Your cantrips have increased in potency due to reaching level five.
That was the last thing the strange voice of Nantes said as the black void faded into material existence.
Dahlia felt refreshed when Aelwyth Morghaine flowed back into view around her, as if some power had restored her magical and mental energy and relieved her physical exhaustion.
“Does leveling restore your spells?” Dahlia asked Ruth.
“Using a Pillars of Ascension to level up refreshes the mind and body as if you’d had a full night of rest. The humans said it is Thoth’s way of encouraging them to keep learning more in the limited time allotted to their short lives,” Ruth said. Dahlia approved of her skepticism.
“Where too now, boss?” Drynthor asked. The satyr seemed to have successfully buried his fears about what may lay ahead.
Dahlia considered her answer. She could use the remains of their previous opponents to create a Wight, Mummy, or Wisp, but she only had two third-level spell slots. Coda of Unraveling and Magic Dispel were essential spells to have available against a Chorister—especially with a potent artifact like the Heart involved. Mental images of a mighty Mummy or a sleek Wight drifted through Dahlia’s mind, but she steeled her heart and resolved to save her spells for the fight ahead.
Even if a Wight could be really useful. Never mind that mummies were hugely blessed with physical strength. A small voice whispered in her mind how she’d been cheated out of creating a Weapon Spirit yet, and she shouldn’t let time or fate keep her from a powerful new ally. That voice, Dahlia realized, was the stupid fairy she’d been mere days ago, a being without proper understanding of consequences, time, or denying oneself a want now for a more significant payoff later.
Dahlia resolved to be a new, better Dahlia, and ignore the temptations of instant gratitude, no matter how much of a badass she’d look surrounded by a host of Wisps.
“The Heart. We’ve got a Chorister to kill,” Dahlia said with forced cheer. Her attempt at bravado and confidence didn’t fool any of the Ebon Chorus. Anxiety clawed its way out of Dahlia’s tiny chest and flooded her voice despite her best efforts to be strong. Yet each of the sapient members of the Ebon Chorus stood a little straighter and found a little more resolve to face a strong foe based on the bravery of their diminutive leader, even if it was an act.
“That way,” Ruth pointed with a dark, flaming hand.
“I know,” Dahlia said. The Heart must have felt the power of another Fey. It called out to Dahlia, now, with rhythmic pulses of magic that invited her into the center of the domain of Aelwyth Morghaine. Little flecks of dark intent and discordant magic attempted to hide behind the seemingly benign invitation. Yet, Dahlia noticed both and was forced to wonder… would the artifact allow her to use its power to defeat the Chorister? No creation of Titania’s would willingly serve a discordant one.
Of course, a creation of Mab’s might serve a Discordant One, and the Heart was said to be a dual effort between the Court of Summer and Winter.
Perhaps, Dahlia mused, she could turn it to her side. Any advantage against a powerful foe was to be cultivated. Destroying someone by a hair's width was barely a victory; humiliating them and achieving total domination was the goal of every fight—at least, that is what Lady Nyxaria taught.
Dahlia landed on Xeras's shoulder, leaving Mr. Disapoofer padding next to the Knight until his mistress returned to him. Mr. Disapoofer gave Xeras covetous looks, displeased with this scenario. As one of the weakest creatures in the Ebon Chorus, the familiar wasn’t sure what his role might be if he was not Dahlia’s mount.
“I need you to be strong for me, Xeras,” Dahlia whispered, not into the strange wooden ears on Xeras’s wooden body but directly into his mind.
“My strength is yours, Lady Dahlia,” Xeras answered genuinely. Yet when he spoke the words, one of the runes on Gloombough changed from vivid green to rich, luxurious purple, the color of Dahlia’s hair, eyes, and, currently, her fairy dust. Fittingly, it was the rune at the base of the blade, closest to the hilt. The transformation, or the rune's activation, converted the shape and symbols into a modern, non-archaic version of Sylvan that they used in the Soulweald in the present day. The archaic versions predated Dahlia enough that they might as well have been a different language. In modern Sylvan, it read ‘Alacrity.”
