The fae prisoners consisting of males roughly five to six feet tall, surrounded Ori. Their expectant gazes dimmed before turning ugly and dismissive. One man scowled and muttered, “he’s just a level one,” under his breath, while others looked at him and the angel outside the cell with growing distrust.
Meanwhile, Ori’s split mind knew he had to say or do something—a rousing speech, something charismatic and hopeful, something Jhacrisite or Lord Bartholomew would say. He knew that either he showed leadership at this very moment or lose them forever. But as he stared and caught the eyes of those around him, he found them wanting.
Ori shook his head and left the cell certain in the knowledge that no words from his mouth at that moment could motivate or get them to follow him.
“Where are you going?” one of the satyrs asked angrily after Ori’s back.
“I’ve opened the door, it’s up to you to step out of it,” Ori answered without a backward glance. Confused, Karanno lingered for a while before matching his stride.
“What’s going on?” the angel asked.
“I can help them, but they have to want to be helped. I’m not going to make them want to be free,” Ori said, struggling to articulate his thoughts. He arrived at another cell using Echo Forging to carefully transmute the lock before he swung open the heavy oaken door.
Instead of wasting words, Ori dropped a Beacon of Regeneration woven with Purifying Light, the effect cleansing and healing the rousing prisoners within. Vision of the Progenitor flared, his rudimentary ability to triage patients allowed him to assess if any needed urgent care. Seeing nothing but fear, lethargy, and dull eyes, Ori almost left without speaking but paused, backstepping into the cell.
“There’s a prison cell back that way,” Ori gestured with his hand. “It has some water, some other fae deciding what to do.” Ori searched his mind for more to say, before deciding against wasting any more words and leaving another cell with the doors wide open.
Ori repeated this dozens of times, with Karanno killing infernal guards and Will siphoners, or torturers by any other name. The prisons were like the branches of the lungs, with increasingly smaller cells and rooms the deeper they went through the branching paths. After some time, instead of seeing more guards, skittish fae—first in ones and twos, then in larger groups—appeared, freely wandering the corridors.
“It’s them, the fae-touched that freed us, and the celestial,” one murmured to the others as Ori drew near. A fox-man, or Vulpixin, joined a half-dozen cloven-footed satyrs, their gazes ones of distrust and confusion.
“You know what’s going on?” the fox-man asked, his voice gruff and scratchy. A spark of something Ori had been searching for was seen in his eyes; it warred with fear and uncertainty, but it resonated with him like a tuning fork pressed to glass.
“Prison break,” Ori answered before turning towards his guide. “Karanno, take them to the armoury. Those that can fight can get armed and push for the Gate room while I free the rest.”
“So much for bedside manner,” Karanno sighed before splitting off. “You lot, with me.”
Ori delved into the deepest corridors of the middle Reaches, traversing towards the opening before travelling down the second ‘lung’ of the prison sub-complex. He found fewer individuals here, but those he did find were in far poorer shape than the rest. Instead of treating each patient and healing them to full, Ori stabilised immediate wounds with a Beacon of Regeneration and a soothing promise to return before heading to the next torture chamber.
Ori opened the door, the screaming within continuing unabated despite making no attempt at stealth. He had numbed himself to the horrors so far, but as he took in the scene, Ori couldn’t help but hesitate. A bloody fetus was being mutilated before its mother’s eyes, its limbs twisted and at odd angles, as her tormentor giggled an insane, maniacal laugh. Black blood seeped out of a caesarean section as the red, demonic fingers looped the umbilical cord in an ever-tightening twist.
The demon’s head rolled off its shoulders, its laugh turning into a gurgled insanity that registered no concern at its dismemberment. Behind it, a blade of the array hovered, coated in demon blood as Reach of the Progenitor materialised Aetheric hands that cradled the lifeless baby mid-air.
“Who are you?” the woman gasped, drawing Ori out of his stillness. He moved towards her, horror and caution slowly giving way to the knowledge that more needed to be done.
“I’m Ori,” he replied, casting a weave of Channel Restoration and Cure Wounds after he cut the cord. “I’m sorry.”
“Let me see him,” she whispered and then groaned under the attentions of his spellcraft. The woman, another Vulpixin, Ori realised, seemed older, mid-thirties or forties, though how much of that was due to life within this hell Ori couldn’t know. She was nude, her form splayed out as if her legs were stretched across a medieval rack, and as Ori lowered the twisted corpse to its mother, she cradled it to her malnourished bosom and sang as she wept.
