“Gods this is aggravating,” Huojin muttered as the two walked away from the temple. As luck would have it, it seemed that the staff wasn’t being kept in Ashbourn, meaning the two had wasted the better part of two days for nothing. Huojin muttered something under his breath as he ran his fingers through his hair, stopping halfway and drumming them on the top of his head.
The Prophet pinched the bridge of his nose, annoyed at their wasted time before his eyes caught sight of several soldiers all hurriedly making their way to the church on the other side of the city. Huojin stopped walking as he noticed as well. “The hell?” Huojin mumbled, squinting his eyes towards the church to see what could’ve possibly been going on.
The Prophet’s hands shook as he recognized the armor they wore. “That’s the Royal Army,” he spoke, his voice shaking as his fingers wrapped around the handle of his sword. Huojin spun and looked at the Prophet with bewilderment in his eyes. “What?! Why the hell would they… well I guess we can be glad they’re going in the other direction. We should probably just mind our own business and move on,” Huojin said, looking at the small militia with concern.
The Prophet’s knuckles went white as his grip tightened around the handle of his sword. Huojin noticed this and sighed. “But I’m gonna guess that's not on the table,” he said. The Prophet let out a heavy breath before breaking down the stairs in a half-sprint, Huojin close behind as he frustratedly grumbled out annoyances.
The two reached the bottom of the flight of far too many stairs and weaved through alleyways as they made their way to the church, being careful to avoid any guardsmen. The Prophet rounded a corner and slammed head-first into a tall and broad figure. He stumbled backward before looking at the new arrival only to see a surprisingly familiar face. “Woden?” he asked, his hand gripping his sword once more on instinct from the energy radiating off of the Pyromancer.
“Hello, Prophet,” Woden said menacingly, a smile creeping up on his face. The two stood silent for a minute as the Prophet grew more and more wary of the Pyromancer. “I didn't expect to find you in Ashbourn. What are you doing here,” the Prophet asked, swallowing the lump in his throat and calming his beating heart.
“I’m on a hunt, so to speak. For a particularly slippery person. Although I think that hunt is coming to a close,” Woden responded. That was all the confirmation the Prophet needed, and in one fell swoop he had drawn his sword from its sheath and brought it down on Woden’s shoulder. At least that’s what would’ve happened had Woden not caught the blade.
“The Elf commander has your companions Grayson and Vale surrounded at the church. He summoned them there under the guise of a meeting, but plans to kidnap them and use their lives to draw you out,” the Pyromancer said as he shifted the blade away from his body.
“W-what?” the Prophet stumbled, eyes wide as his bloodlust faded into horror. The Pyromancer’s smile grew as he let go of the blade and the Prophet pulled back, eyeing Woden with unease. For some reason, the Prophet knew Woden wasn’t lying to him. He had been having visions that depicted a similar scene to what the Pyromancer had described.
“Don’t make me repeat myself. Of course, I wouldn’t tell you this if I got nothing out of it,” Woden responded, taking a step towards the Prophet. “Bring Svarog to me,” Woden continued, fire flaring in his chest. His hands twitched at his sides as the Prophet looked at him, he was itching for a fight. The Prophet’s eyes somehow widened even further as he looked at the Pyromancer.
“What?”
° ° °
The ground shook and the crowds screamed as the church roof blasted off, a pillar of fire shooting into the sky from where it used to be. Grayson, just a few yards from the gates to the city, collapsed as the wound on his chest pulsed. He let out a few choked breaths as Vale crouched next to him, her eyes frantic and her mouth moving in unheard questions. Grayson felt someone move under his arm and stand, lifting him with them with his arm wrapped around their shoulders. His gaze traveled over to the person who had lifted him as Vale wrapped his other arm around her shoulders.
It was Cinris. Grayson struggled against his hold, adamant in keeping a strict separation between himself and his old friend, but couldn’t help but relent as another bolt of pain shot through his body. Cinris and Vale struggled to carry the massive man the rest of the way to the gates despite the short distance. His vision came in bursts as the pain worsened, and he saw Huojin’s eyes go wide in surprise and concern as he helped Cinris and Vale load him into the carriage.
The next few bursts of vision consisted of watching Vale and Cinris undo the bandages around his chest, and both of their eyes widening as they saw the wound. Grayson looked down at it, but instead of what he expected to see, he saw scars bulging outwards like thick veins that had spread across his entire torso, wrapping around him like a vest of pitch. It looked like obsidian with streaks of crimson along it like bolts of lightning.
Grayson groaned as the wound pulsed, sending agony wracking through his body as he watched Cinris’ attention shift to something behind the carriage. Grayson looked to where he was watching and saw Lynn pushing past civilians, racing towards the carriage. Cinris’ gaze shifted to Vale before shifting back to Grayson with steely determination tucked in every corner of his expression. He didn’t speak as he stood up, but from the expressions of Vale and Huojin who was looking into the carriage from the driver's seat, he was about to do something stupid. That was the last thing Grayson saw before he passed out.