“Does that do what I think it does?” Dahlia asked telepathically.
Xeras shared his vision and senses with Dahlia, which allowed her to perceive his statistical information. Gloombough had gained a new effect—or regained an old one.
Alacrity: While wielded by a bonded warrior, Gloombough dramatically increases the wielder’s speed, boosts their evasion chances significantly, and allows the wielder to attack more frequently.
Dahlia giggled happily, and smiles were shared amongst the Ebon Chorus. It didn’t matter what lifted the mood of their mistress and her knight. They only cared that something had lifted it. In this case, what lifted Dahlia’s spirits were daydreams of Xeras striking down hordes of her enemies with swiftly delivered strikes, no mercy, and absolute loyalty. With the strength of her Gloamknight and Gloombough, even a Chorister would be brought low.
Xeras, who had seen the look of power’s corruption upon many a face throughout his long existence, merely chortled.
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The party ventured forth once more. The neatly cobbled streets of the inner city of Aelwyth Morghaine wended through gorgeous elven spires, dainty groves that once housed dryads and pixies, and past what were once the homes of the influential and affluent. The roads, not overgrown despite centuries of neglect, wove through the city as if they were the arteries of an ancient beast—primarily due to the conduits for the Gossamer Heart’s power, which flowed underneath the cobblestones.
The lichen had not progressed very far into the inner wards of the city. Horus seemed to be taking his time to complete the destruction of the Fey city, which made Dahlia wonder if he was lazy or savoring it.
Twice, Ruth unleashed blasts of Starbloom Eruption to obliterate groups of undead who wore the sigil of House Vesperwyn. The rest of the Ebon Chorus obliterated the weak undead once the spell of dramatic celestial fire did its work.
“These aren’t natural undead,” Xeras muttered gruffly, Gloombough’s tip pushing the pile of rekilled bones around to examine them.
“No, they wouldn’t be,” Dahlia agreed. “Something drained them of all positive energy while infusing them with negative energy. This didn’t happen over time. They’ve been like this since… whatever happened here, happened.” Dahlia agreed.
“Isn’t that how more powerful undead, like Wights, Revenants, and Death Knights are made?” Ruth asked.
“It is, but whoever did it didn’t make intelligent undead. They drained the positive energy too abruptly, which forced the souls out of their vessels. Why create a powerful but stupid army and then do nothing with it for all these years?” Dahlia nibbled on her lower lip. It didn’t make sense.
714 experience later, Dahlia and the Ebon Chorus stood at one of the side entrances to the large keep at the center of Aelwyth Morghaine. The Manor was no simple house. The curving walls, the paved paths, and the manicured trees all amplified the effects of the eldritch locus—the Gossamer Heart—which lay beneath the manor. The manor itself had not been built but grown. Pale iridescent stone entwined with blackthorn trees created a strong structure composed half of a wood harder than iron, and half a beautiful magic-enhancing stone. Magic still flowed strongly through the structure.
Beyond the wall, separating the wall from the manor lay the Twilight Courtyard. The sun still hung in the sky, preventing them from witnessing the bioluminescent flowers opening. Phantom sounds of the past, soirees, dances, and knighting ceremonies spilled out of bubbles that rose from a fountain in the middle of the courtyard. The pool of midnight-colored water provided a stark warning about the corruption of the pool, although the group didn’t have much time to admire the beauty.
The air itself curdled with the first syllable of a scream—high, thin, and wrong. It wasn’t a scream in the way that a living person screams, nor a cry that belonged to the living at all. Grief wove into the sound, an unraveling thread of sorrow that dug hooks into the marrow and pulled. It burrowed under the skin, and invisible talons clawed at the edges of the mind. The piercing, penetrating agony generated from hearing the scream left Dahlia’s breath in shallow movements, and her muscles ached as she tensed uncontrollably. The world dimmed as if the wail drew the light from existence, leaving only a cold echo of oblivion.
