Anastasia Pascal

  Eyes wide and body shuttering, she was completely enraptured by Damian’s conjuring. A violet display of arcane brilliance. The singing of stars and the screams of the Ratsins fought for supremacy in her ears. The rumble of the explosions rocked the nervous acolyte back on her heels. Anastasia’s mouth grew suddenly dry as the spell seemed to run down and revealed the mangled forms of the rat things. The shatterstorm of starlight took her by surprise, but the shards hunting into the tunnel left her mind blank. Even the ever present tremble in her hand froze from the shock. Enemies, seen and unseen, annihilated.

  Only one thought remained. It bulged as if it was too big to express. Anastasia squirmed in discomfort to fully conceive the idea and release it. Her mouth twitched in an effort to speak, to express. All around her the Sixty cheered in exhilaration. Full throated cries of awe. Unabashed praise for what the obsidian acolyte had wrought.

  Her peers, the other acolytes, were closest to the feeling rising up from her gullet and shaking her mind apart. They all looked impressed and thoughtful. Visible around the eyes were the signs of strain. Overworked mental processes trying to figure out how to measure up. Anastasia was sympathetic. She acknowledged their desire to replicate.

  In doing so, freed the pressure within her. It came out smoothly through her lips. A quiet whisper before shouting it to the sky.

  “...bullshit…”

    “Bullshit.”

      “Bullshit!”

        “Fucking Bullshit!”

  Anastasia fumed. Her anger boiling out anything other than this single expression. Violet light danced in her eyes and swirled in the storm of rage howling through the acolyte’s mind. The memory of the great spell burning into her consciousness.

  What the hell? thought Anastasia. One man pulls off a spell with more power than every archer can put out combined? How is that even remotely fair? I’m stuck with support spells and only one way to harm these bastards… yet Damian can nuke the rat fuckers! Just blasts them all right to hell…

  She mumbled and grumbled thinking about the grand violet display. Jealousy and fear fuelled the growing frustration. Her cheeks reddened from the heat rising in parallel to the ire. Even wrathful tears pooled and dripped. The Sixty celebrated, but Anastasia mourned. Disappointment breeding more rage. Brooding over how weak the power at her own fingertips was. Stuck on what little she could do even just to protect herself. The greatest torment of all… Yet again, dependent on others.

  The blond acolyte’s nails dug into her palms and it felt like electricity sparked as a result of the clenched fists. She felt alone and a burden at the same time. Torn by the flux of emotions, Anastasia fled to the edge of the crowd. Seeking what sanctuary could be found.

  In the past, in the old world, she always had her room to escape to. A place to cry tears and calm the raging waters of her emotions. There was no comforting room to find in the tunnels. No safety.

  Just the semblance of standing alone, at the edge of a crowd.

  When a scurrying sound echoed from the nearby hole in the wall, Anastasia felt a burst of relief. Some beast was offering itself to drain her anger on. Believing, not believing it would release the emotional pressure. For a moment, she forgot that there was only one offensive spell in her arsenal. Her hands popped open as if the blonde woman was about to use her own hands to strangle the beast. Angry violet flames burned in her mind.

  A mangled furry face slumped into sight. The flabby, but largely ratish body was that of a Bloated variant that hadn’t mutated overly much. It bled profusely as the Ratsin crawled out towards her. Plopping free onto the stone ground in a pool of its own visceral juices. Beaten and torn, the creature had barely survived the violet storm Damian had summoned. The beast looked hungrily at her and shrieked.

  The piercing scream rolled through Anastasia sending her emotions from turmoil to absolute control. Awaking that ancient part of you bares its teeth to survive. Her hand rose in the rat thing’s direction on impulse. Not palm forward, but as if holding a staff. She had a distant thought that her stance was the same as Damian’s when casting. The violet power roiling in her mind started to condense together. All the blonde acolyte’s concentration zeroed in on the Ratsin and the Heartsong rose sweetly to her ears. The tune guided her cogitation’s movement. Giving her the words to release what was building up inside.

