- [‘Death’, the Champion Hollow Armor] -
A chill permeates the air that is filled with the scent of damp musk and the old castle’s ancient decay. Fog drifts in thick tendrils, veiling the jagged peaks of the mountain that claw at the storm-laden sky. Spectral flames flicker atop the battlements, casting eerie shadows that dance along the crumbling walls and weave between a legion of empty, metal silhouettes. The cold is unrelenting, yet it is a distant, fleeting sensation to those who no longer feel — the undead.
‘Death’, the champion hollow guardsman, stands upon the outer ramparts, the hollow armor poised and waiting. A silk scarf, frayed yet once opulent and lavish, coils around his neck, fluttering in the bitter winds of the black elevation. It was a gift from the Master, a sign of his being chosen amongst the many to fulfill a sacred duty.
The night has come once more, and so will fresh adventurers. It is his duty to keep them at bay so that the Master might unfurl his dark machinations upon the world undisturbed by the living.
Death surveys the murky abyss below. Whispers of movement and the faint murmur of spells reach his unseen ears. “They're coming,” he murmurs, the words resonating within his empty helm.
Beside him, a fellow hollow guardsman shifts subtly, metal grating softly. “Again?” asks a voice that is just as void and empty as the metal that it comes from. “They just don't quit.” The voice echoes, hollow yet laced with a hint of exasperation.
Death's visor tilts ever so slightly. “Persistence is the curse of the living.” His gauntleted hand grips the hilt of his blade. The metal groans as he grasps it. “And it is one we, the dead, must share in as well. Get ready.”
For many a week now, the living have assailed these walls, driven by tales of glory and the lure of the Vampire Lord's defeat — or at the very least, his treasures of many fold. The Master has many legions, but the hollow armors in particular exist to thwart these ambitions, bound to protect the sanctity of their Master's domain more than any other undead. They serve him not for the feast of flesh or for the lust of killing; rather, they march under the glory of the banner of the Master — for it, him. Tonight is no different — a cycle of assault and defense that has worn deep grooves into the annals of the history of some… sixteen or so weeks, maybe’ish.
Sure enough, figures emerge from the mist outside the walls, coming up the incline — elvish mages adorned in robes that shimmer with ethereal light. Their eyes glow with determination, staffs already pulsing with arcane energy as they come prepared, with spells already charged. They advance with caution, but their intent is unmistakable.
An initial wave of casters is a problem. They only have a few archers out here.
“Positions,” Death commands nonetheless, getting ready for tonight’s work.
The legion responds without hesitation. Shields are raised, weapons drawn — a complaintless practice readied over countless battles.
A momentary hush settles. The wind holds its breath. Then, a surge of magic bursts forth from the elven ranks — a brilliant cascade of energy hurtling towards the walls.
The impact is ferocious and immediate. Stones shudder, mortar crumbles, and Death feels the tremor resonate through his armor. Residual magic crackles in the air, leaving an acrid taste that lingers even for those without tongues as empty suits of armor fly through the night and off into the castle’s inner grounds.
“Regroup!” Death's voice cuts through the aftermath.
Skeletal archers fire counter-barrages down at the adventurers, but are quickly blasted away from the forest by the other unseen attackers — still hiding. Their arrows are caught by projected magical barriers and great shields.
Another onslaught follows from the living, each wave of magic more formidable than the last as they try to make a break in the wall itself here on the western rampart. They’ll probe different sections of the castle each night, trying to find its new weak spot, and each night the defenders will move to different positions. The gatehouse is often more trouble than it’s worth for attackers, leaving larger groups to often try and force ways in from unusual flanks. Sections of the battlements yield fragments tumbling into the abyss. Hollow armors are thrown aside, some disappearing into the void below as they plummet off the mountainside.
“This isn't sustainable,” notes a soldier, his armor charred and fractured. But his voice is entirely placid and empty, without emotion.
Assessing the fraying defenses, Death makes a swift decision. “Correct. Fall back to the gardens.”
There is no argument. The legion moves as one — like a swarm — retreating from the crumbling ramparts into the shadowed passages of the castle. Their heavy footsteps echo against the distant thunder.
Behind them, the wall breaks and the bodies of the living storm into the outer gardens.
