Quickly following his snide voice, Tarot revealed his gnarly features as he strode through the maze of shacks. It looked as though someone had draped skin over bone and cartilage. There was so little flesh that without mana moulding him as he followed this Path he would otherwise be dead. The man had refused to train anything not directly associated with his aptitude for mental manipulation but actively restricted it. He didn't need endurance or strength or mass. Tarot had been born with an affinity for mind magic, often associated with telekinesis and mental manipulations, and he had taken that inherent talent to the extreme. Each facet of his physique was withered and small; his stature was diminutive, standing shorter than average, and thinner too. Tarot's eyes were the only feature that stood out from the haggard mess that housed them, almost as though they were from a separate entity entirely. A piercing black, the orbs looked seemed to inspect every aspect of the world in front of them. On the human form, the sensation of being analysed to such a degree was unnerving to the extreme. Tarot had trained his eyes to spy and infiltrate his targets at a distance, they had been saturated with mana, changing their composition entirely. Dressed in stolen loot, he was magpie in human form, severe and wanting.
Yet to have laid eyes on the man, Otis would have thought Tarot looked like a bizarre cross of the Joker and Penguin from the Batman Arkham games. He had the withered features of Joker plastered over the all-consuming greed of Penguin. To his back, three of his cronies had forged themselves after Tarot's own image; each thin but not quite nor were they as diminutive. Although there were many that had been changed as they followed their Path, these extremes usually required less self-mutilation. It was unusual to see someone dedicated to their craft to this extreme.
"Ah for fu... what do you want?" Zlatan sighed.
"You've got something I want and someone's willing to pay me to take it, simple as can be. Can you imagine how useful a proper trinket or even a basilisk egg would be to someone of my expertise?"
Mooch and Zlatan, froze. They had heard that late bloomers were powerful and from what Otis had told them they appeared to be hated, but now this hatred appeared to have materialised within the slave city. Had word finally reached the slaves? Had one of the long-time crowd favourites painted a target on their new companion, with their earnt wealth? Trinkets and basilisk eggs that were of the calibre to help Tarot were costly and nearly impossible for them to get their hands on. Had someone from the upper echelons, above the city of slaves, had enough? Maybe having Fortune's favour wasn't enough to stay safe anymore.
"Oh, it is... cosy here," Tarot continued, open derision in his voice.
Mooch recalled the one time an opponent had gotten close enough to catch Tarot with a shallow slice of his sword. It had taken him months to recover. The wound had festered and scarred. No one was meant to get close enough to the diminutive man. As intrusive and rude as the man was, he wondered if he would have been able to do the same. Even wounded Tarot had had enough control and strength in his abilities to fend off two more bouts in the arena.
"What do you want?" Zlatan repeated, not amused with the theatrics.
"I'll make it simple for you brute: move out of the way or I'll have you move," Tarot said flatly.
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Straining so hard he could taste blood, Otis clenched his teeth as he tried to keep control of his latest creation. Only slightly larger than that of his current basic block hammer, the newly crafted head sat forged within the pot above the fire. As the heat permeated his design it was progressively more difficult to keep the bonds set, that he had worked so hard to forge. With a heavy metal prong, Otis slapped the large pot till it fell from its perch. Keeping the mental connection was difficult but it was easier than trying to hold the hammerhead together against its will for any length of time longer. Burning brightly against the earth, light popping noise emanated from the glowing metal as it seared the dirt.
Using a second prong, Otis pincered and scooped up the piece and deposited it in an awaiting bucket of water, quenching it and relieving the pressure on Otis' mind. He would have to clean it up and attempt to force out any impurities from the dirt with a little effort but it was the best he could do in such limited circumstances. He hadn't been a second too late either. Collapsing to a crouch, darkness overwhelmed his vision, as a high-pitched whine echoed within his skull. He had almost pushed himself too far but it wasn't as uncommon a feeling as he'd have liked.
"Fuuuck," Otis groaned, shifting to his hands and knees, breathing hard.