  “Starshot!” said Anastasia in a perfect echo of the obsidian acolyte. Slender, jagged shards of violet glass appeared. They appeared above her air-gripping hand and rained down on the monster. The arcane spell made quick work of Ratsin. It had only been hanging onto life by a thread.

  All of her attention snapped inwards. The blonde woman barely noticed when the rat thing collapsed and began to disintegrate. She was searching for how it was possible. There were no easy answers. Her anger still burned, but it was dying down now. Her sudden exhilaration defused it.

  Any attempts to cast Starshot again failed. Worse than whispering into the wind. It felt like she had forgotten how to whisper. Something was missing that had been there before. Then her thoughts turned to the violet pressure that had been surging in her before. Dancing intertwined with her anger. It was gone and Anasatia looked into where it came from. There was the sensation of something empty and reflective. This new aspect of hers became very pronounced in her mind. Finding it somehow making it more real and apparent. She was poking at it when someone interrupted.

  “How did you do that?” called out Damian. He stood right beside her with a grin larger than the last one. His hungry eyes put the Ratsins to shame as the obsidian acolyte looked at her expectantly. Curiosity rolled off him in waves as he added, “That was my spell was it not?”

  “Uh um yeah,” squeaked Anastasia at his sudden appearance. “I think I um saved your uh spell… or uh a piece of um it. Then um cast a copy?”

  “Interesting,” hummed Damian. “Let us go find the others! We can test this!”

  Hooked by his excitement, Anastasia smiled and followed after him. She thought to herself, If anyone can help me figure it out… who else, but Damian. I guess… I shouldn’t be too surprised he can pull off crazy shit like that then… if I’m confident he’ll figure it all out or at least help me see how.

  Hoping it would help her to have more to offer the Sixty, the nervous acolyte followed after. She was excited over the prospect of copying other spells.

Soren Hill

  The gunman’s world was troubled. He had thought of himself as staying in the middle of the pack. Not keeping pace with Damian of course, or really any of the acolytes. It had appeared to Soren that was just the nature of things when magic existed. That the spellcasters would simply have the upper hand in pure power play, but there would be a place for everyone else. Even if that was just to assist the acolytes. Melee fighters to protect them and archers to offer support fire.

  He considered himself in the same wheelhouse as the archers. His abilities were a little different, but he had been satisfied staying in step with them. Clarissa pushed him with her outrageous skills, but once again Soren thought her a sort of monster. Not someone to match, but to be inspired by. His own skills were nothing to dismiss either. The gun training from the old world transferred over pretty nicely.

  It wasn’t enough. They had all left him behind.

  A grand group attack by the archers had made that very clear. Their variety of attacks had left him behind. Soren only had blast bolts and the laser. The array of skill shown in the Vile Fields left him with the sneaking suspicion that it only hinted at their new capabilities. On top of that, Damian and his cleansing. It wasn’t his desire to catch up to that man, but he had to wonder how big the gap really was. How insignificant had the Sixty made him while he daddled. Resting on his laurels.

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  The greatest worry that skittered in his belly was that he had been bypassed so far there was very little the gunman could offer in the current fights. That his weight in a battle had become negligible. Being useless was not something Soren was comfortable with. It ate at him and burned. Flashes of his father screaming on the farm washed through his mind, sending his eye twitching.

  Soren looked down at his magic gun. The red Mana flowing in and out like the tide. Swishing to the rhythm of his heart. Seeing a physical reflection of his unease. It revved up and fell. Over and over. There was nothing for him to do to change that at the moment. The Sixty marched and others had been selected to the useful positions. The thought slapped him across the face forcing a grunt from the gunman.

  He sighed.

  Today… there isn’t much I can do, reflected Soren. I am at the level that I am. No time to train, no time to catch up… I’ll give it my all here, because that’s the best I can do. When we do go, I’ll push myself. Hard. I can’t rely on past laurels anymore.

  He looked around at everyone. Seeing them play their part with pride. Wishing he could live with such easy assurance. Venomously, the gunman thought, I won’t allow myself to be useless. I can’t.

