Staring into the eyes of the man who had been assaulting his friends, Otis had thought the feeling of glory would have lasted longer. The sense of victory was so fleeting, as the man's guttural breaths sent shivers through him, that it felt like a loss. It was hard to feel elation when the scene inspired such strong guilt. The voiceless judgement from those black eyes that were full of hate and disgust was hypnotic in their damnation. Frail to the extreme, it was disturbing the amount of empathy the strange man was able to invoke. Just moments ago, he had looked like a maniacal despot and now it felt like he'd sucker-punched a hospice patient.
The two reaming associates of the injured man stood in silent rage, unable to grasp the fact that one of their ranks had fallen. One-on-one combat, in a silenced arena, had conditioned Otis to forget about the morality of his own actions but the outside judgement so nearby struck him with a guilt he had thought he had left behind. Mooch was likely just as stunned but loosed another arrow out on instinct. Albeit a wide shot, the sudden loss of their collective power left the telekinetic shield weakened. Mooch's arrow lost some of its lustre as it passed through the defences of the invisible shield. Struck in the shoulder by the dwindled power of the arrow a second cronie was thrown back. Down but not out the man wouldn't succumb to the attack but this was the beginning of the end, the one mage was left to defend them both whilst Tarot fought Zlatan.
Although he had just arrived, the fact that Mooch was so on the back foot against the assailants proved to Otis that whatever these men were able to do was powerful. If he could help he would but he was painfully aware of how vulnerable he was. Unsure of who or what he was now against, all Otis could be certain of was being out-levelled and outclassed. Although these feeling might be considered self-deprecating back on Earth it truly accurate in his current situation. These were opponents with more experience, higher levels, and combat-effective Paths. Zlatan was the only variable he could predict. Momentarily freed from the invisible binds he had been facing, the man reacted exactly as he'd hoped. The runic scars littered across his body were gleaming with energy and menace. A shuddering rage filled the battle-mage in a way Otis had never seen and he couldn't help but feel guilty. There was no doubt in his mind that this had happened because of him.
Aside from a complex sea of inner turmoil, the situation at hand demanded his attention. Weaponless and fighting an unknown opponent, Otis acted on instinct. Shield in hand, he rushed forward to protect Mooch. He would lose against direct attacks but even if he could withstand a single strike it was one that he could save Mooch from taking. Reinvigorated the ranger already loosed yet more arrows as he fought to press the advantage.
Unlike before, there was real concerted effort etched across the faces of the remaining lackeys. If there was a chance to pull through it was now.
——————————————
Hounded by overwhelming pulsations disorientating his thoughts, Otis could think of no other way to steady his thoughts than to utilise his more mundane basic makeshift hammer, strapped to a simple leather belt hook, and bring it down on his shield. He didn't have the leftover mana to bash unabated but it brought him a second of peace. Although he would prefer to launch the hammer towards their opponent, the first strike taken them by surprise. Now, he was in too much pain and aware that a second attempt would most likely miss. He had to weather the storm and those short seconds of respite would have to suffice.
It wasn't just his spent mana that prevented Otis from channelling mana through his shield but the almost instantaneous evaporation of the resource itself. Whilst he wasn't as sensitive as higher-level mages were sure to be, within the material even Otis felt at though he was trying to throttle air. Try as he might, there wasn't a moment he felt he could control it. If the cause was down to the mana being used up against the barrage of mental energy or holding mana without purpose was taxing would have to be experimented with later, however. As he glanced back at Mooch, the man was worryingly pale. Either it was a trick of the light or the beginnings of mana toxicity, thin blue lines that mimicked Otis' own seemed to be slowly gathering around the ranger's eyes. Keeping his one-man shield wall steady, Otis was amazed the man was still standing. His friend had taken on three times the assault as him, for so long, and without any natural defence that he knew of.