Using one of the discarded prongs, he tipped over the water bucket, allowing the hot water to spill away from him. There it was, the efforts of his labour. It looked like steel but, in the right light, bronze specks shimmered across its surface. Glittering lightly, the head was formed of far more precious materials than what he had worked with before; each lighter and more durable. The traditional front of the weapon was shaped like an ordinary hammer head but with the addition of a small protrusion in the centre of its face, for some added penetrating power. The rear head was a sharp spike that he could use to pierce thinner hides and armours. It wasn't the masterwork that Otis hoped he would eventually be able to create but it was another step forward on that journey.
The downside to working with a better level of quality was the exhaustion that came from trying to bend it to his will. There may well be materials that were more responsive to mana but these simply weren't. Lightly tapping the still overly warm-to-the-touch piece, Otis would have bet that without the enhanced stats from his level-up it was unlikely this piece would have come together at all.
Looking over the notches he had left on each side of the hammer, Otis sighed. He wasn't finished. The head was all very well but he needed more to make it a weapon. Grasping an old, splintered length of a weapon pommel, the exhausted smith meditated as he waited for his mana to tick back up. Soon he would have the rest of his war hammer completed.
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"Move out of the way," Tarot echoed his previous command. He would get what he came for without fuss or flatten the men in front of him, it made no difference to him.
Mooch stretched out an arrow made of condensed mana and took aim in defiance. Unlike Tiera's golden spears, the arrow had a greyer hue to the bolt, although it looked no less deadly.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Zlatan squared up and thrummed with an aura that thirsted for mana.
Neither of them really owed Otis anything, but neither of them would move. When each day could well be your last, time moved quickly. They would defend Otis for no better reason than he was one of them.
"Fuck you."
The two companions spoke in unison. Even if the odds had been stacked against them to an even greater degree, they wouldn't have backed down. It wasn't likely that they'd be killed by the quartet of thieves and they were all too used to taking a beating.
"Have it your way," Tarot said with a finality that spoke volumes about his confidence in dealing with the two before him.
A sudden and pervasive aura struck Mooch and Zlatan as Tarot unbound his mind. Waves of pressure descended on them both. It felt like they were suddenly underwater, swamped by Tarot's will. If they could land an attack, the pirate would be near crippled, but the issue came in landing an attack at all.
Flanked by his cronies, the psychic power was overwhelming. If there was a greater level of diversity it would have been easier but against four specialists it was difficult to move. It wasn't like the telekinetic forces shown in Otis' Earth movies or how Eros had abducted him but an unwillingness in their own muscles to obey them. The condensed mana arrow, Mooch had formed, wavered as he struggled to keep it centred. Little by little he found himself struggling to keep the arrow from Zlatan's back. Against the power of four minds, working together, he needed a distraction to release him from his current binds.
Bit by bit, Zlatan's aura soaked in a stream of disembodied mana-fueled attacks. The runes burnt into his skin now had slight purple hue blossoming from each of them. The self-proclaimed cursed battle-mage had a strained grin as he felt the mental shackles begin to falter, unaware of the looming danger behind him.
It was then that Mooch felt a greater level of control come back to him, Tarot had levied his energy to focus on Zlatan. The significant release didn't fill him with relief but instead worry. Zlatan would have to face Tarot's full force by himself. His friend was still in danger but at least it wasn't from his own arrow.
Unleashing arrow after arrow, Mooch used his newfound freedom to shower the trio of cronies. Each one was diffused against a shield of projected mental energy but it would take a toll on them. If he was given an opportunity to slip through their defences his arrow would pass clean through one of them with ease. Given the current matchup, Mooch was all too aware that either he would win in time to help Zlatan or they'd both fall under the control of Tarot's piercing gaze.
Temporarily pinned down under Tarot's enhanced stare, Zlatan's strained smile only deepened, becoming all the more demonic. In his mind, it was only a matter of time before he escaped or Mooch would have his back. Even as his muscles spasmed and cramped under Tarot's influence his confidence didn't waver. He had fought too many battles alongside the ranger to doubt that he'd have to face Tarot truly alone. Mooch had always had his back and even if he failed he had long awaited death to take him. He wasn't worried, he was enraptured by the fight and the pain made his vision of victory so much more enchanting. The thought that Tarot probably wouldn't dare to kill him never crossed his mind.