  When they came to the next fauna field, Soren made sure he was part of the detachment that cleared it out. Red bolts flew fast and deadly. Trying to push himself while studying for his weaknesses to overcome them. As he was now, any target could be eliminated swiftly, but group coverage wasn’t in his wheelhouse. Yet. The gunman had ideas. A plan to catch up to the monsters.

  Grinning, Soren marched with the Sixty. There were rats to kill. It wasn’t over till you were dead. And in this place, you got extensions and second chances.

Warner Papadopoulos

  A fist coated with orange Mana crumbled the ribs of the spine covered Ratsin. The brawler dodged away to escape from the blue haze spurted from the monster’s mouth. It growled wetly. Swiping with a meaty paw that Warner slapped aside with a blast of orange light. He leaped in along the outstretched hand, Mana welling up across his whole body. An orange star in the azure gloom. His Onslaught form offered little defense, but his offense surged with every hit.

  Two quick, sharp jabs broke the ribs on the other side. The Ratsin tried to scream, but only gasped and gurgled. Azure light began to spark around the monster, but Warner didn’t need to hesitate. He wouldn’t allow the beast to heal up. A charged roundhouse tossed the beast off its feet, dispersing the collected energy. Jumping into the air, the brawler landed on the rat thing’s head like an orange meteor.

  Warner stood and saw that the remaining Ratsins in the area were all claimed. The big man’s posture relaxed, though his eyes continued to survey the surroundings. He barely took notice of the gore coating his arms and legs. Soon they would turn to dust and leave him looking clean.

  The cheer of the Sixty was obvious to the eye, especially one trained to see the flow of the mob. The brawler celebrated everyone being happy, but the reason for it left him feeling sour. The result of a conflict within him. Warner was certain that Malachi was able to rise to this occasion because he hadn’t stepped in. He could almost see the alternate route everything could have taken. Maybe not as unified or joyful, but the same except for them turning to his leadership. Warner over Malachi.

  This was the source of his conflict. It suggested some darker things about himself, but mostly it was the idea that it could have been him. A leader he trusted, absolutely, to do the right things. Arrogance, Warner easily admitted, but with no less trust in his heart. The big man had seen too many other failures. The constant worry that Malachi would fail where he would succeed was getting to him. Worst than that was the feeling that the decision had been ultimately taken from him.

  His visit from the cloaked woman haunted Warner. The sudden appearance and cutting words had made an impression. Her arrival, so perfectly timed, diverted him from stepping forward. He felt it very strongly that without her interruption, he would have taken over. The plan was already in motion when it happened. The brawler’s team kept going out while Malachi wallowed. Already building up the impression that his way was one of progress.

  Instead, he waited and gave the sword acolyte a chance to get back up. Part of him whispered it was the right choice. That voice spoke with the same confidence as the rest of him. Presenting its faith to be strong enough to rival the belief Warner had in his own leadership skills. He wanted to believe in Malachi, but could he ever really be sure of anyone else? The brawler was unable to come to a conclusion and so continued to be conflicted. A teeter-tottering battle within.

  It didn’t help his own temperament that Malachi was being ever so cautious. The big man had on several occasions offered to take a team to clear a dead end, but had been shot down each time. That long stare Malachi acquired during his sorrows spoke volumes. To Warner, it felt like being dipped in icy waters. The one-armed man would broker no risks. Even after Damian’s display, caution was still the name of the gain. The reminder of the Sixty’s strength had only lightened the weight on the man’s shoulder.

  All of that left little for the brawler to do to blow off steam. The size of their raid group meant fights were quick and there was no way to depart from Malachi’s purview. Warner was starting to feel suffocated. He looked at the upwards tunnel and listened to the distant rumble. No one had a clue what it was, but at the moment he wished it to be something with a lot of fight. By size or numbers, but something intense.

  Warner felt he could really use the distraction. That a nice brawl would set his mind straight. Being near Malachi just made him wonder when the man would fail them. When would the power corrupt? The brawler wasn’t sure how long he could keep playing nice and risking their lives.