“Prophet, you can’t be serious,” Huojin yelled over the screaming of civilians as they raced past the carriage. Cinris looked back at Huojin and shrugged as a Royal Guard shouted at them to stay where they were. “Been having visions where you all were used against me by those bastards. Figured the best way to keep you safe was to give ‘em what they want,” Cinris said before giving Huojin a wry smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t go without a fight.”
His smile fell into a wistful expression as he looked down at Vale, and the two exchanged a look that Huojin couldn’t see, but he could tell it hurt the Prophet regardless. “I’ll be back, I promise,” he said, but wavering uncertainty was plainer than any confidence in his voice. Vale sat silently, looking over Grayson’s wound with steady hands, muttering small incantations now and again that seemed to do nothing as the wound continued to pulse. Grayson’s erratic breathing slowed and steadied, and Vale let out a sigh before turning to the Prophet once more.
Vale stood and walked over to the Prophet, stopping a few feet in front of him before pulling him into a tight and sudden hug. He winced at the sudden pressure against the many bruises and cuts that coated his torso. Vale pulled away, relieving Cinris of the stinging pain from his wounds, but leaving a different ache in their place.
“Vale, I-,” he started, stopped by Vale’s hand tracing the side of his face. “You’ll be back, I know. I just wish you could stay now,” she breathed, cupping his head with both of her hands and bringing it to her own, resting his forehead on hers. “Just come back to me in one piece, okay?” she pleaded, her silver eyes filled with a somber longing as they locked with Cinris’.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, wrapping his hands around her wrists. “That’s all I could ever ask of you,” Vale responded with a smile. She moved her hands from his face and Cinris looked up, giving Huojin a nod before turning and dropping from the back of the carriage onto the hard, dry earth. A few seconds after he landed, the carriage sped off down the road, taking anything he cared to protect with it.
“Prophet!” Lynn roared as he drew his sword. Cinris locked eyes with the Elf and a strange sense of recognition washed over him. A feeling that occurred when he saw someone involved in something he did while under hypnosis. He tried his hardest to remember what he had done to this person in particular, but it came in blurry bursts. “You’re under arrest for the massacre that occurred on the night of the False Moon. For the murder of my brothers and sisters, you will face justice,” Lynn spat as he settled into a stance, his side facing Cinris with his sword pointed toward the ground, low and prepared to counter.
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The Prophet smiled, concluding that, based on the Elf’s eagerness, he wouldn’t accept surrender without a fight. Lynn bristled, taking the smile as a taunt, and prepared for the Prophet to draw his weapon. He removed his estoc from his belt and pulled it from its steel scabbard, answering the challenge. Lynn advanced, but stumbled. He fell to one knee and clutched his stomach, still injured from Woden’s attack. The Elven woman the Prophet had seen dragging Lynn out of the church knelt beside him, and the two exchanged words he couldn’t hear.
The woman stood and drew the two swords at her sides as she began marching towards the Prophet. He regarded her with caution and a sliver of curiosity, he hadn’t seen her before. He hadn’t technically seen the other Elf either, but he had distant memories of how he fought. “Astrid… be careful,” Lynn said as the Prophet settled into a stance similar to the one Lynn had been using.
Astrid’s thoughts were going a mile a minute as she lowered herself to the ground, both of her swords at her sides, using the stance she had been practicing against Lynn. The Prophet was a different fighter, so she didn’t exactly know his technique, but his stance was similar to Lynn’s, and they both used piercing weapons. If she was lucky, he would fight similarly.
The Prophet winced as Astrid looked him up and down. He took the time to do the same to himself, seeing as strategizing would be meaningless as he intended to lose. He wasn’t in much better shape than Lynn. The guards had done a number on him and there were several deep gashes in his side from their spears and swords. He didn’t have enough blood to keep this up for long. Not to mention burn wounds from one of the guards who, in a last-ditch effort, threw a lantern at him. He’d have to buy a new cloak after this all blew over.
His thoughts were interrupted as Astrid bolted forward, jumping into the air slightly as she brought her swords down at the Prophet. He had just enough time to step to the right, her blades gliding off of his while he maneuvered behind her. He aimed in between her shoulder blades and stabbed, but she rolled to the side before his attack could connect. He didn’t want to kill her. Quite the opposite. But he had to be convincing.
“Slow. If you want to avenge your friends then you’ll have to actually hit me,” the Prophet goaded as he backstepped away from a sweep delivered by Astrid as she recovered. She darted towards him again, swinging to his right but feinting to his left, confusing him enough for her swords to hit him. The gashes burned as he retreated slightly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes open as his head spun from the blood loss.
“I don’t have the same anger for you that my commander does. Drop the weapon now and we’ll take you in without any more needless bloodshed,” Astrid said, flicking the blood off of her swords. The Prophet sucked in air through his teeth before smiling. “And let you take my head in front of an audience instead? I’ll take my chances,” he bluffed as he raised his sword in an offensive stance, leaving his guard open.
Astrid capitalized on that, just as he wanted her to. Her strike was aimed for the dead center of his chest, and likely would’ve killed him had he not put every last drop of energy in his body into ducking the strike. He could feel blood bubbling in his throat as he moved to slash at Astrid’s stomach. He guessed that her attack must’ve gone deeper than he thought and hit a lung. He would be long dead if he couldn’t heal.
