The flickering warm orange glow of the inviting hearth cast dancing shadows on the unadorned walls of the Master Necromancer’s abode. Issa, the Fisherman’s son, slept curled up beside the fireplace and was engaged in a contest of snores with the Keeper. Ann lay on her bedroll near the hatch to the basement, where Ben had left her, covered with a thick brown blanket by who Ben assumed to have been Ainsle.
“I’ll take those for you,” said Kieran, holding a hand out to the young man as he leaned in to whisper. “Seeing as we’ll be traveling soon, I can enchant the robe to resist the inevitabilities of the road.” He paused as he glanced at Ainsle, who sat at the round table, seemingly unaware or unwilling to intrude on their hushed conversation. “I’ll take the… literature as well until you’re ready to give it to her.”
Ben nodded gratefully, and the Apprentice accepted the burlap sack with the gifts he’d ‘bought.’ The pair of thralls entered one at a time and neatly placed their cargo against an unoccupied wall, eliciting a raised brow from the Berserker.
“I take it you boys had a bit of fun?” she asked, grinning wide as she watched Ben place his halberd next to her ridiculous great mace opposite Issa beside the hearth.
Ben shrugged and sat down next to her. “It was… enlightening, I guess.”
Kieran spoke. “I’ll be right back. I need to dispose of-” he began before being interrupted by a feminine voice from the passageway leading to the Archmage’s bedroom.
“Evening,” said the short albino woman. Her eyes —irises tinged-red— regarded the Apprentice Necromancer.
“Good evening, June,” Kieran said, brows furrowing. “I do believe I requested that you not disturb Master Durrene. As I explicitly stated, I cannot repair any inadvertent disruptions to the matrix of the stasis spell.” The Apprentice’s tone was scolding, yet it lacked any real substance.
June smiled as she patted the locks of pure-white hair that spilled over her shoulder. She removed a scroll of weathered parchment from a pocket in her purple robe and unrolled it before holding it up toward Kieran. “Entropy ward,” was all she said.
The Apprentice Necromancer turned and gave his full attention to the smug pale woman. His brows creased further. “June, what do you mean, Entropy ward? Not that I’m ungrateful for the assistance, but since when did you learn to key a Master level ward spell —from the Protection school, no less?”
“Relax, big man. It’s been keyed to trigger based on intent by my Fa-” June cleared her throat and corrected, “My Master. He’s a bit… protective. We weren’t even allowed out of the Capital without a full escort and an Inquisitor, believe it or not.”
Kieran’s brows raised, and he leaned forward with a sharp, toothy grin, prompting the pale woman to flinch ever so slightly. “That’s fantastic! Do you know how he did it? Of course, a Magus would know how to weave a pre-determined keying into a scroll. Did you watch him produce it?” he rambled with the exuberance that Ben had come to expect when the red-haired man engaged in talks of the arcane.
June’s eyes seemed to glaze over before Ainsle spoke up.
“Oi, sweety, you can woo the girl later with your smart talk,” she gestured to the swaying corpse of the thrall standing in the doorway. “The bugger’s leaking all over the floor, so be a dear and sort him out?”
The living room’s occupants all turned at once to stare at the offending puddle on the otherwise clean wooden floor. The room went silent, and the drip-drip of blood and —what Ben hoped wasn’t urine— other unidentifiable fluids beat a hollow rhythm against the floorboards.
After a pause, Kieran cleared his throat. “Get out,” he ordered the thrall. “Forgive me, Aunt, I’ll have this cleaned up when I return.”
Ben stood and approached the doorway. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it while you’re out.”
The red-haired man hesitated for a beat before nodding in thanks. He left and closed the door behind him, and Ben was grateful that the cold draft hadn’t woken Ann and Issa. He found a bucket with murky water and a rag next to the entrance, no doubt used to clean the floor earlier that day, and began working on cleaning up the mess.
“Ben?” said June. “I don’t think we’ve properly met.”