----------------------------------------
As they descend into the garden’s inner sanctuary, the atmosphere transforms. The chill of the night is softened by a humid warmth stemming from the flush life all around them. The scent of night-blooming flowers melds with the lingering traces of ozone. The inner Blackflower Gardens beckon. They’ll make a more suitable attempt at the defense here, where they can drive the enemy into close quarters down the path toward the castle that he expects them to try and take.
A hollow armor glances back. “Will they chase us in here?”
Death's pace remains steady. “Undoubtedly. The ambition of the living blinds them to do so.”
The ground underfoot is soft, muffled by a carpet of moss and fallen petals. The ancient magic of the castle pulses subtly. Some of their black armor hisses, smoldering as the superheated metal — still hot from the magical attempts from before — touches wet plants and dewy walls.
He leads them deeper, thoughts drifting to fresh tactics.
Reaching a raised clearing that the way leads through, the legions disperse among the grotesque sculptures and warped trees. A broken ring of walls with arched openings circles the area, adorned with statues. It appears to be some kind of ruined ampitheatre. Moonlight filters through the dense foliage, casting shifting patterns that deceive the eye — an intentional design by the Vampire Lord to ensnare the senses of the unwary, surely. The Master thinks of every last detail.
This is good. The enemy casters will not have long-range sightlines here and will be forced into closer engagements.
An armor approaches, helm tilted in inquiry. “Your orders?”
Death rests a hand on a stone pillar, its surface cool and slick. “We make our stand here. Spread yourselves amongst the ruins and wait.” He casts out an arm. “The Master must not be disturbed.”
The legion disperses without a word, waiting.
Silence envelops them, broken only by the distant hum of enchantments. The fog hangs low, whisps weaving between the statues and thorny bushes.
He gazes upward. The sky is a mess of storm clouds, obscuring the missing stars that the Master consumes in his endless hunger. Time feels distorted to him, given his immortality of sorts — moments stretch longer than they ought to.
The battle is far from over.
They’ll be here soon.
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The warm odor of damp soil and blooming, sour petals fills the air, mingling with the smell of light rain. The branches of gnarled trees reach upward like skeletal fingers grasping at the rim of their graves. A wind whispers through the foliage, carrying with itself the distant sound of footsteps and hushed voices as the living approach. It – the wind — leaks through the gaps in the some hundred suits of armor, simply standing there in the darkness, no different than the statues they lurk near to. A soft whistling fills the air as it runs along the sharp metal.
— People. The adventurers have arrived.
Death stands silent among the shadows, his armor gleaming faintly under the waning moonlight. The pale silk scarf around his neck flutters gently, a stark contrast to the cold, black steel of his form. He raises a gauntlet, signaling his legion to hold their positions.
“They're close,” whispers one of the armors beside him, the echo of his voice barely audible.
Death nods, his visor fixed on the arched entrance where the adventurers will emerge. His other hand grips his weapon tightly. The ambush is ready.
A soft rustling draws his attention.
Above, perched among the stone statues poised on high ledges, other hollow armors await his command.
The night is torn apart by a sudden burst of laughter from beyond the hedges. “Did you see the look on that skeleton's face?” an adventurer's voice rings out.
Another scoffs. “If they even have faces. Come on, we're almost through. I want to get inside the castle before the storm really hits.”
“You guys ever notice how often it rains out here?” muses an idle voice from the side.
They all seem entirely unbothered, almost relaxed, in their banter.
Death's gaze narrows. Foolish, he thinks. Confidence will be their downfall. None of them will be making it inside the castle tonight. They would be better off surrendering themselves to the storm to come.
He glances at the armors to his right. They shift ever so slightly.
The first of the adventurers steps into view, entering into the ampitheatre — a human warrior, sword drawn, eyes scanning the surroundings. Behind him, a trio of elvish mages follow, their staffs emitting a faint glow as they light up the night. They’re the ones who barraged the walls just before. Casters are a problem for Death’s legion, as they don’t have any magic specialists if no skeletons are around at the moment by chance. Thankfully, there are at least some skeleton archers perched here by the will of the Master. The hollow armors themselves are a strictly close-quarters physical combat fighting force.
“Stay alert,” the human warrior mutters. “This place gives me the creeps.”
One of the elven mages rolls his shoulders. “It's just a little park. What's the worst that could happen?” he asks, asking the most dangerous question known to man.
Death allows himself a moment of anticipation for the last intruder to cross the open threshold. He swipes his hand through the air. “Now!”