Tarot was on the retreat now, Zlatan was working his way towards him with greater and greater ease. Instead of grinding through the mental energy at almost a standstill, it now looked like he was wading through treacle. Tarot was good but a war of attrition was what Zlatan was built for. Exceptional though he may be, Tarot was never meant to win this fight he was the only one that stood a chance to delay the battle-mage and now he was getting tired. Compared to moments ago, Zlatan's muscles obeyed him more as the effects of the mental assault appeared to lessen with each passing second. The runes thirsted for mana and were becoming more efficient at dismantling the mental energy. Now equally slick with sweat as their opponents the assailants were quickly growing desperate. The lackeys' eyes flickered towards Tarot, in search of an answer. They had planned for many eventualities but now they were merely fighting back the inevitable, a plan that only prolonged the point of failure.
Shots of blinding pain feverishly rippled through Otis now, each one erratic and powerful. The spasms that shot through his muscles felt like flesh was being sheered clean from the bone. If murder was allowed by their overlords there was no doubt these men would have gone straight for his brain and heart. Still, he stood firm. If he could force the man to exhaust him first Mooch wouldn't have to take the full force of two mages. Any let up and he might get a chance to throw his rudimentary hammer too.
From Tarot's perspective, the shimmering flecks of precious metal were all too close and yet so far from his grasp. This was effect was only more exacerbated for the lackeys, only they couldn't relent from their offensive lest Mooch gain a sudden advantage. The ranger might be tired but there wasn't a world in which he would let such an opportunity go.
The assailants had lost their previous advantage but it wasn't over. Otis looked strong enough one moment but the next he collapsed to the floor. He had ignored the darkness encroaching the edges of his vision till all that was left a pin-prick of light. When that too faded, he stood on unsteady feet before suddenly the void consumed him.
Suddenly back to the full onslaught on mental energy, Mooch let out a throttled grunt of agony. Otis had provided a surprising amount of cover from the attacking mental energy for far longer than he expected but all that disappeared in an instant.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When it felt like there was little left he could do, when Mooch felt his mind disorientate and warp, the assault stopped. The lackeys had been too slow. Each one of them could only stare in horror as Zlatan clutched Tarot by the throat. Disturbingly, there was no cry of pain, only gargled chokes of fading determination. The skeletal body quickly went limp, the withering black eyes defiantly holding on before they too rolled back in his head. When Zlatan's grip slackened Tarot slumped to the ground, his neck covered in deep red bruising.
Perfectly still, Tarot's eyes seemed to declare his hatred even as he lay unconscious.
As Zlatan stepped past Tarot, his breathing heavy, he levelled his gaze at the two lackeys still standing. Despite the battle-mage fiendishly baring down on them, the lackeys couldn't move. They were too tired to flee and none of them had the physical stats to outpace their new combatant.
Desperately trying to rouse himself from the fog of unconsciousness, Otis saw sudden flash of purple through his clenched eyes. For a moment, the torment he had endured had abaited only the lights continued. A second and third purple eruption blazed through his eyelids, followed by desperate grunts of pain each time.
"Argh!!"
Shouting his frustrations into the air, a thick purple mist drifted from Zlatan, as he struggled to contain his fury.
Bound by the power above them, Zlatan breathed deeply. He couldn't overstep. He couldn't kill them today.
"Fuck off," he spat.
If he saw any of them again soon, he would be all too happy to see how close to death he could push them. None of them moved and they wouldn't for a long while yet, but they would. Their feeble bodies didn't allow for anything other than victory and they were paying the consequence of such folly. They would slink off soon enough, but for now, they wallowed in their pain. Unlike the savage silence of Tarot, the lackeys groaned and twisted about in pain. It was all they could do.
"You alright?"
Dazed and confused, Otis stared up into the smokey fog of the shallow city skyline. Consciousness greeted him with a migraine from hell and the all too loud sounds of the city. Mooch and Zlatan were nearby, though Otis couldn't see them yet. Moving was a painful and nauseating experience and they were all too far from his immediate eyeline. When the duo walked over to him, they met his gaze with concern. This sentiment was echoed by Otis. Mooch was a deathly pale and Zlatan was literally sparking with overcharged purple flecks from his runic scars. Neither of them looked well but it was Zlatan that worried Otis the most. Albeit a short time they had known each other, he knew too well that Mooch was his friend's only constant. He had lost too many teammates and acquaintances that the man evidently placed great value in those who endured the test of time. Everything else had been torment and slavers. He had thought his Grandpa would miss him but the impact of his death on everyone else hadn't registered before. Whilst he hadn't been willing to die, seeing Zlatan as he was now that resolve only strengthened.
