“Need a pick me up? I’ve got health, stamina, and Source potions!” Nishant cries out, one of several vendors roaming the training grounds of the Guild. The rarity of dedicated healers and the influx of Dungeon grown herbs created a thriving alchemist’s market.
Nishant takes a seat in the grass, near a small group of people. Groups such as these are common throughout the training grounds. For various reasons, be it for entertainment, inspiration, or plain idleness, people tend to gravitate toward adventurers hard at work. One such adventurer is the reason for this small gathering today.
The black and white beastkin’s movements belay grace and beauty of a sort that make Nishant wonder if one begets the other. Without her lithe movements, would her streamlined body shine so bright? Without her physical excellence, would her increasing momentum be no more than a brute striking a dummy?
To the casual observer, Nishant seems to be admiring Honey’s training regime, or sizing her up for a sale. Of course, the casual observer wouldn’t be able to blame him. The way she spins and strikes, like a leaf in a storm, is mesmerizing. It is a hypnotic sight that transcends mere sex-appeal. That isn’t to say that sex-appeal is completely factored out. There is a certain universal attraction that comes from seeing a person who knows how to use their body.
Most spectators would unanimously agree that the beastkin knows how to use her body. The heavy strikes of her weighted training swords echo throughout the Guild’s training fields. The dummy she is fighting, known as the mu ren zhuang, is a vicious thing made of metal and pain. Each blow to one of its many, long metal arms, sends the contraption spinning to strike from another direction. To make things more complicated, there are several segments to the dummy, causing it to be spinning in multiple directions at bone breaking speeds.
Now, to a more hardened observer, Nishant wouldn’t stand out at all. After all, he isn’t the only person watching the beastkin fight the mu ren zhuang and vendors are far from uncommon. Everything about him screams plain and unthreatening. Among these people, most of which are hardened adventurers, he is the most inconspicuous. As ironic as being the most unremarkable is, it is a point of pride for Nishant.
Actually, it is more than a point of pride. It is a really big deal. Such a big deal, that it was one of the leading factors that caused him to Awaken in the first place. You see, Nishant was written as an assassin. He would leap from rooftop to rooftop, dressed head to toe in black, fighting assailants with sword and dagger. More times than he cares to admit, Nishant would duel his way past guards to end the life of some important public figure.
His life was the solitary life of an infamous assassin.
He hated it.
For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he made it so obvious that he was there to kill someone by dressing up in an outlandish black costume. He loathed himself for killing innocents hired to do a job, instead of killing his prey and no one else. Most of all, he hated being alone. Nishant wanted to fall in love. So, he did. When he realized the truth of his fictitious life and came to this world, that was the first thing he did. He fell deeply, and madly in love.
As it turns out, maintaining a relationship is a lot harder task than killing a politician. Nishant’s lover is quite the activist, raging against the chains of oppression. Nishant never quite understood the sentiment, but couples do things together. Things like joining the Resistance and attempting to overthrow the Guild. Obviously, the first step to overthrowing the Guild’s iron fist is to kidnap a beastkin named Honey.
Despite her sweet-sounding name and relatively low level, the beastkin has a small reputation for herself. She trains religiously, building her fighting prowess with skill and hard work over things like stats and levels, which unusual. There have even been some rumors she is attempting build her very own [Skill Set]. That isn’t why Nishant is here though. He is here for one reason and one reason only.
The Guild wants to bring her in for questioning.
A reason as simple as that is a good enough reason for the Resistance. Anything the Guild wants, the Resistance wants to take it away from them. Nishant thinks it is ridiculous. In his mind, it feels like toddlers squabbling over a shiny toy, but he would do anything for his love. Anything. That includes making an absolute fool of himself by carrying out inane missions.
Nishant breathes in, filling his lungs to the brim with Source. He brings his hand to his mouth to cover up an imaginary cough. Clutched in his hand is a small dart, truly a miniscule thing. Covering the activation of his skill with a fake cough, he sends the dart zipping towards his target. The dart blur in the air, propelled with so much Source it is near impossible to see with the naked eye. Flying fast and true, the dart sinks into Honey’s neck, releasing a custom-made poison.