With a thunderous crash, dozens of the stone statues plummet from above, sliding off of the ruined walls, smashing into the ground around the adventurers. Dust and debris cloud the air. Cries of surprise and pain echo through the garden as several of the intruders are broken and crushed. Arrows rain down from hidden skeleton archers, their trajectories swift and deadly. Two of the rear mages collapse, struck before they can react with any precision. The remaining adventurers scramble for cover, spells and curses flying from their lips as they take cover down in the stonework heaps.
“Ambush!” yells the warrior, diving out of the way as a statue of a man who looks like he has to use the washroom shatters where he stood moments before. A second later, spells blast into the air, rupturing through the falling statues and blasting into the raised wall where the hollow armors were lurking.
“Engage!” orders the champion monster, seeing his chance now to move in closer. Like black water leaking over the edge of a full, rotting basin — shapes flow out from the walls and plummet. Dozens of suits of hollow armor leap down from the broken walls of the ampitheatre and pour out from behind trees, flowing in without interruption directly toward the rattled adventurers who are still trying to put their senses back together.
Death strides forward, joining his legion as they rush into the fray. The clash of metal on metal reverberates through the garden as adventurers from other parties engage, having been attracted by the commotion as they come from the sides. The core enemy party remains in the middle of it all, having recollected themselves.Conflict’s chime fills the night as hundreds of worked pieces of metal come into contact with one another all around the ampitheatre. He engages the primary human warrior, their blades meeting with sparks. The warrior grits his teeth. Death's response is a silent, relentless assault — his sword battering against the human’s blade and buckler.
The real strength a hollow armor possesses is that it doesn’t have breath or endurance. Whereas a man needs to mind his poise, his air, his strength — as long as the Master is strong, then so are his chosen guardians. A thousand strikes struck in an hour will not tire an undead even a little, whereas a man would be spent in full.
There were once days in the long past, during the era of the old Vampire Lord, when the troop of hollow guardsmen was entirely neglected and relegated to being nothing more than ornamental set pieces in the castle’s corridors — fully devoid of purpose, honor, and task. But the new Master is different; he’s marked them as his most trusted and loyal king’s guard, devoting endless resources to making sure they’re equipped, strong, and ready to carry his banner. They, as a legion, repay his trust by doing just that.
Nearby, a hollow armor falls, cleaved in half at the waist by a dwarven axe that runs through the metal. The dwarf spits on the ground. “These metal scraps are tougher than they look. But nothing we can’t -”
The broken suit of hollow armor lifts a bubbling potion from its shattered side as he speaks. “For the Master!” it rattles out in an empty voice before immediately smashing the bottle into the cobblestones that it lies on.
Immediately, violently radiant blue light fills the air, blinding everyone in the arena with an azure shine as a catastrophic, magical explosion tears through the cold night, sending the living nearby flying as the sudden alchemical reaction erupts. But not the hollow armors — they stand where they are, the pressure of the shockwave rattling their empty armor somewhat, the bluetide flames flowing through the gaps as they march forward toward the stunned enemy and press the attack with fire licking out through the inside of their helmet’s visors as if their spiritual possessions of the metal shells were made manifest and visible to the naked eye.
Above, the clouds gather, swirling ominously. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The air grows heavy, charged with both magic and an impending storm.
— A poor omen.
Death feels a shift in momentum, despite looking down at the human warrior who has been blasted away against the wall by the explosion. He gets up, pulled to his feet by one of his surviving troop members.
The hollow armor champion looks around himself, watching the entrances. More adventurers are flooding in, attracted by the explosion. Despite the defender’s initial advantage, the intruding adventurers are regrouping, their coordination improving. Coordinated intruder movements are pushing back several vanguards from his legion.
An assassin darts between the clouds of smoke, daggers flashing as she takes down a skeleton archer, easily dodging the flame-caught arrow it had shot her way.
A second explosion rocks the garden as the last surviving elven mage unleashes a fire spell, engulfing several hollow armors with enough heat to melt them where they stand. Flames vaporize the surrounding flora. The stone walls of the ampitheatre behind the magical fire melt and drip, like sludge.
“Do we fall back?” asks one of Death's legion, next to him in a calm voice as the stone ampitheatre next to them liquifies from the heat of the magical attack.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
The champion monster assesses the rapidly changing battlefield. Bodies of both defenders and intruders litter the ground. The scent of burnt metal and ozone assaults his senses. The defense is failing, however.