Ori fixed her wounds as best as he could while his mind tried to understand the alien anatomy. There was a history of abuses, including amputated tails and poorly reset bones beneath scarred skin made leathery in places and rotten in others. He could have spent days fixing her, his mana regeneration as limited as it was, was still able to keep his spellcraft channelling indefinitely. However, while he had been planning on reserving his mental energies for the battles to come, he felt he owed the woman his attention while she sang her mournful song.
As the song came to an end, he searched his ring, finding a water enchantment and little else.
“Here, drink,” he said, as he removed his poncho. His modest supply of clothing and armour long since doled out, he offered the clothing off his back to help with the woman’s modesty.
“If you head up towards the top of these caverns, it should be safe and you might find more of your kind…” Ori said, unsure of himself as the once lucid woman closed her eyes, her expression peaceful as her breathing stilled.
By the time Ori had cast Death Ward, her soul had already left her body.
He stood there in silence as close to total despondency and defeat as he had ever felt since being abducted. Beyond the fear that his inept healing methods might have killed her, the regret of never asking for her name lingered most of all. Eventually, those feelings once again gave way to the knowledge that more things needed to be done, and more people could be saved.
As he turned to leave, however, a vivid fuchsia-haired fairy stood within the frame of the door. Ori pushed past Ruenne’del’s inscrutable gaze, more annoyed at her silent, intrusion despite the fact he would have otherwise been happy to have seen her alive and well.
The High Human stormed through the rocky tunnels, no longer hiding his Aetheric hands, eyes, or aura. Prison cell doors exploded in showers of splinters as his ghostly limbs, hundreds of times more powerful than his own fleshy hands, punched with the force of a falling anvil. The Prototype Array of Duælism sliced and cut away what raw magical might could not break and smash.
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A part of him wanted to slow down, to make each torturer suffer with a slow purifying fire instead of a sudden beheading. However, while practical reasons—such as not knowing how to intentionally make things burn with celestial fire, needing to save mental energy for tougher opponents, and Freya’s earliest warnings—prevented him, Ori no longer had the emotional energy to spare.
Instead, he sank deeper into mechanical numbness, dimly aware of the pink-haired fairy shadowing his path through the middle Reaches. He smashed doors, beheaded internals and deployed Beacons of Regeneration, his split mind enabling him to pull off these feats in parallel until circumstances broke his rhythm.
Ori dual-cast Chain Lightning aspected with his Cosmic affinity. Its subdued strobing sound and prismatic light stood in contrast to the horde of feasting, carousing infernal demons and imps. A hundred or more nascent to greater rankers had no more than a breath to realise someone stood at the door to their mess hall who shouldn’t have been there.
A branch of lightning erupted from Seraphine’s Beacon while one of the arrays materialised towards the far end of the room. A second version of the spell, channelled with the aid of Split Mind, erupted from the hybrid focus. As the demon horde died by the dozen, Ori cast Greater Stun, enabling prismatic lightning to delete more enemies from fate without any reply from the unprepared foe.
After seven seconds of channelling, no living being remained within the dining hall that once held over a hundred while close to two hundred days was added to his deathclock.
> Curse: Graceless Infernal Deathclock
>
> Rank: Divine
>
> Description: This curse feeds upon the Grace you accumulate.
>
> Notes: You have [seven hundred and eleven days, seventeen hours] to live. Extend this time by avenging the god you killed. For every infernal slain with a level disparity of greater than one, gain an hour of life. Additionally, gain one hour of life for each level the infernal is above your own.
Ruenne’del stepped inside and wandered through the still-burning dust drifting upwards to sublimate into non-existence.
She saw it all through those big, mysterious eyes, her pretty angular face a fixed mask Ori could spend a lifetime deciphering. He allowed himself to calm his heaving breath, unclench his jaw, and rise from the depths of his numb, robotic fugue. He took in the simple miracle of a real-life fairy wading through the glowing embers of demons as if they were a sea of stars. While Ori could imagine Poppy weaving a sensuous dance through the scattered tables and stools, Ruenne’del’s furtive yet inquisitive steps held their own grace. She stopped, reaching out to one of the last embers, its white light glowing far longer and brighter than the rest. She cupped it in her hands and stared at it in naked wonder. This peek behind her mask of indifference was like seeing the sun for the first time after a storm. Beyond wondering what she found so fascinating, Ori revelled in the simple pride of providing her with a rare moment of joy.
There was no greater meaning, no twisting of fate beyond the feelings he normally had whenever she was near. Still, time stopped nevertheless as he decided to freeze this beautiful instant in his memory forever. A poet might have waxed lyrical about the ephemeral nature of this beauty within an ancient prison full of ugly horrors, but Ori was a practical man with practical concerns.
