As they stepped off the final step into the dungeon, it looked quite a sight. Walls had been torn down, jail bars knocked over, and a general destruction had been wrought onto the stone brick floor. Long trenches of indentations in the stone were around, there was a stench of blood, clinging to the ground, walls, emanating from what seemed like every brick. The room was lit dimly by torch light.
Epim scrunched his nose, Prose sneezed multiple times, Bart sniffed as one would when a delicacy was nearby, and the Shade was incapable of smell so it looked around in confusion at the reactions. The weapons it had retrieved for Prose made a metallic clink as they moved through the air.
“You think this could be something dangerous too?” Epim was thinking of the invisible threat they faced earlier, and was now on edge. Looking around them in the dimly lit room.
Prose looked scrutinously, but no matter how he tried to change his perspective, or focus on his other senses, nothing came across as particularly wrong. “I think we’re fine to advance.” Looking around him, he realized while he was able to understand the size of the room, the ceiling of the thing went quite a bit higher up than he realized, so much so that the light on the ground didn’t reach it.
Bart’s eyes followed his, and his eyes pierced through the dark. “ABOVE US!” He yelled out, seeing a sight that filled him with great fear.
Above them, through the veil of the dark, yellow eyes stared down. Much like their ancestors, they sat in wait for their prey.
In an instant, the torch light goes out. The Shade’s arms grab Bart, not restricting him but dragging him close and then letting go. The Shade drops the weapons it's carrying on the ground, surrounding them. Epim pushes his back to the Shade’s, his scythe appearing in his hand and giving off what was now the only source of light in the former dungeon, though it was quite meager. While Prose made his way in front of Bart. They formed a tightly knit triangle, with Bart in the middle.
The room was silent, apart from the heavy breaths of Epim and Bart. Both out of fear, though Bart’s being out of partial exhaustion as well. “There is no magic, nor symbols here! Just the beasts!” Prose yelled, quite stressfully. “Without my sight, I can only fire wildly.”
Then the silence came back, only to be broken by a snarl. And then a laugh, and the dragging of claws above them. The yellow eyes of the beasts disappeared. Epim thought quite fearfully that the thumping would come again and they’d be trapped, despite the assurance of Prose.
It never did come, what did was a slash of claws across his right cheek. It came from his side, and quite silently at that. He saw its rabid face, the glimmer of intelligence in its eyes, only for a moment before it disappeared back into the dark, away from the twilight glow. The pain radiated, but the cut was shallow and he grit his teeth to resist the pain.
Another made the same maneuver in conjunction, its claws aimed at the entire body of Prose. He deftly leaned back, the claws barely missing him. It held no greed in its heart, disappearing into the shadow just as the other did.
And a third made the same effort towards the Shade, and it did hit its mark. Its claws which easily dug into clanged off the exoskeleton ineffectively, and before it could disappear into the shadows it felt both its arms gripped by two of the additional arms of the Shade. Each arm pulled away from the other, and the body of the beast split in two although it resisted with all its might.
A fourth dropped from straight above, its target Bart. it was stopped in its descent by Prose, who skewered the thing through with a spear.
There was not a moment of rest, for two barreled directly into the chest of Epim immediately after the first bout. They used their shoulders in a sharpened tackle, blunt instead of their usual lethal method. Although the pain was not great because of his cloak, the force was not dulled. His back slammed into the Shade’s, tipping it off balanced, “SCREEE” The two screamed in unison, and more in the Dark beyond.
Three of the blind, more brutal of the Bloodsuckers launched out from the dark.They lifted their hands high, and slammed them onto the stomach of the Shade. There was an audible crack.
One got greedy and pressed the tack, a pincered claw of the Shade pierced into it through the bottom of its skull and upwards through its head. The other two gripped onto said arm, snapping it off. The Shade convulsed momentarily, an extreme impression of pain going through it. Its other arms are still immobile from its temporary confusion.
Bart attempted a screech again, but to no avail. The creatures were intent on killing the Shade.
Epim turned, swinging the scythe and catching two assaulting the Shade by the middle of the head each. The two behind him taking the advantage and both aiming their claws for the back of his head. He swung with all his force, and the Shade itself was in his arc. He dispelled the scythe, the environment turning
Barely, his hood flips upwards assisted by Prose, who had only now turned to assess the situation. They struck heavily, but could not break through the protective layer of the fur.
A sword shot through the heart of the one, pinpointing it through its armpit in a defining shot. The other was slashed at by Bart, who had managed to cause a thin line of blood across its forearm. It tried to retreat, but the Shade had recovered, and the thing got only a step away before the flexible limbs tore it apart.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The group quickly returned to their triangle position. The Shade retracted its extendable limbs to its body, folding in on itself and partially covering up the crack in its stomach. The blood began to obscure his right eye from his wounds, and the heavy blows had done a great job at dazing him.
Prose took heavy breaths, his mind in disarray. His lungs strained, the exertion on his body was heavy. The precise movements in rapid succession drained his stamina quickly. “(If we have to deal with another wave, or something even worse, we should)” Prose’s thoughts were interrupted by shuffling footsteps in the dark and a barrage of laughter. There must have been at least a dozen more, each of the group could feel the tension.
The far ceiling above them cracked, the laughing continued. The Feral Bloodsuckers had taken an absolute approach to the group's death, and took every means they could. They cut large portions of the ceiling out, and smashed into it with their claws. Rubble of brick and stone rained down on their position. Even if it did not kill them, the Bloodsuckers knew it would give them ample opportunity to pounce.
The loud noise drew everyone’s heads up, and Prose’s eyes caught the raining rocks first, through the twilight. His wings flapped slowly, his limbs relaxing, his mouth moving in shock, speaking without thought. “Morons.” It was with utter relief and glee that it came out of his mouth.