Nishant makes all of his poisons himself. In his pursuit of a life filled with less sword fighting, he had taken up a job as an Alchemist. He doesn’t mind that this keeps him barred from the Dungeon. An assassin’s talents don’t lean toward fighting monsters anyway.
The drug is slow to take effect. The moments tick by and Nishant begins to worry. Perhaps the beastkin is immune to poison? He didn’t skimp on the dosage. The poison he picked out should’ve knocked out an elephant-kin 20 levels higher than her by now.
Nishant snags another dart, preparing to strike once more, but there is no need. Honey’s form sways mid strike, the missed parry allows a spinning metal rod to connect with her shoulder. The force of the solid blow sends her crashing to the ground.
As planned, Nishant’s team comes rushing forward, guised as concerned bystanders. They loudly proclaim their intentions to take her to a healer, and whisk her away with none the wiser.
Nishant allows himself a small smile. Another mission complete with surgical precision and no pointless sword fighting. A simple pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless.
***
Mordai struggles to believe his luck. Here he was, in the middle of the day, having a lonely drink at the end of the bar when out of nowhere, two gorgeous ladies start chatting him up. At first, he was suspicious they were prostitutes. Not that there is anything wrong with paying for sex, as long as the people selling their services are doing so of their own free will. So, perhaps suspicious is the wrong word. Worried may suit the context better.
Mordai was worried that he can’t afford the services of these women so far out of his league.
The woman on his left presses her tantalizing cleavage, barely contained within her straining blouse, up against his arm. Her hand reaches up to trace his horns, admiring them.
“Your horns are so big!” She giggles. “It makes me think we have something in common.”
“What’s that, beautiful?” Mordai catches himself staring down her shirt and looks away embarrassed. He waves at the bartender to bring them another round of drinks. He isn’t used to people being so forward with him while he is this sober.
Her hand slides down his face and neck, pausing to grope his pectorals, before sliding further down. She looks up at him, relishing the look of awkward innocence on his face.
“We’re both horny,” she smirks.
Mordai’s heart pounds with excitement. Blood rushes to his face and… other extremities. It can safely be said that he isn’t at his most logical.
The girl on Mordai’s right, not to be ignored, grabs his arm and twirls around, wrapping herself in his embrace. Unlike her busty companion, this girl is rather flat chested, but her tight, round butt coupled with her athletic appearance more than makes up the difference in Mordai’s mind. With a cute little hop, the girl plants that juicy bottom right on Mordai’s lap, sending welcome, but embarrassing, sensations through his body like lightning. With deft strokes, she rubs his arm up and down, licking her lips and making Mordai wonder what else she could rub like that.
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“You’re so tall and… big,” she purrs. “Are you… proportional?”
“Would you like to find out?” Mordai’s brain, lacking blood, falls back on its basic instinct of sexual quips.
“Mhmmm,” the busty girl moans, her nails lightly digging into Mordai’s inner thigh.
“You know,” the girl on Mordai’s lap leans forward like she is about to share a secret. “Her and I are partners, in more than one sense. We’ve been looking to spice things up and… Why don’t you come back to our place?”
“Partners?” Mordai blurts out. He knows what they meant, but he can’t help but repeat what she said.
The fit girl shoots him a knowing smile and twists her small waist around, grinding her perky butt into his crotch by doing so. Mordai’s mind goes blank, the elastic feeling consumes his body with spikes of pleasure. His mind quickly snaps back into action, however, when he processes the girl’s actions.
Her hands shoot out with practice familiarity, grabbing the busty girl’s hair at the base of her skull. She pulls her close, pressing their lips together. Their tongues flicker in and out of each other’s mouths with deft movements. For at least a few minutes, Mordai sat there dumbstruck as the two shared one of the most passionate kisses he’d ever seen. With his hands on both of their waists, he practically drooled at the sight.
