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He shot up away from the deck of that airship. From faces he glimpsed as pale, needy ovals. Everything here was wrong, starting chiefly with him.
There was a thunderstorm brewing off to the west, all sullen dark clouds and grumbling thunder; child of the updrafts, the light-wall and heat. That’s where he went, letting the haunted pirate ship drop spinning away in his wake.
On the surface, spells could heal gashes and straighten out bone, causing joints to pop noisily back into place. Inside, he remained torn, smeared and broken, with scars that went deeper than physical burns or a stab would have done.
Miche coughed and heaved while he rose, releasing the Fallen One’s lingering venom the best way he could. Blocked even Lord Erron as he soared away into that gathering storm. The first lightning strike turned all the world flaring, roaring blue white. It scrambled his thoughts and emotions, bringing some peace and a torrent of manna.
Wind like a fist of the gods took hold, then. Shrieking and howling, it swept him up through a vortex of purple-dark clouds. Up, until he was over the storm, looking down at a moon-silvered landscape of roiling vapor shot through with spears of lightning. A starry sky arced overhead, while a flickering data-wall towered hundreds of miles further west.
…But he did not want to think about that, or anything else. Just glided down into the tempest again, letting its fury and violence take over. There was hammering rain and slashing hail in fierce gusts. Gale-force wind that screamed like a cat-spirit, mourning its dead. Thunder rumbled like cannons’ roar, as bolt after bolt of wild lightning shattered the night.
He fought none of it. Just soared and then plunged in the updrafts and wind-sheer; hurled sometimes above, other times plunging down amid cascading rain. Mostly just riding those streaming black clouds.
The storm didn’t love him. It showed no concern and offered no pity. Could not be threatened or killed by his enemy. Wasn’t a prisoner, trapped amid corpses and flies.
On an impulse, he brought out his other strange artifact: an opaline stone the size of a sparrow’s egg, polished and utterly smooth. Held it out to the storm, letting rain, wind and lightning wash over the magical object. It responded by flaring internally, forming a tumble of very brief images. A key, perhaps, to repairing the shrine system.
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They were not going to let him stroll in, though. Not the way he was, now. He was going to have to defeat the shrine’s guardians, battle its goddess. And then… if Erron’s fairy tale was at all correct… he could plunge himself into its spring and be healed.
Right. Better the tempest, which told him no comforting lies. The former elf drew a very deep breath, almost sobbing. Why had the gods abandoned this place? Why were those cries and desperate rites from below completely ignored?!
Or… not entirely so. He’d been sent here. Best available “hero” and all they were likely to get. Also, somehow, the cause of this mess. The other two (Val and that armored construct-elf) were himself, sprung from different planes of reality. They, too, were facing a terrible fight, and their strength had helped him to ward off the Fallen One.
A possible source of aid, only… He did not want to infect them. Refused to allow the dark one’s evil to creep on through into Val and the pilot, as it had oozed into Marget, his sister.
She needed him. He could set her right again with sigils and spells, shielding the orc from any curse that her stolen, torn-away arm could inflict. But that meant going below. Facing kindness and sympathy. Accepting the fact that they cared (whether or not he deserved it).
Right, so… Not even storms last forever. This one was fading, having spent its rage on the ocean of rust, down below. Having charged up Dark Cloud and Miche himself; giving strength to the small god within him.
He wasn’t an elf any longer. That brightness and glory was gone, siphoned away by War Marshall Trask, the fallen one. That undead monster had implanted itself and then fed on him. Wanted more. Expected Miche’s coming attack and welcomed it. Intended to dine on Firelord, next, using the god to power escape from this terrible place.
Shaking his head, Mich put the spring-stone away. Wind snatched at his hair and his cloak, making them rattle and snap. Shreds of cloud parted like fingers, letting in moonlight and curious stars.
He had no choice at all in what to do next. How, though… that’s where the Crown Game strategy lay. Where seeming collapse could be turned into sudden, ferocious attack. Those below, on the ship, would be drawn along with him. They’d be placed in harm’s way and possibly killed… And there wasn’t a thing he could do to prevent it.
This “Val” or the pilot could certainly have managed things better. They faced no doubts at all, he was sure. And for that, Miche was glad. Whatever he’d done to deserve this was his trouble alone. None of theirs. He wished them good fortune and courage, making do with what little of each he had left. Looked around at his map and the landscape, pulling that weather-stained cloak tight around him.
Lone Mountain was visible off to the west, silhouetted against a flickering data-wall. From this height, just a shadowy peak crowned by a faint strand of metal. Rainbow Bridge. Beyond that lay a station high in the void and then Far-Keep, where his enemy crouched like a spider, having fed on him once and eager to finish the job.
There was no place to run and no one else he might call upon. No more elves left in the Dark World, and only one badly drained small god. Miche made his decision and nodded, witnessed by stars and a few playful sprites.
He would deal with the problem. Finish this thing, beginning with those who trusted and loved him, below.