It is no fault to the Feral Bloodsuckers that they did not fully understand the threat the fairy possessed. The nature of the flying weapons was odd, but it was uniform and seemed to come with a pattern, there was no overly errant movement to be had with it, so they took steps to prevent attacks. Moving quickly, eliminating sight and whittling down an enemy was a natural tactic of the superior predator. Although the foe was difficult, the magic ability over weapons it possessed would pose no grander threat, it had been perceived and understood.
There is no doubt that they were their superior in this battle. Were they to rely on their remaining numbers and continue with the same tactic, the group would have ended up with casualty and be forced to retreat. But they wished to kill them all, they had no desire to delay gratification.
Feral, they were driven by immediate desire and want. To curb hunger, to deliver pain, to lash out, that was all they cared for. They were beasts that understood their own desires so they lived by their own desires.
As the chunks of ceiling were raining down, thick and heavy, the Bloodsuckers primed themselves. They tensed their muscles, their eyes constricting and cutting through the dark, examining all the movement of their prey. Their canines stuck out, many had begun to drool in its anticipation. They had no concept of individual safety, they wished to kill. It was in this state, that each and every one of the remaining Bloodsuckers would die.
Prose’s ability to control objects with his mind was a faceted one. And since the beginning of the time he stepped into the castle, not once did he show that his ability was a degree greater than simple control over weapons. Truthfully, changing the weapons shape was a degree of difficulty that he had not wanted to exert, and they were close and his control could not be guaranteed. For the ceiling raining down from above, he needed to take no extra consideration. It would harm them if it hit, and the material of the brick, while impressive, had been damaged. Both by the Bloodsuckers, and simple age. Unlike the weapons, they had begun to go an interior degradation, enabling the conditions for Prose’s control to a higher level.
The chunks of ceiling were wrapped by his mental force, and shards of brick shot out all around them, in a tornado of indiscriminate destruction. Much like being caught in the eye of a tornado, the group witnessed as the rain marked every but them. Upwards, downwards, to the sides, meteors of unfathomably destructive rock shot outwards at a velocity that made each one a deadly weapon.
They tore through the flesh of the Bloodsuckers and embedded themselves into the ground, ceilings and walls deeply. After the rain of rubble was no longer a threat, the barrage stopped, and Prose floated down to the ground, sitting down and then laying down, stretching out his whole body.
The group looked in open eyed shock, not willing to give their guard up for a second. But soon they did, each relaxing their bodies and feeling the ever present tension leave their body. The torrent of destruction wrought by it is evident even in the dim light given off by the scythe. Epim quickly moved his hand to his face, feeling the cut and wincing in pain. Bart notices, and looks around them in thought.
The Shade walks over to its broken limb, picking it up. He attached it back to itself, the base sticking to the stump of open wooden flesh where it had come from. It folded back weakly, no longer a weapon of destruction but now just a broken limb.
The group let themselves relax, and although they said a dim thank you to Prose, they were each in an exhaustive state. Bart speaks up. “I had wanted to avoid this, as it would be an act of defilement… but I can take the blood from my kind into myself, and convert it to yours much like the mercenary. I can heal you both, and recover your stamina.”
Epim responded first, though Prose had nearly bolted from his position on the ground. “No! Bart, we don’t know if what it has to do is with the blood.”
Bart shook his head. “But you’re hurt, and you spoke yourself that it was just theory!”
Epim shook his head. “But that’s that and this is this! It’s unnecessary danger, we’d be much worse off without you than with you.” Prose nodded, and the Shade showed its support through its eyes.
Bart lowered his head. Gracious, were the three he had met. He knew nothing at all about their past, but they were his companions in full. He had wanted to help them at even a cost to himself, for he knew there was a chance of the sickness himself. But to be denied so openly for the sake of his own health, these three were his friends indeed. “I see. Let us simply rest for a bit then, and then continue onward.”
And the group did, waiting for about an hour. At that time, Epim thought of the flow of events. He considered his own inability, and while the damage the Shade had suffered wasn’t permanent, without Prose’s technique that rivaled the force of natural desire, they would have died he was sure. He began to think of how he could improve, but as he was still a novice in the ways of combat, nothing made itself clear to him. The peculiarity of being able to summon his scythe and dispel it was a novelty, and one that he was beginning to understand could not compare to the absolute might of both the Shade and Prose.
The hour passed uneventfully, Prose flew up and sat down on the Shade’s shoulder, but he looked quite lively again. Epim kept his scythe out, providing the group with light. They traveled the edge of the room, looking for any further passage. They found one, and slipped their way into it. Eventually torch light returned, lining the walls of the long passage. Although the same material it seemed quite a bit less aged than the one in the previous room.
They continued on for a while, until they believed they were underneath the castle’s ballroom, they had effectively retracted their steps in the underground. In front of them, two large gates made themselves known. The corridor had opened up again near them, and again they could not see the ceiling. But no threat made itself known to them, not even a sound.
Prose whistled. “This doesn’t seem like where your lord would be. But one must question, why were so many of your feral kin here?” Bart had no answer. He was now not only driven by the desire to find his lord, but to understand the mystery of the castle and why his brethren had become those aggravated beasts.
The gates were heavy, and rough. They would open inwards, but only if enough force was applied. Prose tapped the Shade’s head, to which it nodded. It stood in front of the gate, pushing both its hands each onto the solid material.
Epim and Bart stood ready, for if any threat came the moment it opened they would go assist their friend. Bart watched behind and above, making sure he could stop any threats from his feral kin.
With the Shade’s full force, the gate’s moved. They creaked and groaned, screeching on their hinges and against the ground. After a point momentum took them, and the Shade removed its arms.
Past the gate, what made itself known to them was what would be known as the Bewit Horror.