The young man, on his hands and knees, turned to face the albino woman. He realized that he hadn’t, in fact, introduced himself properly. He wrung the last bit of dirty water into the bucket and stood with an extended hand, wet from the cleaning, to the young woman.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m Ben. Thanks for all your help so far,” he said.
June eyed his wet hand with raised brows and opted to incline her head in a slight bow instead. He withdrew his hand and cringed internally at the awkward interaction.
“I’m June. Glad to finally speak to you.” She smiled and glanced at Ainsle —who drank out of a wooden mug filled with the Archmage’s finest— with a giddiness that caused Ben to tilt his head. “Without hordes of undead and monsters trying to murder their way through the city, as they tend to do.”
“Yeah…” he trailed off.
“So, you’re Miss O’Se-” she continued before being interrupted by a forced cough from the Berserker. “-Aunt’s Apprentice? You were amazing, by the way! After we shot most of the flyers out of the sky, we turned our attention to the ground forces, but you were like… like a whirlwind of carnage!” she approached Ben with an almost manic look in her red-tinged eyes. His eyes widened. “You just ripped through everything. So fast! So… pretty. The Guards called you War Dancer. Is that your Path? How did you get it? As expected of the Red Maiden’s Appre-”
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Ainsle held up a hand to stem the young woman’s verbal diarrhea. “Sweetheart, we’re running out of time. Mind helping us get started?” she gestured with a flick of her chin to the Keeper’s sleeping form.
June dipped her head, abashed. “Okay. Sorry,” she said softly. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Ready for what?” Ben asked.
“We’re gonna try break into Miss Sunshine’s domain, remember? Little June here is gonna put us to sleep with some magic,” she grinned at the increasingly bashful Caster. “She’s very clever, you know.”
“Aunt, please,” June began. “I can’t even cast sleep. I’ll be using this.” She lifted her hand and pointed to a plain silver ring inset with a simple blue stone. “It’s enchanted with a Sleep cantrip. Supposed to be used for self-defense.”
“Okay,” Ben said while regarding the pale woman dubiously. “What should we do?”
Ainsle patted his shoulder. “We should snuggle up with your hottie over there. I’ve seen those ‘sleepy’ spells in action,” she grimaced. “You don’t wanna be standing when it hits you unless you wanna wake with a bloody split open head from the fall.”
Ben nodded and did as Ainsle bade. They approached the snoring woman quietly and lay down on their sides with Ann sleeping, obliviously, between them. The Berserker in front and the young man behind. His Keeper’s hair smelled of lavender and fresh mint, and he watched her chest rise and fall slowly; he tried to ignore the loud snores, yet he gave up and smiled at the familiarity and realized he had missed the blonde woman’s quirks.
Ainsle drew his attention with a smooching sound. “You gotta touch her skin, Loverboy,” Ainsle whispered in a dangerously teasing rasp. “Not that it’s new to you or anything, but this time, it’s not for the rough and tumble that you’re used to with this one.”
“Right,” Ben whispered in reply as he was torn from his musings. “You said we’d face trouble?”
Ainsle’s grin faded into a line. “I don’t know. But I’m thinking whatever’s keeping the Martyr tied up might be hanging around.” She paused. “I’m also thinking Sunshine won’t be there. Probably stuck in her regular dream space or something. So, whip out your tool and get ready to fucking go as soon as we land.”
Ainsle’s grin had returned, yet the tone of her husky whisper told Ben there was an actual warning amongst the teasing. He nodded and got comfortable before wrapping his arm around his Keeper, hand clasping hers. The Berserker did the same; her arm draped over both the Keeper and Ben as she touched her forehead to Ann’s.
“Okay,” whispered June. “I’ll count down from three, two…”
Ben’s vision went black, and he opened his eyes as the wind whipped past his ears and told him he was ‘falling’ toward his domain. He gazed out at the clear, starry night sky and pierced through the invisible membrane to land, upright and as nude as before, in the clearing near the rocky outcrop of the jagged obsidian forest. His Avatar’s presence bloomed in his periphery, and he turned to approach the beast who stood, flames billowing as slowly as he had come to know, yet… bigger, more substantial.