“How about now?” the girl on his lap gasps, her small chest heaving.
“Please say yes,” the busty girl simpers, guiding his hand to grope her breasts.
“Let’s go,” Mordai says. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he stands up and slams back the drink he ordered. The girl on his lap laughs with delight, wrapping her hands around his neck and her firm legs around his waist. She straddles him, forcing him to carry her instead of hopping off his lap.
“This way!” the busty girl entwines her fingers with his and leads him out the door.
Mordai cannot believe his luck. The girls didn’t even mention money.
***
Mad cackles echo through the underground chamber, harmonized by whistling wind. The twang of a bowstring and crisps thunks of striking arrows add a sense of rhythm to the cacophony. The pounding of heavy feet and crisp scuffing of light ones throw the slightest inclination of music out the door with their chaotic flow.
The blue mana core in Bonehammer’s necklace pulses with ever diminishing blue light as it swings wildly from her neck. The poor stone struggles in its fight to keep the living armor Fear whole and moving. If the stone knew that certain failure awaited it, then depression would surely set in. In fact, a whole bag of mana cores swings just as wildly from Bonehammer’s belt, waiting to replace it. Thankfully, for the core’s sake, it cannot think.
The same can’t be said for poor Fear, who is struggling against its wily opponent. From her recurve bow made of horn and sinew, the dryad fires multitudes of bone arrows in random directions. No matter how far off her aim, each arrow miraculously strikes Fear. Each arrow hits Fear from a different angle, making it nigh impossible to dodge or block. If Fear was more of a problem solver, it might realize that the wind whistling through the chamber may have something to do with it. Fear, unfortunately, just isn’t that bright.
The mad laughter never stops, it only pauses. It pauses every time Bonehammer touches a new arrow. Her long braid whipping in the wind, she whispers its purpose to it, a benefit of Snowflake’s instruction. Snowflake’s use of magic as an auxiliary tool, coupled with the idea that magic can have thought and purpose, bred Bonehammer’s current fighting style.
She crafts each arrow herself, creating it as a blank slate for instruction. When she notches it, she whispers phrases such as [Split] or [Explode]. With a mix of enchanting and Source usage, she imprints on the arrow. In the half of a second it takes the wind to direct the flying arrows to their target, they register their life purpose and obey. The arrows, unpredictable in their variety, rock Fear as it struggles to catch its tormentor.
If Fear could think, perhaps a bit harder, it may feel despair and helplessness set in. Without the rich fuel of Snowflake’s emotion, it is nothing but a regenerating target for this madly laughing child.
“Um, excuse me?” A polite voice can be barely heard above the din.
Fear can see the long-eared girl poking her head down from the trap door. Her face is all that can be seen, regarding them upside down. The way her long brown hair hangs down like a waterfall catches Fear’s attention. Taking the time to point out the intruder crosses Fear’s mind, but its instructions were clear. “Attack me like you mean it.” Pointing at an intruder has nothing to do with attacking.
“Excuse me!” The girl speaks again, louder.
Bonehammer doesn’t hear the girl. She is caught up in her own little world, releasing barrage after barrage of arrows at her poor training partner. In her mind, she is fighting against the hordes of the Dungeon. She is invincible and all-powerful. In her mind, at least.
Fear watches the girl frown at not being acknowledged. The upside-down head disappears, only to be replaced by legs. In a smooth movement, the girl drops her body down, hanging off the side of the trapdoor by her finger tips. Completely ignoring the ladder, the girl gracefully drops the 20 feet into the underground chamber.
On her way down, Fear takes note of the girl’s unusually long legs. Unlike the legs it has seen before, these have a few things different. First of all, they have a strange extra joint below the knee. The joint is bent in the opposite direction of the knee and looks quite peculiar. To top it off, the girl doesn’t have the feet Fear is used to, but paws instead. Paws almost like Master’s three tailed familiar, but not quite. The legs seem to absorb impact with far more ease than Fear could muster. She lands as soft as a feather, her legs no worse for wear after such a long fall.
