My status window sits locked in front of my gaze, and I’m left feeling as if the little blue box is grinning at me - more than happy to reward me for my vicious deeds.
[Congratulations! You have leveled up! 1 -> 2]
Some… Grim part of me always wondered if slaying another awakened would allow you to level up. Besides eliminating the competition, this must have been why so many of the Pioneers fought in the past - of course, I’ve only been brought up a level because of how low on the scales I am.
A thought flashes through my mind: how much experience would I be awarded for defeating Josephine? A small wave of nausea follows, and I push it down, promptly assigning my two points to agility and returning my focus once again to my allies.
I hand out a bottle to Maeve, to Aisling, and to Aidan. It’s only after the fact that I realize I’ve handed them all bloodied bottles - wet from my scarlet-soaked hand. They all eye their bottles with a concerned look, but eventually wipe them off on their clothes before uncorking them and drinking. Aidan especially seems unconcerned, more worried about the hole in his chest than anything else. He was insistent on explaining that, although it looks serious, it didn’t strike anything important.
It sort of feels like he just doesn’t want any of us to be worried about him, though. I know firsthand that getting stabbed in the chest is an uncomfortable experience.
“I caught a glimpse of yer moves!” Aisling says excitedly to Aidan, “How did ye knock her halberd away like that? Sounded like someone poundin’ away at an anvil..”
“It’s just something my dagger can do.” There’s a hint of pride in his voice, beyond the regular amount of pride in his voice. “Got it as a lucky drop, and I’ve been using it in every fight since!” Aidan wipes a bit of the potion (fairly sure it wasn’t the blood, at least) off of his chin, looking all around at the mess we’ve made, before settling on me. “So, how’d it go with their little leader?”
I was thrown dizzyingly fast, very nearly shattered every bone in my body, and then sat through someone toying with me. They held all the pieces, and I get the impression that they weren’t even the person they appeared to be. It would take too long to explain all of that, though, so I instead decide to reply with a simple, “It’s… Resolved.”
Maybe I sounded a bit too grim, because they all have a look about them as if they think I gave the “captain” the same treatment as that mage.
I clear my throat, and then address the group again, “Are you all ready to go, then?” They nod, and we all begin. Each of us walk around the corpses and blood littering the garden. The flowerbeds have been thoroughly obliterated, soil and roots upturned in a way that would surely make any gardener weep on the spot. Lives and labor both, we’ve come to erase - a disturbing notion. But if I spend anymore time thinking about the amount of work I’ve destroyed, I may not be able to continue.
Either House Grivash fail to understand the notion of this simply being their backdoor, or they just so happen to be fanatic proponents of equality between the sides of their palace. The double-doors are grand, with fine glass windows that allow a view into the building, and brass doorknobs on either side. The doors seem to be made from red oak, the symbol of the House carved expertly into their front faces. By the looks of it, the glass and wood both must be polished at least every day.
With a deep breath, I turn the knob of one of the doors, swinging it wide and entering inside, my allies following closely behind. Finely-woven rugs cover the floor, acting almost like a pathway. They’ve been stitched with swooping, circular patterns, colored green and black. The interior is lit with oil lamps hung from the ceiling, casting a glow on all of the wealth put on display here. Fine portraits and landscape paintings, silver mirrors, scattered, disorganized bookshelves. The owners of this place put in a lavish amount of effort and riches to make their affluence known - in a way that’s almost sickening.
How many meals could a single one of these mirrors pay for?
I keep my head down and continue, half-relying on [Aesthesia] to keep myself on the right path. With the information we have, provided by Cairbre (and then Aidan, as well,) we need to continue through this wing of the palace and exit through another side of it. There, we’ll find a guardhouse, and the entrance to…-
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“Boss,” Aidan murmurs, quietly running closer to me, “baddies up ahead - six of them.” Six enemies? Adeline was a notorious fugitive, yes, but how many Hunters can they commit to the cause of guarding this place? They must have nothing better to do, then.
“Stay here.” I say, in a tone that borders on commanding, enough to surprise myself. The group all hesitate, nodding a moment later, and I continue up to the bend alone. My body feels relaxed, as if I’ve already burnt through all the nerves I was possessed of - fear doesn’t seem to grip at me as it did before. Stella was right, all that I need to do is continue on and on, until I succeed or die.
Shadows cling to me from the simple act of gripping Tanascáil in my hand as I round the corner. A pulse of mana directed into the hilt causes a familiar wave of cool to wash over me, covering and cloaking me from sight - even in this well-lit place. The hall opens up in front of me, entering into a parlor of sorts. Soft-cushion chairs, expensive tables with different bottles of alcohol atop them. Some opened, some not.
And sitting in those chairs, drinking that alcohol and making merry, are the six Hunters Aidan spoke of. One, a man with messy blond hair, clinks his glass against another Hunter’s.
“And here I thought we’d have to prowl around the place all damn night… Gods bless the captain.” He chuckles, and the rest of them seem to smile along with him.
“Still,” Another one of them, a black-haired man who seems particularly sloshed, says, “we would be out clearing dungeons if it weren’t for that Cirix bitch.”
My footsteps stop, though no cessation of noise marks it. Each heartbeat in my chest is as a thrashing hammer, spurred on by this drunkard’s colorful use of language.
“I had a trip in the Pillars lined up!” He almost shouts, taking another swig out of defeat. “Bet I would’ve gotten something amazing this time ‘round..”
“She’ll be dead soon.” A third man says, “Just a few more days now, lads, and we’ll be on our way. Just take it as it comes - the pay’s good and easy.”
I’m not sure about that last bit, personally. Did they not hear the ruckus we were making outside?
The drunkard sets down his glass, resting his head on the table with a final, “Fucking bitch…”
Indignant rage swells in my breast, enough to rip the air from my lungs and drive sweat to my palms. She’s a glittering spark, the flare of heat and light from combustion. My teacher, my…-
“Sybil?” Stella says in my mind, though it’s only half-registering, “Sybil- are you alright?”
It’s one thing for them to steal her away, to imprison her and let the executioner’s axe hang over her neck for weeks. But to taunt her all the while? To curse her name and to treat her as less than a dog… My feet carry me forward, my body no longer entirely under my control.
[Inherited path is resonating strongly!]
The blue light is cast away with an annoyed wave of my hand. Right now, I’m full of hate and disgust putrid enough to make my head spin. My heart feels as if it might simply burst. Step by delirious step, I’m brought to their small gathering, coming to a stop behind the drunkard - who just so happens to be closest to the hall.
Violence begets violence, and yet I cannot stay my hand. Something deep inside compels me to act, fashioning me into a marionette of instinct and emotion. I point a finger toward the blond across the table, and it seems to steady - my shaking coming to a halt for what’s to come. Mana rushes around that hand in circles, forming a loop that will eventually send it driving through his skull before he can blink. Only a few moments pass before I’m certain of its readiness - I think Stella might be saying something.
It’s difficult to hear her right now.
My other hand drops to rest upon the drunkard’s head, and I release the two spells in tandem. The blond just barely twitches, but he’s too close and too weak to move any more than that. A bolt of energy drills through his brow, sending his chair toppling backwards. The drunkard’s skull is soft to the lance, which pierces with through it ease. A moment more, and that energy fractures off into spikes and thorns - most of them staying within the bounds of his head.
He drops to the floor with a wet thud, gurgling up his own viscera, the blond’s corpse spasming on the floor across the table. Then, I hear a bloodcurdling scream to my side.
Four more, then.