  “What’s up?” asked Julia. “You keep staring into space.”

  The diminutive shieldmaiden looked up at him and Warner was unsure what to say to the woman. Couldn’t even remember them having a real conversation before. Maybe when training? thought the brawler. He scrambled for a reply knowing where her loyalty was. Worrying how a noticeable delay in his response would be interpreted.

  “I’m thinking about the nature of these tunnels,” blurted out Warner. Pulling out an errant thought to speak about. Something that was safe grounds. “They have the appearance of natural caverns, but I think it might be only surface details.”

  “O’ hmm, I suppose I have thought much about it,” considered Julia. Her eyes narrowed and her head tilted in observation. The big man quietly let out a breath of relief as the other frontliner took the reply and ran with it. “You might be right about the big tunnels, but the little ones look dug.”

  “Uh yeah, thought so too,” agreed Warner, trying to dig up his own theory on the matter. “The Ratsins musta added the “crawl spaces” to hide in, but the main shafts here are something else. I don’t suppose, this being a dungeon and all, if that really is altogether that surprisin’.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure about that,” said Julia, lips pursed in thought. “Maybe not a surprise, but it says something about The Pit. One, that it was made and two that the monsters can modify it to their needs. Not sure what it adds up to, but it’s a clue of sorts.”

  “I can’t deny that logic,” admitted Warner. “It does seem like this place just gets stranger and stranger. Wonder if this is all it was made for. Testing us and such… and if so, what’s so important about the sixty of us?”

  “So far, all we know is “You are here for a purpose,”” announced Julia with a mockingly dramatic voice. “As if this place wasn’t creepy enough, they added that ominous freakin’ line.”

  “Y’know, I can’t say I ever really thought much about that one,” said Warner with a wry smile. “Yeah, it’s creepy alright, but I've always been focused on us and the monsters.”

  “Fighting comes easier to you,” inferred Julia. “Likely why you always come in conflict with Malachi. Both of you are natural leaders, but with two very different styles of going about it.”

Warner was stunned. He had thought the conversation safely away from the subject of who was in charge. A quick glance caught the signs of an apologetic look in her eyes. As if the shieldmaiden was a little sorry to push him in this corner. There weren’t any easy replies, but walking away was never an option he liked. This was just a fight with words if looked at in the right way. Warner didn’t have Malachi’s silver tongue, but the big man wasn’t too bad with what to say either.

  “We do disagree on a few things,” started Warner cautiously. “Honestly, never met someone I trusted to lead me… that didn’t end up betraying all that. Men and women that smiled just like Malachi. People that said all the right things and even had a history of doing the right things. Too much of that was lies and scripted stories. I ain’t one for trust these days. It's been run thread-damn-bare.”

  “I want to tell you… Malachi isn’t them, but you know that,” replied Julia. “Even more I was to say he is worthy of your trust, and you know that too. He's the right man for the job, Warner, and we need you to back him. Not plotting his downfall for your own rise.” The apology was gone from her eyes. There was now just fire and a promise.

  “Not gonna swear anything,” growled Warner, his chin raising a little. Matching the indignant gleam that sprouted in his eyes. “I’ll listen to him till the moment I know Malachi is wrong. The moment, no more. I ain’t bound by nobody. Nothing but my own rules. That’s the best I can give ya.”

  Frowning, Julia said, “Disappointing. I’d really hoped to resolve this, but I suppose I’ll take that over a full schism of the Sixty. Think on it though, no trust where none is given.”

  The shieldmaiden looked up to him and searched for something. Julia shook her head again when she apparently didn’t find it. Not bitter, but a little sad. It itched at Warner. Somehow reminding him of his mother. The brawler ignored the reaction, his conviction was already set on the issue.

  Warner decided he had plenty to fill his time with after all. Julia may have come to gain his loyalty for Malachi, but it had only reminded him of the cause. To be every watchful for bad leadership. So, there were more than enough rats to slay to keep him occupied. Most of his time should be watching for the false move anyway.