Mooch grimaced as the same piercing shocks rippled through his muscles. The attacks weren't as well placed or sadistic as what Tarot was able to dish out but for a scouting class, with lower endurance, it was torture. His eyes flitted about as he let another arrow loose towards the cronies, watching as it was absorbed by their telekinetic shield. He surmised that the effect was largely similar to what the arena used to stop audience members from shelling the fighters with attacks, insults, or debris and to protect the audience from becoming collateral damage.
Small fraying pockets could be seen as they all began to tire, as the arrows sent grey ripples through the ethereal shield. A small fledgling hope was all that kept Mooch going. If he could isolate one of these pockets, he could parse an arrow through their defences. Locked in position Mooch continued stretching out strings of mana. His senses were confused and unreliable. His muscles were spasming and burnt against the effort to work with any sort of efficiency. His head pounded as he grew more confused and weary and yet he was still rooted to the spot, unable to break their mental barrage.
The first arrow flew hopelessly wide of the weakened shield segment, although it smeared satisfyingly across the cronies' skeletal features as the shield dispersed the energy. Watching the grey mana thin out like oil in water, the weaker point had shifted over the shoulders of the men on the left and right of the trio, as they stood in a huddle.
As he pulled a second projectile, a new round of pain overwhelmed him. Patient as ever, Mooch bided his time as he endured the torment and waited for an opening. He needed to spy a weakness in the shield and wait for an opportunity when he had more motor control over his muscles. Shuddering as each wave of uncontrollable pain wracked his nervous system with a new round of small muscle seizures, he knew from experience that his vision would begin to blur soon.
When he was finally able to let the second arrow loose, Mooch was breathing hard, as sweat ran in rivulets from his face. Watching the effort he had spent waste itself across the front of the shield was agony. He had tried too hard.
As Mooch readied a third and final arrow, he felt the nausea creep in. He was too aware that he was staring at them from a pin-hole of tunnelled vision. This was his last chance.
Desperately searching for one last opening he could exploit, he found all too many. All these perfect opportunities. He was sure to hit something. Weathering the pain, he hoped and prayed that by luck alone he would be able to hit something... anything.
Only at that moment was he permitted to realise what had happened. There were no gaps. There was no perfect shot. He had wasted his energy in the trio instead of helping Zlatan. His mind had been so warped by their influence, distracted as he was with the pain, that he hadn't noticed what he'd been doing was so wrong, so stupid.
He had failed from the very start.
The mana in his hands dispersed and he fell to a knee. Lightning shocks continued to flood through his body, each one caused small convulsions and tremors to run through his limbs.
As he looked over at Zlatan, he felt ashamed. Still fighting to close the distance to Tarot, his companion was clearly enduring far worse than himself and yet he was still pushing ever onward. Tarot was undaunted, completely confident in shredding Zlatan's energy, his beady stare hyper-focused on tearing apart his opponent. The eyes that felt as though the small man was looming over his opponent even as he stood in Zlatan's long shadow. Whether the battle-mage knew it or not, Tarot would win. It was only a matter of time. His cronies would finish with Mooch and then the four of them could deal with him together.
Only when Mooch lay seizing did it happen. Unable to tell if he had surpassed his understanding of pain or succumbed to their attacks, Mooch realised he wasn't numb but that he was simply free. The assailing blasts of mental energy had faltered completely. Without warning, the lackeys could only watch as one of their ranks folded in two and collapsed to the ground.
The man gasped for air, groaning desperately as he ground himself into the dirt. Beside him lay a hammer, a subtle speckling of colour to its head. The weapon had flown through their shield in a way that Mooch's mana couldn't nor did they notice the newcomer soon enough to employ greater defences. Their only saving grace saw the hammer connect with the mostly flat face, preventing a severe impaling.
As clarity washed over Mooch, he realised the pressure was gone. Looking towards their saviour, the distraction had come from Otis, he had saved them. Flitting his gaze back to Zlatan, the purple hue of his runic scars had grown to an unrepressed pulsating haze. He was pissed.