The Green Man departed with Somerset, Roberts, and Harrington, as Captain Marshall had directed. The three Runeguard were to lead the Green Man back to South Bromley and offer a more human face to the enigmatic figure. The unspoken reason for sending most of their force was to keep an eye on the Green Man and eliminate him if he proved to be a threat.
If Captain Marshall were a gambler, she would wager her entire fortune against anyone emerging alive from the Blood Tower. She had seen the patchwork horrors at Brixton, witnessed firsthand the staggering effort required for the magus to vanquish them. Cypher and the Warlock had unleashed their full fury, their powers wreaking havoc, yet the abominations had absorbed all but the most cataclysmic of strikes.
The mere thought of her men confronting such monstrosities bordered on lunacy. It was as if the Runelord was being driven by an almost reckless zeal to assault the Blood Tower. It seemed so incredibly unlike him that Captain Marshall suspected another layer to his plan that he had not shared with her. Secrets, unfortunately, were very much part of Cypher’s character.
With this in mind, she seized the opportunity to get her troops her troops to safety, resolutely defying any notion that the reckless curiosity of a low-level magus reckless should dictate the fate of her seasoned soldiers. Cypher may have been the Runelord, but he was an auxiliary unit to the Runeguard. They were one of the last vestige of the British armed forces. The Runeguard were the soldiers and their children who had returned to Bomptom Barracks when the mist had arrived, seeking shelter and further orders. When none came, they dug in and fortified. Cypher’s father had been a Colonel at the time, and was the highest-ranked officer at the time. This gave him supreme authority and, thankfully, he listened to his son’s ideas on how to not only protect themselves but how to fight back against the sprites.
Cypher had saved them. At eighteen years old, Marshall had already enlisted in the army and was one of the first to use the tools and tactics he had devised to retake St Mary’s island, where the Runeguard was now based. Still, Cypher himself had never enlisted himself. When his father passed away three years earlier, Cypher held no official rank other than being a very powerful weapon and advisor. As things stood, the current brass tolerated the Runelord’s ideas - but it was an open secret that they disliked the threat he posed to their authority. So, when Cypher petitioned them with his crazy plan to infiltrate the BT tower, they jumped at the chance to see the back of him and those troops they felt were a little too enamoured with his influence. How Marshall fell into that group, she had no idea. And, while she had her orders to protect the Runelord, she was not going to waste her men on a fools errand.
This left her and Lieutenant Davey as the only unaugmented humans in the party. Despite his severe injuries, Marshall had never once considered sending Davey back. The man thrived in the crucible of combat, his spirit as indomitable as his will to fight. Davey would surely defy any order to withdraw, seeing his injuries as mere trifles against the thrill of battle. His willingness to embrace death with open arms was both his greatest asset and his gravest peril. While his propensity for independent action had served them well in the past, it was essential to keep him under close watch for this mission.
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Captain Marshall, for her part, did not share Davey's eagerness for death. She was appropriately cautious of situations that posed unreasonable risks. Yet, as they delved deeper into the forsaken heart of London, she realized she had crossed the point of no return. It was the classic gambler’s fallacy: having led many successful missions with the Runelord, she found it hard to believe this one could end badly. But the grim expressions on Cypher’s and the Warlock’s faces offered a stark warning. Death seemed inevitable; all she could hope for was to face it with dignity.
Before setting out, the Green Man disclosed a concealed passage through the labyrinthine underground. It was an archaic Royal Mail tunnel, a relic of a bygone era, once tasked with ferrying packages and mail beneath the bustling streets of London, linking Victoria Station with Kings Cross St. Pancras. The entrance was cleverly hidden behind an inconspicuous door in Victoria Station’s basement. The tunnel itself was a claustrophobic conduit, barely wide enough for three people to move abreast, and notably bereft of modern electrification, which lent it a peculiar, almost reassuring darkness. The Warlock cast a subtle illumination spell, conjuring drifting Will-o’-the-Wisps that floated above them, their dim, ghostly light barely piercing the oppressive gloom.
After an arduous hour of slogging through the narrow, musty passage, they rounded a bend and were met with an eerie, unnatural light. A sinister reddish glow bled through ventilation grates set into the walls of a smaller shaft that branched off from the main tunnel. Cypher, his eyes narrowing with concentration, used his magic to quietly dismantle the ancient, rusted locks. The frame, festooned with horizontal stainless steel blades, groaned on its creaky hinges as it swung inward, unveiling the foreboding foundations of the telecommunications tower. As the party emerged from the tunnel, Captain Marshall stifled a gasp of horror, her eyes widening as she took in the grim spectacle that awaited them.
What should have been the tower’s foundation - a pristine pyramid of concrete, steel beams, and cabling - had morphed into a grotesque abomination. Monstrous bone spurs jutted from the ground like macabre stalactites, their sinuous tendrils stretched taut and pulsating between them. From the base of the twisted tower, a disturbing torrent of blood cascaded, flowing in thick, glutinous streams down the gore-smeared facade. The air was saturated with the acrid tang of metallic salt, and a relentless, pulsing red light bathed the scene in an otherworldly glow. The absence of these vile odors and sounds in the abandoned tunnel was baffling, and the sensory onslaught was nearly unbearable.
Cypher choked back a retch, his face contorting in disgust. The Warlock stood dumbfounded, his hand clamped over his mouth, caught between horror and disbelief. Even the Hollow Knight’s mask, usually impassive, betrayed an unmistakable expression of revulsion at the abominable spectacle.
In stark contrast, Davey was in his element. A predatory grin, more akin to a feral snarl, stretched across his face. The pounding headache that had plagued him vanished, replaced by a fierce, rejuvenated sense of purpose. In this temple of carnage, he felt an irresistible compulsion to ascend and claim dominion. He didn’t question the origins of these fervent thoughts; he simply relished them. He cast a scornful glance at his companions, their human fragility evident in their wide-eyed horror. To him, the tower was a monument to brutal splendor, a testament that violence reigned supreme. And this was merely the basement. His heart surged with anticipation for the marvels that awaited on the upper floors and the monstrous foes he would slay to reach them. Lost in his own bloodthirsty reverie, Davey unsheathed his axes and charged toward a visceral staircase, deaf to the frantic calls of his companions. Amidst the pounding of his own heart, he could almost hear a whisper of cosmic approval, a sibilant murmur promising that he was on the right path.