His attack connected, but it was hardly a swing. He had fully expended his energy and didn’t have any strength left to put into his attack. The blade dug into her armor and bit flesh, but only barely. His grip loosened on his sword as he stood, stumbling a bit. Astrid was holding her side, eyes wide as she recognized that she very well could’ve died. Cinris’ sword clattered against the ground, letting exhaustion take him as he fell to the earth.
° ° °
Svarog roared in hatred as his sword crashed against Woden’s, the shockwave shattering the ground beneath them and blowing doors off of buildings. Woden moved one of his hands under Svarog’s guard and fired off an explosion of flame directly into Svarog’s face. The god opened the shredded metal mouth of his helmet as the blast went off, swallowing the fire. Woden spun to the side as Svarog spat the flame back out at him, breaking the clash. He snapped his fingers, causing the rebounded flame to break into several smaller flames and hurtle toward Svarog.
The god dodged to the side, the flames impacting a house and obliterating the small building. The dust and rubble kicked up from the explosion provided enough of a smokescreen for Svarog to dart forward, catching Woden off guard. The Pyromancer threw his guard up with just enough time to catch the swing from Svarog, but not enough to keep himself rooted to the ground. The force of the attack sent him flying through a nearby building, hitting the road on the other end and bouncing like a stone skipped on water.
“Those runes on your sword,” Svarog said as he walked through the hole in the building, coming to a stop as he saw Woden pulling himself from the rubble. “Where the hell did you learn them,” he snarled, lowering himself to the ground and digging his clawed fingers into the stone as if preparing to launch himself at the Pyromancer.
“A traitor,” Woden spat, his grip tightening around the weapon despite it sapping his energy from him. “It seems he keeps like-minded company,” Svarog muttered. Woden didn’t have time to question what he meant as Svarog did exactly what it looked like he was going to do, launching himself through the air at the Pyromancer. This time, Woden was ready, and he brought his sword in an upwards arc to counter Svarog’s overhead strike. Their blades clashed, but Woden had leverage on his side, countering Svarog’s strike and leaving the god wide open.
Woden swung downwards with all his might, intending to cleave the god in two. Svarog dodged just too late, moving out of the way enough so that Woden’s strike only severed the god’s sword arm. Svarog roared in pain before catching the arm in his mouth and slamming his other fist into the side of Woden’s head. Woden hit the ground hard but rolled to his feet quickly. Svarog panted as vibrant ichor pooled beneath him, pouring from his wound like a waterfall as he scooped his sword up from the ground.
Svarog bolted at Woden, hardly giving him time to properly regain balance. His swings were sloppier, but held more force behind them as Woden discovered when he tried to block an upward swing only to be sent flying into the air. Svarog let his sword slip from his hand, and it hovered beside him as he shot a tendril of fire at the Pyromancer. The flame wrapped around Woden’s ankle like a chain. Svarog pulled, and Woden was sent careening back down to earth. He hit the stone ground and bounced, feeling his ribs shatter as blood shot from his mouth. Svarog doubled down, slamming his fist into Woden and spiking him back into the ground.
Woden snapped his fingers and the earth beneath him exploded, sending him up and above Svarog. He focused and caused an explosion at the soles of his boots, firing him back towards his opponent. He swung his greatsword, aiming for the god's head as Svarog spat out the arm in his mouth, slamming it back onto the stump. The ground shook, splintered, and cratered as Svarog caught Woden’s sword in his mouth before bringing his own sword at the Pyromancer’s chest. The attack stopped mid-swing as a dent twisted itself into Svarog’s chest. The god let out a roar of pain and fury before he was spiked into the ground, the impact on the stone coming in three separate waves, turning every building in a five-hundred-foot radius into dust.
Woden sparked another explosion where Svarog fell, sending them both tumbling in different directions. Woden landed on one end of the crater with Svarog rolling to the other. Svarog pulled himself to his feet, and the arm he had just reattached fell back off. Both of them stood still, heaving tired breaths as they recovered from the blows they had been dealt. Flame licked out from the stump, and an arm of fire materialized where Svarog’s old arm used to be.
“That sword, how the hell can you even stand to hold it,” Svarog spat, his speech slurred as ichor seeped from his mouth. Woden looked at the sword in his hand, noticing that the runes were glowing brighter than usual. “Those are Vishan’s runes. Ones he designed specifically to take the power from my body. By all means, you shouldn’t even be able to use Pyromancy, much less to the extent you are.”
Woden smiled as he dropped the sword into ambient flame. “It has admittedly been weakening me. I just thought it was fair that if you were going to hold back, I’d do the same,” he said as fire sparked at his fingertips and coiled up around his arms, somehow not burning his gambeson. Svarog laughed as he picked the arm up from the ground. “You’re an interesting one, aren’t you?” The god taunted as his sword disappeared and fire began to pulse from every segment in his armor. “Shame I have to put you down,” he said, placing the arm in his mouth before charging at Woden once more.
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