The reason Fear is so fixated on these legs is for a very simple reason. They’re different. Now, Fear isn’t very bright, but the core of its being was birthed from the emotion it is named after. That emotion has strong ties to recognizing when things are different.
Despite being born from fear, it isn’t an emotion that Fear feels. That isn’t to say that Fear doesn’t feel emotion. In fact, recently, Fear has felt a new emotion coloring its limited emotional palette. Inadequacy.
This feeling was born when Master stopped wearing it. Then, Master abandoned it here with this cruel little creature, cementing the feeling. Now, the creature continues to abuse it, punishing it for all of its flaws. In the quiet moments, this grates on Fear.
Fear does not think very much, but it thinks some. Each day it is provided with more mana, it thinks a little more. Fear never had the huge benefit of consuming an excess of energy like Wisp and Legion. But that doesn’t stop it from growing. It is just… a little bit slower than its siblings.
Right now, Fear watches as the girl blurs to stand behind Bonehammer, seeming to only take one step with her odd legs. Fear thinks that perhaps if it had such legs, it wouldn’t struggle so much to catch its tormentor.
“Excuse me,” the girl, towering over the small dryad, taps her firmly on the shoulder.
“Eeek!” Bonehammer yelps, springing away. Arrow already notched, she fires it at the intruder. The arrow splits into four identical copies of itself. The wind carries the arrows to converge on the spot where the rabbit-girl is standing. The rabbit-girl steps forward and blurs once again, the arrows passing through where she was standing.
“Sorry,” the girl sheepishly scratches her neck. “Um, I’m here to pick up an order for a Mr. Snowflake? I tried to get your attention from upstairs but…”
“Snowflake!” Bonehammer pulls on her braid and shouts, her face red. “That piece of shit pervert is always fucking things up! Even when he isn’t here!”
“Um,” the rabbit-girl looks around awkwardly. “Do you have the order?”
By this time, Fear has made it over to where the two girls are standing. With thundering steps, it charges toward Bonehammer, eager to use this opportunity to prove its worth. It raises a spiked fist into the air, intending to crush the annoying creature and fulfill its mission of ‘attacking like it means it.’
“Fear, stand down,” Bonehammer orders without so much a glance toward the armor. “Yeah, I’ve got the order. Give me a second to go find it.”
“Sure, sure,” the rabbit-girl agrees, glancing at the armor with her head cocked. She steps over to examine the armor more closely. Her fingers run up and down the plates of armor making up Fear’s body. “Did you make this? How do you keep it so cold?”
“No,” Bonehammer replies, digging through a haphazardly stacked pile of boxes pushed to the side of the chamber. “Snowflake made that. It is some sort of Armor Golem with a limited intellect. I’m not sure how he did it, but it is made of ice.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” the rabbit-girl murmurs. “Does it have some sort of automated protection spell, like a Guardian?”
“You mean like would it automatically protect me if I’m in danger?” Bonehammer replies, her face buried in a box. “I don’t think so. Snowflake rigged it so it only follows my direct orders. Why do you ask?”
“Good. I’d hate to have to break it,” the rabbit-girl whispers, examining the swirling purple pattern beneath the surface of the ice.
Bonehammer, concentrating on the task at hand, didn’t hear her.
“Found it!” Bonehammer shouts, pulling a set of armor out of a box. “It isn’t my best work, but it is pretty damn close. I’ve got the letter that qualifies these carapaces as a legit material as well.”
“Oh, good,” the girl smiles.
“Say,” Bonehammer tugs her braid, casting about for the bone spear and shield set she modified for Snowflake. “Why didn’t he come himself? I wanted to try a few things out on him.”
“He is indisposed,” the rabbit-girl replies, her blurred paw connecting to Bonehammer’s temple. The small dryad crumples like a puppet with cut strings.