“We hold here,” Death decides. “There is nowhere else to reteat to between here and the castle,” explains the champion. “And they are not to come inside it at any price.”
A nearby armor, dented and barely physically holding itself together any longer, looks at him. “We are too few,” it says placidly.
Death readies himself for a new push against. “The weight of our duty does not lessen because we have fewer shoulders now to carry it with than before.” It looks toward the enemy, holding its black sword ready. “It simply means we need to have stronger shoulders ourselves now.” It steps forward, the silk scarf blowing in the wind. “Fall back to the core gate. I will hold them here.”
“Inadvisable,” says the secondary suit of hollow armor behind the champion. “You are outnumbered. The castle entryway offers a better defensive advantage.”
Death looks back at him, his own hand holding up the tattered edge of the featherlight silk scarf wrapped around him. “Don’t worry,” says the champion, letting the near-weightless spidersilk fall from between its fingers. “I have very strong shoulders.”
A sudden collapse interrupts them. The enemy mage fires again. The ground trembles as part of the ampitheatre wall crumbles, stones raining down and creating a barrier between Death and his legion as the ampitheatre archway collapses from the fireball’s near miss.
“Hey! Back off!” shouts the warrior from before at the wizard. The adventurers press forward, emboldened by their success as most of the defending armors have been repelled again. The warrior leading the charge locks eyes with Death. “The champion’s mine!” he calls to his group, staking a verbal claim to the kill.
“Not if I get there first,” remarks the assassin from before smugly, readying a dagger as she makes a contest out of it.
Death simply prepares himself, grounding his stance in silence. The black metal of his sword gleams ominously in the night. There is an unusual dark power to the rare metal from below the Master’s castle, one that sets it apart from conventional steels and bronzes. It isn’t used often, given the fact that doing so would drain power from the Master’s reserves. But there is a time and a place to do so — it has been entrusted to them by him, after all. The digression of its use has been handed fully to the legion.
Dust fills the air, vision obscured. The faint sounds of battle from elsewhere in the gardens echo from beyond the fallen debris. A tense silence follows. The wind picks up, swirling leaves and ash around them.
The mage raises his staff, energy crackling at the tip.
The living adventurers, each eyeing another suspiciously, rush the champion in unison.
He meets them head-on, blocking the warrior's strike and sidestepping the assassin’s attack in the same movement. The black sword in his hands shines as it draws in the magic of the air around them. A second later, he swings out the blade and meets the sword of the warrior again — the black metal cutting through the steel of his weapon in an instant and then through the armor along his chest. His gait is fluid, almost graceful despite the seemingly heavy weight of his armor — an illusion. It is hollow, after all. And so he can move as exactly that, a suit of armor with no restrictions of joints or sinew trapped inside of itself. Other adventurers pour in, each trying to stake a claim on the kill. A champion monster is worth a lot of experience points and will promise to drop unique and powerful magical objects. It’s a desirable target for everyone here.
Sparks fly as blades clash, trying to cut into the black sword and armor — but the blade itself is sharper than any other here. Men fall one after the other as they follow practiced techniques, trying to lock his weapon in place, only to find their hilts and blades being cut through as if it were soft leather. Their bodies follow, one after the other, dropping around the feet of the black armor.
The last mage's spells weave through the air, forcing Death to keep dodging.
“What’s with this thing?!” the still-surviving assassin exclaims, frustration evident as she slides back, staying on her feet as a trail grooves its way through the stones. The champion armor’s knee that had just battered her away lowers itself back down, sweeping the leg of the human man behind it in a disjointed movement. He almost falls over, barely catching himself in a backward roll before Death’s sword cuts into the ground where he was predicted to land.
“It’s a champion!” shouts someone over to her. “Watch what you’re doing!”
— The air glows. Magic flies. The wizard uses the opening to send a fresh blast across the field toward Death.
Death counters, leveraging every opening. He deflects the spell with the side of his sword, the impact reverberating through his arm as the fireball is diverted behind him. The assassin is vaporized in an instant.
“What the fuck is this thing?!” shouts the wizard, looking around himself for support.
But there’s nobody else left.