“Where’s Freya and Lysara?” Ori eventually asked. Questions about her, the Galroga battle, and a million related topics swirled around his mind, but the absence of his familiars was the most pressing.
“With the angel. Freya told me to tell you they wanted to help fight the infernal resistance the fae faced above. She said to meet them there unless you got into trouble below,” Ruenne’del said, her scratchy, lilting voice seemingly overtaxed by her atypically long string of words.
Ori grunted before asking his next question, “So why are you here then?”
She shrugged before answering. “Wanted to learn more about you.”
“Oh yeah?” Ori caught her gaze. “So this isn’t part of some kind of weird fae ritual or something?”
"If it were, I’d not be telling you," Ruenne’del said, her expression revealing the smallest of smirks before she walked past him back into the corridor.
“Fine, anything specific you needed to know?”
“No.”
“No?” Ori asked, catching up to the Leanan Sídhe.
“Seers see, not seers listen. Your deeds are more important than your tales.”
Ori frowned. “And so, if I manage to impress you? What then? What if I just removed my shroud and you divined me?”
“Don’t.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Because I’ve just started to appreciate the joy in not being certain. You have granted me that gift while also being the greatest mystery of my life. Let me watch it unravel for a time longer, please,” she said with little more than a sideways glance. He sensed an earnest core of appreciation beneath her thin veil of scratchy condescension and passive-aggressive snark.
“Alright,” Ori said as they arrived back at the branching corridor, the rocky tunnels reminding him of his goal. “Shouldn’t we split up? We’ll cover more cells quicker that way.”
Her eyes glowed white for a moment before she shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t work. Fae politics.” She added at the sight of his confusion. “Most would tell I’m of the Seelie Court.”
“Wouldn’t that help?”
“Amongst the wilders? No, it wouldn’t,” Ruenne’del answered.
Ori shook his head, deciding to table the topic for now. He caught his bearings, then jogged deeper into the lungs of the middle reaches, busting open prison doors in a whirlwind of motion. He’d get some of the fae from above to gather the prisoners here later. For now, Ori focused on methodically eliminating the remaining infernal presence, ensuring that this section of the prison was secure.
“So, what’s your dad doing? I hope there weren’t too many casualties against the Galroga.”
Ruenne’del grimaced. “He may have sired me, but please don’t call him my dad.”
“Yeah, I can understand that sentiment. He’s a bit of an all-knowing dick too.” Ori chuckled and was rewarded with a genuine smirk from the pink-haired Leanan Sídhe.
“Casualties were… high. They spend time resurrecting who they can. They’re tunnelling to the Upper Reaches. He said he’ll meet you there once you’ve evacuated all you can through the gates.”
“That… kinda sucks.” Ori sighed, disappointed not to have more help corralling these errant escapees. “I think this is the last one,” he said as he opened a door.
A fae exploded from the door. The man was tall and muscular and had likely been waiting, aware of their approaching presence. They stared at each other for ten long breaths before he backed away, confused and wary.
“What’s going on?” the male Spriggan asked, his furry pink and green skin at odds with his owlish expression.
“Prison break,” Ori said simply.
“Yeah, rightly-o. Pull the other one,” it chuckled. Ori didn’t have time for this. Just as he was about to push past the bark-skinned man, Ori stumbled, feeling a wave of distress over the bond to his familiars. Worse, he could feel his Bondweaver trait activate.
Wasting no further time, Ori cast Lesser Recall, temporarily overdrawing on his mana. Freya appeared in her sprite form while Lysara was but a tiny blue spark.
“What happened?” Ori asked Freya as he took in the much-diminished sight of Lysara with concern and dismay.
“Warden,” Freya said. “Caught us by surprise. With undying spark, I shall be weak for a time,” Lysara said, lethargy coating her voice while the Spriggan watched on in fascinated confusion.
Meanwhile, Ori sprinted past the door knowing that Karanno and likely many escapees’ lives now hung in the balance. “Tell me more about this Warden,” Ori asked as he ran, his sprinting form followed by a pink-haired blur.
----------------------------------------
A smoking ruin of an angel tumbled towards Ori’s feet just as he arrived. Vision of the Progenitor saw no serious wounds but for some reason, the Vision seemed if not dimmer, then less vivid than normal. Despite this, Ori crouched, reaching down to cast Beacon of Regeneration, Purifying Light, and Channel Restoration just to make sure.
“Ori?” Karanno wheezed. “She’s—”
“It’s okay, clear the rest of the fae out and get everyone back.”
“Ori—”
“I know,” Ori said, having learned enough from his familiars during his mad dash up the caverns. Karanno, perhaps seeing something he recognised in his expression, nodded as Ori turned his gaze to view the looming foe. “Let me solo her.”