A split, winding double staircase separated the Twilight Courtyard from an elevated terrace. Once, powerful Fey nobles had worn masks, sipped drinks, and basked in the unmatched beauty of the Twilight Courtyard during extravagant galas. The figure that floated down one of the staircases might have been beautiful once upon a time.
The banshee was elvish in origin or maybe a Fey of close relation. While her body showed the ravages of time, her face remained beautiful and perfectly done, other than the lifeless eyes and dull, sorrowful groaning.
“We’re supposed to be afraid of that?” Xeras asked. A derisive snort accompanied the words.
Maeravel Thornheart’s cold, lifeless hand fell on the rapier's hilt at her hip as she glided off the last of the stairs. Potent waves of magic crashed upon the courtyard when the banshee drew the rapier—a cursed blade of pitch black that cascaded dark clouds of vapors when unsheathed. Maeravel’s dull eyes gained purpose when the wretched blade tainted fresh air.
Dahlia knew a puppet when she saw one, and that cursed blade dominated the husk-like banshee expertly.
Elegantly thin, the cursed blade looked fragile as if it had been cut from polished obsidian, yet the light played upon its surfaces as if it were liquid shadow playing in the moonlight. Appearances were often illusions, much like Gloombough wasn’t some random wooden weapon, neither was this a Stone Age creation of chipped obsidian.
The hilt and guard were fashioned from bones that, at first glance, might appear to be mortal. Yet the dense concentration of magic and the foul taint of destruction screamed out the real nature of those bones to Dahlia. The bones were wound with dark crimson-speckled silver wire that veritably throbbed with malice. Sanguis Argentum, or Bloodsilver, wrapped the Fomorian bone hilt and cross guard. Faint, archaic runes sparkled across the thin blade, their meanings wholly lost on those present, even Xeras.
The air itself trembled in the courtyard as if nature itself were intimidated and desperate to avoid the corrupted touch of the rapier.
“Have you a name, O’marrow-carved blade of darkness?” Dahlia asked.
Telepathically, Dahlia commanded the Ebon Chorus to take up position around her and Mr. Disapoofer. Ruth remained in the rear with Lorien. Drynthor took up position before Dahlia, while the Hornet Swarm and Xeras moved to meet the banshee. The green aura of Xeras and Gloombough intensified in opposition to the dark energies of the rapier.
Maeravel screamed again, a thing of pure suffering and wretchedness—yet neither Dahlia nor the Ebon Chorus were mortal beings, and the banshee's screams did naught but disquiet and unnerve them.
A terrible voice answered Dahlia. It was a chorus of suffering, an unbearable layering of voices that never should have spoken together. Echoes of every life the blade had ever consumed cried for freedom, begged to escape the accursed relic that forced them to wail and whisper for eternity. Underneath those lay something worse. It wasn’t a mortal nor some minor magical construct. The voice stemmed from something that had always been there, lurking underneath the conscious thought of all beings. A grating, discordant whisper that slithered through the mind, a terrifying insect that could burrow through thought and self and destroy both from within. A voice far, far away, and yet impossibly close.
Echoes of screams from the nightmares of all races whispered and pressed against the skulls of all who lived and even those who didn’t. None could ignore the voice, with its razor-edged intent that could slice through silence.
We are Shriekfang, Ruler of Aelwyth Morghaine. It has been too long since we feasted. Forgive our rudeness.
“No, I don’t think I will, but you’re welcome to beg for forgiveness right before I destroy you,” Dahlia said with bravado. She promptly burned fourteen Glimmer points to drive her Intelligence and Wisdom up to 14 each. It cost her two points per attribute up to fourteen and three points per attribute for fifteen to eighteen. Fourteen would have to do for now. She merely hoped it would be enough to bolster her mind against the magic of the banshee and the vile weapon.