Nervously, he looks back toward the suit of armor that stands there, smoldering. Steam and smoke rise from its hissing form as the rain strikes against it. It angles the sword sharply, readying for a final push. The wizard lets out a scream, holding his hands out ahead of himself, preparing a chaotic blast as his final defense. His hands glow with a maelstrom of wild magic, his terrified eyes watching as the black silhouette rushes his way, a sword slashing out toward him in the same second as the spell flies.
The night erupts, vanishing fully for a moment, as the full sensory-deafening roar of the magical explosion fills the world.
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- [Vampire Lord Inkume] - Five Minutes Earlier
How relaxing.
The scent of fragrant oils and warm minerals fills the air, rising from the steaming bath that occupies the center of the vast chamber high within the castle’s heart. Gentle candlelight flickers along the marble walls, casting warm shadows that waver with each subtle draft of the wind. The soft glow illuminates ornate carvings of ancient tales painted onto stone, and the close sound of trickling water adds a soothing melody to the tranquil atmosphere.
Vampire Lord Inkume sits leaned forward in the heated water, the book in his hands dampened slightly by the lingering steam. He turns a page, eyes scanning the delicate script on the topic of helping someone manage the forgetfulness of old age. A faint smile touches his lips as he considers the irony. Can vampires get dementia? Either way, he’s trying to figure out how he can help Hwa-Young be somewhat more… mindful. This book from the library seemed like the perfect material for the matter. Although he’s not sure which advice here is applicable and which is really just witch-doctor quackery. Medical science certainly is different in this world than his own previous one.
“Rub their neck with quartz?” he mutters to himself, looking at the explanation, not sure if that makes any sense. “How is that supposed to help?”
“Pfft, that’s some big-city, human nonsense,” says a scoffing voice from behind him — Bark. “You’re supposed to use parsley, not quartz,” she explains without skipping a beat. The sureness of her voice fully suggests she is entirely serious. “Bunch’a nonsense.”
Tonight is a moonless night. Inkume looks back behind himself at the transformed wolf goddess for a moment, his extremely curious sight being blurred a second alter as she rings out the wet cloth in her hands over his face to make a point. Water runs down his forehead and past his brow. “Don’t get the book wet,” he says, holding his hands out further to keep the pages away from getting any droplets on them. Taking the hint, he looks back away from the woman sitting in the bath just behind him.
“Shouldn’t read a borrowed parchment book in a wet bath then, dumbass,” replies the wolf goddess.
“You’re right, I’ll have the library’s entire contents transcribed into stone tablets first thing,” remarks Inkume sarcastically, shaking his head.
A cool breeze drifts in from the grand open archway, carrying with it the crisp scent of the mountain night. He lifts his gaze, looking out into the darkness where the jagged peaks pierce the starless sky. The usual fog hangs low, but tonight it seems thinner, allowing glimpses of distant cliffs and shadowed valleys.
“…It's unusually quiet,” he murmurs, tilting his head as if listening for something long absent. The usual chaos is absent tonight. These peaceful moments always worry him. Life has trained him well to be deeply suspicious of everything anytime it cuts him a fucking break.
“What’s the problem?” Behind him, Bark dips the soft cloth back into the water, her fingers grazing his shoulder as she begins to scrub his back. Her long, dark hair cascades over one shoulder, and her golden eyes reflect the dancing candle flames. “I thought you wanted to retire and take it easy forever?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“I do,” notes Inkume clearly. “But that doesn’t mean I expect it’ll happen,” he notes, rubbing his chin as his eyes narrow. His mind runs through the possibilities of what potential disaster is waiting to unfold itself at any second. He looks around himself for a moment, waiting for the door to the baths to burst open at any second like it always does.
— Bark grabs the sides of his head, turning it back forward. This time he actually was looking past her and not at her, but it’s close enough. “I can’t decide if you’re bold or just shameless,” notes Bark in annoyance.
“Evil, actually. Or so I’ve been told,” he replies plainly, looking back down at his book as he flips a page. “I’m the Vampire Lord, after all.”
He has never, even just once in his career as the Vampire Lord, taken a single bath successfully without something getting in the way of it. It’s like the water is cursed or something.
Sensing him tense up, the wolf goddess pushes him back down and then reaches over his shoulders from behind, rubbing the cloth over his chest. Her head rests next to his on his shoulders. She shrugs lightly. “Maybe the adventurers finally took the hint after being killed a hundred times,” explains the woman. “People are pretty sensitive to dying.”
