a figure at the gate, but I can hardly parse any of my senses beyond pain. I drop to my knees, and it’s only my jerking, jolting movements that throw me occasionally side to side, or front to back, that frees me from the grip of pain. I’m tossed backwards by my own malfunctioning nervous system, and I laugh nervously, appreciating the dumb luck of it all.
A thin, tall, elderly man, balding, with a combover, wearing overalls over a tuxedo, of all things, stands above me. It appears he had moved from the Altross estate grounds, out through the gate, while I was incapacitated. He wordlessly offers me a hand up, and I take it, grateful as I’m dragged to my feet. He starts to dust me off, but I quickly use legerdemain to cleanse myself of all muck and dust, so as to look presentable. There’s an understanding, appreciative nod from the fellow.
In the amount of time I was incapacitated, the cart has nearly caught up. The gentleman from the gate holds the gate open, and bids me enter. Warily, I approach the open construction, accepting the invitation, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I’m not beset upon by another wave of insurmountable pain. I blink several times in surprise, as I take in the estate with my eyesight partially recovered. Has it been enough time that it has been recovering without my notice while I was on autopilot, or was it the massive jolt of pain that shook loose something in my cranium? Regardless, I’m grateful for even partial recovery of any of my faculties.
The fellow with the combover directs me towards the foyer, and I notice a feminine figure standing beyond the window. She stands still as a statue, gazing out upon me, the gate, and eventually beyond it, to the procession of refugees that will slowly become visible over time, as they continue their journey northward. Following the invitation, and direction, I make my way towards the entrance of the grand estate, and to its foyer from within.
The elderly noblewoman stands regally, her bearing graceful and dignified despite the passage of time. She bears the delicate lines of age upon her face, each telling a story of a life well-lived. Her eyes, though now framed by fine lines and crinkles, still retain their sharpness and intelligence, gleaming with a wisdom that only comes with a lifetime of experiences. Though she stares unblinkingly out the window, her eyes hold the barest twinkle of mischief, as if hinting at the spirited youth that once dwelt within her. Her gaze seems somehow keen and perceptive, a reflection of a sharp mind that had weathered the tests of time. It feels as if she observes far more than just the scene outside the window, as she continues to stare.
The woman’s skin, though no longer smooth and flawless, carries a softness that speaks of a life well-cared for. Despite her age, she carries herself with an air of grace and poise that almost commands respect. Her posture upright, and her unmoving nature seems almost measured and deliberate, a testament to her refined upbringing and noble lineage. She exudes an aura of elegance and sophistication, as if she was a living embodiment of the bygone era of nobility.
Her attire is tasteful and refined, befitting her station as a noblewoman. She adorned herself with rich fabrics in muted colors, each carefully chosen to complement her complexion and enhance her natural beauty. Her jewelry, though understated, speaks of her refined taste and discerning eye for elegance.
I stand in the presence of the elderly woman, and I’m struck for a moment. She doesn’t seem to even acknowledge my presence as she stares out towards the gate. Almost afraid to call attention to myself, to speak beyond my station, I ask, ramblingly, “Would you be, or be related to, um, the dame, or lady of the Altross family? Or um. Do you know a Tabitha Lynnia Altross? Or maybe a woman named Taylynn. I, I think they might be the same person. I’m not sure.”
I gnaw on my lips, worriedly as I furrow my brow. I don’t want to out Taylynn to her family, but her reputation as an independent princessora is probably less important to her than news of Aces’ and Selunie’s deaths. A minute passes with no response, so I try to interject lamely to get the woman’s attention, “Um, maam?”
Without so much as turning to me, she states, “She’s here.”
My heart catches in my throat, then hammers like a drum. Taylynn? Here? I know she loved Aces, and Selunie. Would she, like Tiago, in some small way, project some portion of her feelings for Aces on to me? No, no that’s not important. What’s important is delivering the news of their deaths, giving her the knowledge so that she’s allowed to grieve.
I plead, “Where? Taylynn’s here? I, I have messages for her, that she really needs to hear.”
The elderly woman’s gaze has continued to stare seemingly beyond me, unflinching, unblinking, as I stand at her side, near the foyer window. I’m beginning to worry that she doesn’t actually know I’m here, and that her responses have just been some sort of dementia.
In a voice with more authority, and commanding presence than I’d have expected her to possess, the woman orders me, “Show me.”
I balk as my face contorts. It’s such a non-sequitor, that I fumble my words, “Wha—? I—. That—. I was asking you if Tabitha Lynnia Altross was the adventurer known as Taylynn. I was asking you if she was here. I—.”
I sigh, feeling defeated. I’d come all this way, and Taylynn is probably not here. She might not even be alive. She might not even be Tabitha Lynnia. This elderly woman may be delusional in her age, perhaps her loss or grief. I draw a shuddering breath and sigh once more. I thought—. I just thought, maybe a friend, someone who might be able to handle themselves on at least some leg of the journey, some bit of adventure. Or at the very least, deliver the messages of the others’ deaths, so that she would know, so that she could grieve.
Granny Altross interrupts my train of thought with two words, “The ice.”
Blinking, I try to string together my thoughts and put them back in order. Thinking on it, I try to put her words in order. She’s here, show me the ice. At the very least, she’s aware of the presence of my ice-cubed Teuila. I hasten to acquiesce to her demands, hoping beyond hope that this means something, that I’m not just projecting, or leaping to incorrect conclusions. Utilizing telekinesis, I undo the bindings strapping Teuila to the roof of the carriage, while the groundskeeper seems to be having words with whomever was driving at the time. I can’t recall whose turn it was. Using telekinesis, I carefully bring the massive icy coffin through, into the manor, here, into the foyer. There’s something of a massive circular iron bowl, that looks like perhaps it could be a fire-pit, in the center of the circular room that makes up the foyer, with the large bay window, so I stand Teuila’s icy prison in that.
The elderly woman gazes over the block of ice containing Teuila’s form, with tears in her eyes. She mumbles, “Tabitha.”
I shake my head, wanting to explain that I didn’t bring a frozen Taylynn corpse with me, but I can’t find words at the moment. My emotions catch in my throat, as I imagine this being the only way I’ll ever interact with Teuila again. The fear rampages through me and I drop to my knees, weeping. I almost had hope. There was almost, almost a hope. Despite my near-overwhelming sadness, my silent sonar catches something odd.
Elder Altross mutters something, finally speaking more than a few syllables. Parsing what she says, it sounds almost like, “They said she would come to me, one last time. Needing help, one last time.”
Even as I wonder who ‘They’ are, my silent sonar continues to trace the woman’s movements. The woman, Elder Altross, opens a chamber atop one of her rings, and holds it above her face. A single droplet of liquid spills forth, and lands upon her tongue. Immediately the temperature in the room skyrockets, the center of the thermal fluctuation being in her stomach. I’d almost be worried that she has somehow became a walking bomb, but something tells me that she’s trying to help. The heat roils and bubbles as it rolls up from within her, until it’s unleashed as a long, smooth blast of flame.
I’m left blinking in shock. Is Granny Altross a dragon in disguise? Can dragon’s fire melt dragon’s ice safely? What about Paulette and the Don? We left them in the Derbrightmine Dominion, and now I regret that.