"Fancy a carry?" Zlatan asked.
A small "please" was all Otis could manage, new waves of pain thundering within his skull at the noise.
"Slacker," Zlatan quipped with a smirk, as they each help Otis to his feet.
They moved back within the relative safety of their small encampment. A small glance back at the writhing bodies of their assailants had aswaged the fear of another attack. Tarot was hauntingly still, his eyes tracking their every movement as he lay there. The three others didn't reflect the same stoic stillness but under their fine cloaks, Otis imagined there was an equally disturbing amount of bruising.
It hadn't been difficult to reach a similar conclusion as to why the men had come, as Mooch and Zlatan had. In every likelihood, they were here for him and yet neither Mooch or Zlatan had moved. They had suffered to protect him. Carrying Otis was as easy as breathing for the both of them, given their higher level, but their sense of fatigue filled the young blacksmith with a bizarre feeling of gratitude. It hadn't been easy for them to protect him and yet they had.
Despite their different physical appearances, Mooch lithe and agile compared to Zlatan's more compact form, they had a surprising rigidity to them both. It was an oddly inhuman quality, only Otis wondered how long it would be till he was noticeably altered too.
After they had been helped back to his shack, Zlatan silently went back to retrieve Otis' war hammer. His mind was clearly preoccupied. On his return, he didn't say much either it was obvious how seriously he had taken today's events.
Otis knew Zlatan would continue to listen out for danger. Mooch confirmed his thoughts but he too left to let Otis rest. More than ever, it was obvious he needed to train, he needed a proper plan. This had only happened because he was too weak to defend himself. He had no doubt that either of his newfound friends would do the same again but the thought made him feel sick to his stomach. There couldn't be a next time.
Everything seemed to force Otis to realise just how weak he was. Although he should be training he was unable to move without experiencing a lashing to the brain, without taking a single hit he was out of action. Unwilling to let sleep take him just yet, Otis' gaze found his reflection in the gleam of his shield. It was distorted and more misty than he would have liked but the blue-lipped face that looked back brought about a harsh truth. He needed to recover before he could do anything. There was no way he could physically train, let alone the cast [Manipulate] without desperately needing to visit Valruck's workshop for the severity of his mana poisoning. He wouldn't be able to train his mana-crafting abilities for some time now but he also couldn't afford to stop.
If he could sleep away the worst of the migraine, he would be able to train his combat skills with his new war hammer. He needed to know exactly what kind of weapon he had created. How to proceed was obvious, practice made perfect.
Valruck's workshop would surely keep Tarot and his men subdued for a while but it wouldn't be enough. There was now a ticking clock that demanded he improve. Whatever the assailants wanted, would achieved next time. Next time they wouldn't be caught by surprise, they might even wait till Mooch and Zlatan were in the arena. As fatigue finally lulled him to sleep, the fierce black of Tarot's eyes would surely haunt him.
——————————————
Guts parted to golden light as Tiera's spears of mana devasted the cultist's front lines. Each spear was condensed and powerful, such that only the toughest automaton or abomination could withstand the blows. Channelling all of her frustration and anger into her assault, sweat matted her hair.
Cold shivers ran through her unit below. Almost no effort was required to decimate the remaining forces but no one let up. They respected their commanding Knight but it was fear that motivated them now.
They had all known it meant a lot to Tiera that they had managed to save the late bloomer boy, but their failure to properly search for him had clearly prompted a mental break. Fighting a war they all knew they were losing, who could be bothered about one boy? After Tiera found time to properly consume their scouting reports and compare locator enchantments it quickly became clear that they had misunderstood the meaning of this loss to the Knight.
'Liars. Cheats. Traitors,' Tiera choked back the lump in her throat as she ground out her attacks, her teeth clenched.
Lied to and cheated. None of her efforts made her feel any better. Her slaughter wasn't enough.
'Haekril was right,' she thought.