He raises an eyebrow, his eyes scanning the page. “Doubtful. To them, I’m the cow that never stops making milk,” notes the Vampire Lord dryly. “They’ll keep coming back until the end of days heralds over the world,” explains Inkume. “That or I finally buy an actual lock for the castle door,” he muses, lifting his eyes.
She laughs, the sound echoing gently in the chamber. He closes the book, resting it on the dry ledge beside the bath. She resumes her gentle scrubbing. “Suppose so. Still, nights like this are a welcome change.”
He nods, closing his eyes briefly. The warmth of the water soothes muscles he hadn't realized were tense. “Agreed. It's almost… peaceful.”
There is a hint of deep suspicion in his voice.
He turns his head. The two of them look at each other from up close. “You know, you aren’t around that often,” notes Inkume pleasantly, staring at the eyes very close to his own. “It’s nice to just talk for a change. You aren’t even trying to fight me.”
The silence stretches comfortably between them. The ambient noises of the castle seem distant — the creaking of old wood, the faint rustle of creatures stirring in hidden corners.
Bark stares for a moment and then pulls away, her eyes diverting as she hides back behind him again, losing a battle he didn’t know they were having. “Well, I’m only like this every couple weeks…” she replies mutedly. “ — When the moon is gone. You know that.”
"Oh, come on,” replies Inkume. “You know that’s nonsense. If you want to spend time together, I don’t really care what shape you’re in,” notes the Vampire Lord. “When we first met, you were transformed.”
“Do you have to remind me?” she asks. “I hadn’t bathed in a few hundred years when you dragged me to that village.”
“I hardly noticed,” he lies.
— He actually noticed a lot. But that would hardly be polite to mention.
A distant howl rises from the mountains, fading quickly into the night. A wolf howls in the distance, followed by several more. Bark tilts her head toward the sound. The sharp ears on her head twitch. “Sounds like the pack is restless tonight.”
“Because of the storm?” he asks, looking at the forming clouds. “Hey, did you ever notice how often it rains around here?” he mutters as a side note, wondering if he doesn’t have some dramatic ability somewhere within his collection that makes it rain all the time for theatrical effect. It’s very possible. He wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.
She shakes her head. “No. It sounds like they’ve sensed something coming,” she explains. “Probably just some high-level hotshot adventurer on their way to the castle from the city,” says the goddess.
Inkume gazes out into the darkness, scanning the shadowed landscape. “You think it’s any trouble worth worrying about?”
Bark shakes her head. “No, I don’t think it’s anything we can't handle,” she replies confidently. “But I'll keep an ear out.”
He sighs and closes his eyes, allowing the warmth and tranquility to envelop him once more. “Thanks. I’ll count on you.”
They lapse into silence again, with only the gentle splashing of the water filling the air.
Then the bath ripples gently as Bark gets up and sits down in front of him, and a lone candle sputters before reigniting. She holds the wet cloth back over her shoulder toward him. A wooden duck floats through the water, watching them as he takes the washcloth and pulls her closer toward himself. He pushes her long hair to the side. The wooden duck that lives in the bath knows his secrets, but it is damned to an eternity of voicelessness — being made of wood and all. The chill of the mountain air mingles with the steam, creating a delicate veil that drifts lazily around them.
After he finishes, she leans back against him and then reaches over, taking the set-down book in her hands. In silence, the two of them sit there and relax. “So, is this for you?” she asks, looking at the pages full of advice on forgetfulness. “I guess in your old age, you need as much help as you can get,” notes the wolf goddess.
He shakes his head. “I think I manage pretty well,” notes the Vampire Lord. “…Can you even read?” he wonders out loud as an addendum.
She tilts her head back up toward his. “Please. As a goddess, I used to have people to read for me,” replies the wolf with a smug grin. “But I suppose a lesser creature like you still has to do all sorts of things by himself,” she notes, shaking her head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure one day you’ll find someone to help you out,” says Bark, scooting back more firmly against him.
He looks down at her. “So that’s a ‘no’ on the reading thing, right?” asks Inkume dryly.
Bark rolls her eyes, snarling at him, and then simply tosses the book to the side. Its open pages flutter through the air as it flies. In abject horror, he watches as it plummets toward the open, steaming water. His eyes widen in momentary panic — the book is borrowed from the library, after all.