Ben placed a hand on its nose and regarded the molten crimson eyes.
“Can you force your way into Ann’s domain? I’m sure you heard; we might be in for a fight once we get there,” Ben said. Even though he felt he didn’t have to speak the words aloud, the act came more naturally than expressing his thoughts to the entity —when he had time, he decided to work on non-verbal communication with his Avatar.
The beast huffed and nudged him with its colossal head, conveying the thought of urgency. Ben nodded, and before climbing atop the entity, he regarded his unclothed and, more importantly, unarmored form.
“I need some protection, like the gambeson I wore before. Can you help me?” he asked after trying —and failing— to will it into existence.
“YOUR WILL IS YOUR ARMOR,” the beast spoke in a deep rumble that seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, lips unmoving.
“Oh. You can talk… forgot about that.” Ben nodded to himself after the entity opted to ignore his comment. He climbed atop the massive feline, using its sharp, angular obsidian spikes as hand and footholds, before patting the smooth glass of its neck. “Let’s go.”
The Avatar of Domination circled and began a slow trot that increased to a blisteringly fast sprint. It leapt toward the obsidian forest, and Ben’s vision went black and red once more. The sound of wind whipped against his ears, yet he felt no air against his exposed skin as the pair approached dark grey clouds; he recalled seeing a clear, starry night sky upon arrival in his inner world and considered the scene before him.
Do the clouds mean something? I remember seeing these during my first few trips to my domain.
They burst through the angry clouds to find the dunes of a pure-white, desolate desert approaching rapidly. The beast landed softy on the sand without sound, and he found themselves standing at the base of the blood-soaked dune home to the Martyr. His eyes were drawn to the suffering form, far enough away that he couldn’t make out its features, yet he felt the pain and torment radiate and envelop his being. He clenched his teeth and willed his obsidian halberd into his hand as the entity began to growl, a terrifyingly low rumble that caused his bones to vibrate.
His gaze was torn from the figure atop the dune to a familiar presence rapidly approaching him. Ben watched the red giant of Vengeance land, as softly as they had, on the white sand a few paces beside him. The young, nude form of Ainsle stood upon its shoulder. One hand held the nearest horn of her Avatar for balance, and the other, her delicate ornate white spear, its shaft resting against her shoulder —long platinum blonde hair billowing in an unseen wind.
The Berserker’s brow furrowed as she gazed at the entity atop the hill. She faced Ben.
“Let’s get a closer look. But watch out for any fuckery… shit don’t feel right,” she said in a jarringly sweet voice.
He nodded, and the Avatars leapt toward the dune's summit, sailing through the air at incredible speed. As they approached the figure, Ben saw a shadow move nearly imperceptibly past his periphery. He snapped his head toward the sound of a grunt and saw Ainsle falling off the shoulder of the red giant, who seemed to have had its momentum halted as it plummeted to the ground. Panicked, Ben stood on the back of the beast and jumped off toward Ainsle, landing a moment later without disturbing the sand, a few paces away from her prone form. He ran to her, heart thrumming in his chest. Suddenly, his instincts screamed at him, and he stopped and pivoted to dodge a slash of a slender red claw. He spun to see the ambusher; the spearhead of his halberd dipped low, stance wide. Ben’s eyes widened, and his shoulders tensed.
A short, blindfolded woman hovered before him; her bare feet were a hand’s span above the sand. She wore blood-red robes made of an otherworldly material that seemed to undulate as if it were liquid clinging to her shapely form. Thick blonde twin braids spilled over her shoulders, and black swirling lines tattooed on alabaster skin glowed with a subtle red light, covering every bit of exposed flesh. Her soft lips didn’t quirk into the familiar, warm smile —her expression was impassive. Cold.
She spoke in a chilling, monotonous drawl that reverberated through his being.
“The Champions of Illephrre have delivered themselves for absolution. So it was written.”