Immediately springing up and leaping forward in a pseudo-lunge, he reaches for the book, water splashing in all directions as his knees hit the shallow floor of the pool’s outer rim. Bark falls straight off of him and into the shallow water below the vampire. At the last second, he catches it in midair, miraculously managing to shield it from the wave.
Bark splutters out of the water on all fours, shaking her head and torso out like an animal, and then looks back over her shoulder toward him as her soaked hair drapes down into the pool.
Inkume sighs in deep relief, holding the perfectly dry book in one hand, standing just behind her on his knees. Maybe reading in the bath really is a bad idea. “Are you crazy?” he asks, looking down at her as he holds the book up high into the air. His other hand is still on her waist.
The two of them stare quietly at one another.
The sound of splashing filling the air as the crashing water slowly settles back into its usual state.
“Well, well, well,” says Bark. “Maybe I was wrong about your blood being too old,” she notes, raising an eyebrow, but staying where she is. Certainly, there is a tension in the air between them.
— From which he is saved by the violent, catastrophic explosion that comes from outside the open balcony. Somewhere down below in the gardens, a massive fireball erupts, flames reaching up toward the sky itself as some adventurer blows themselves and half the outer estate up. The castle rumbles, shaking to its foundations as the magical eruption fills the night, sending debris and rubble up into the air, the shrapnel destined to fall elsew in the world as meteors.
A splash hits the bath, followed by a loud hissing.
A single metal helmet floats to the surface of the water, bobbing next to the duck. It belongs to a hollow armor. “Master,” says the helmet, disconnected from the rest of its body that appears to have been vaporized in the magical explosion. A tattered, burnt silk scarf is wrapped around it, soaked and plastered to the black metal with a caking of fresh ash and bathwater. “The castle is safe for another night,” explains the disembodied hollow armor in emotionless candor. “Your dark machinations may proceed on unhindrered.”
“…Thank you, soldier. Your efforts will be commended,” says Inkume quietly, looking at the helmet as it bobs sideways in the water. “I’ll be sure to have your body restored in short order,” explains the Vampire Lord.
He’s not really surprised. This is pretty much exactly what he was expecting. The bath is cursed; he’s sure of it.
“I serve the Master,” replies the hollow champion, before Bark simply picks the helmet up in annoyance and then simply tosses it out of the window. A second later, she grabs the book from his hands and throws it against the wall, and then before the Vampire Lord can defend himself, she lunges at him next.
As for anything else, the duck knows what it knows. But it will never tell.
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- [‘Death’, the Champion Hollow Armor] -
He spirals through the air, only to be interrupted in his falling a second later by a sudden lurch. Something has caught him.
The remnants of the hollow armor looks upward, staring at the claws of a harpy that swoops through the night. The flying monster has latched onto his head and carries him through the darkness, the wind blowing the silk scarf as it carries him toward a tower belfry and then squeezes in to a large gap, toward a nest.
Inside comes the sound of birds.
The helmet observes a clutch of small, young harpies, chirping and squeaking as the helmet is set there in the matting of their nest. The mother harpy clucks and clicks, nuzzling her fresh brood, before feeding them with several rats and rabbits she regurgitates into their waiting mouths as the dance around her.
“Excellent,” says Death, watching them. “The Master will have need of powerful warriors,” notes the helmet as the baby harpies eat. “Flying swordsmen will be the perfect solution to our mage problem. He’s a genius!” explains the armor, thinking to itself outloud.
It understands.
The Master has rewarded his efforts with the entrusting of a new, critical task. The creation of an even more powerful defensive force than the hollow legion. A group of elite, anti-mage soldiers the likes of which the night has never seen before.
A minute later, the mother flies off and out back into the night, leaving only the young and it there remaining.
Touching the scarf around the helmet, they small harpies nuzzle up next to it, forming a circle around the hollow armor. “Yes, yes,” says the helmet. “Rest and grow powerful,” it says to them, its empty eyes scanning the yawning clutch. “For the Master,” says Death.
A harpy chirps next to him, falling asleep. “M-mip-Mipster,” is all that it manages, not yet being capable of fully vocalised speech beyond base whistling and chirps.
“I will train you to be the deadliest of all his weapons, my new legion,” says the helmet, knowing that this is surely why the Vampire Lord has sent him here immediately, to address this critical need.
Truly, he has a plan for everything. His cunning schemes span further into the future than there are days left in this world.
Mimicking its mother, one of the young tries to regurgitate into his visor.