A/N: Originally posted on the Terraria Community Forums as part of my "A World Called Terra" oneshot thread, on November 18th, 2016.
He knew they'd come back. They always came back.
Whether it would take them days, seasons, even a year or two-they always returned to him with the same angry request, and every time he gave them the same answer. And they left, for what could they do to someone like him, chosen by the gods to live as vessel for one of them?
In the end, they were only Terrarian, even if they wished to believe-and become-different.
And so he wasn't surprised to see the small figure on the horizon one night. The break between visits had been a long one, though he hardly noticed time passing at this point. Of course, the moon was full-they always came on a full moon.
Just as usual; five figures in long robes, most of whom looked the same.
He stood, leaning on his bone cane and shuffling forward, feet and cane-tip click-click-clicking on the blue stone bricks underneath him. He moved to the stairs that led to dirt below, and stopped there, dull red eyes watching the figure closely, warily.
The identity, and even origin of the figures would not be discernible to any outside observer, but he knew the silhouettes well. Shorter, humanoid figures with all of their features hidden aside from eyes that seemed to glow eerily from the shadow of their hoods. The cloth of their robes dragging along the dirt. Gold and blue colors.
He was silent as one broke off from the group and shambled up the stairs to stand before him, even in height only because the old man was stooped and weak from years of waiting. The face of this one could be seen clearly-or, more accurately, the ivory mask that covered their face, with a long beak for a nose.
"...You're still wearing that thing?" the old man said, his tone casual, though voice wavering from age and exhaustion.
"...Does this...surprise you..."
The figure's voice was full and deep, with almost a sibilant quality to it. It would chill any other man's spine.
"No, you always were a creature of habit." The old man casually leaned on his cane. "I just wonder what made you start wearing it one day."
The figure let out a low hiss. "That is none of your concern. You know why we are here."
"Fair enough." Red eyes hardened as he dared to look into the figure's face. "But my answer is still the same. I don't care whether this was your place, once. I don't care what you did here, or what you say you need to do. But my master cares, and they say you will not pass."
A growl. Their eyes seemed to glow more brightly, "Never expected you to ever answer to a master."
"Nor did I expect you to, old friend."
The figure sputtered for a few moments, causing the lackeys that had stood back to shuffle about in silent concern before their leader got a hold of themself.
"I answer to no one. I am the leader of this coven. I own this place. Your master does not."
"Hm?" The old man quirked a brow. "As far as I know, aren't you at the beck and call of the Lord of the Moon, now? That was sort of the point, wasn't it."
"He...is still sleeping."
"The principle's the same. And as for owning this place, well, my master was here first. I thought you respected the gods."
He knew what the other's answer would be, though had to admit he enjoyed the fact that the figure made a noise that sounded somewhat like a dying cave spider.
"They are not my gods! I serve only the One True Elder, the Lord of the Moon!"
"But you know that my god can strike all of you down." He'd done this song and dance a few times now-he knew what to say, what to do, practically had the conversation down to a science. "You have no power unless your god awakens, and my master and my master's masters don't really want that to happen. Oh, and you just admitted that you are, in fact, in service of him."
He could see the other's fists clench up, bright indigo magic surging to their fingertips. Their breath could be heard, heavy through the mask.
He was not afraid. They could do nothing to hurt him. No one could. He'd tried.
But the old man did feel slightly guilty, and let out a sigh, letting it show on his worn and ragged face just how tired he was of all of this.
"Why can you never come simply to talk to me, old friend. I get so lonely."
"...I am on a mission for my coven. And it is to take back the dungeon that you are keeping from us. The sacred site that rightfully belongs to us."
The old man shook his head. "You know the things that this coven of yours has done here, don't you? Imprisoned many good people, good mages, even the very paladins of the world who might've fixed all of this once upon a time. Practiced the arts of necromancy to emulate your god who raises bodies from the dead every night under his moon's light. Tried to awaken an ancient menace that you know would threaten Terra as we know it. Is this what you really want?" A sad look crossed his face, and he turned away. "...You never seemed the type to hunger for such violence, and power..."
The other simply stood for a moment, the magic fading from their hands. For a moment, it was difficult to tell if they were alive or dead-the old man wondered if his twisted friend was really either, anymore.
At last, they spoke. "...I made my choice."
"The choice to give up everything you are, your very identity. And, I suspect, your humanity as well. Why did you start wearing that mask all of a sudden? What's become of the face underneath? Is it not enough just to keep it in shadows?"
More silence. He noticed the other flinch slightly, and go stiff. He'd clearly hit a nerve, and secretly hoped that this time, he might get some answers.
But all he got was the typical request.
"...Stand aside. Give this place back to its rightful owners."
The old man in the red cape stepped back, spreading his arms. "I don't agree with what happened here, but you know that it isn't my place to give. You know exactly what you have to do."
"Move aside."
"Certainly, I could do that. But you know very well that this place is useless to you unless my master permits you to enter. I could let you in the door...perhaps you could take some books...But that won't be enough for you. It isn't enough for anyone. You'll want to go deeper, see what your like has done to this place and its denizens. And you know you can't go deeper."
The heavy breathing started up again, and the figure abruptly whirled around to the four who'd come with them, gesturing for them to come to the stairs. They did, two of them pulling out bows and one holding up what looked like a spider-summoning staff.
His soul was already burning, and he knew he couldn't hold it for long.
"Please, old friend. Don't be foolish."
"It is you who are the fool," they snarled, "Going up against the messengers of the One True Elder! You will be the first to face fate worse than death upon his reawakening!"
"It won't be anything new, believe me."
"Let us face your master!"
"..." His expression filled with concern, and pain-he winced, reaching up to clutch his chest, which was already heaving. It was coming. "I don't-I don't want to hurt you, you know. You or the others who genuinely believe that what you're all doing is right. Even if I don't understand why you've done this. I don't want to hurt you. Please. Leave this place."
"I will not leave!"
As they shouted this, their voice seemed to deepen further and gain a strange reverberation to it-something that definitely wasn't human. The acolytes moved to arms as the indigo fire returned to the leader's hands, and they rose them above their head with a decidedly inhuman cry of defiance.
The old man watched this, and lowered his head, letting out a weary sigh. "...As you wish. I am sorry."
For a moment, he wondered if there was even anything left of his former friend to be saved anymore.
Then pain wracked his body as he released the pent-up energy, and the world went red.
-:-:-
He awoke to sunlight striking his face, and he turned his head away from it in pain. As was usual after he let his master take control, everything was in a dreadful amount of pain, and his whole body ached-especially his head and his arms. This time, his left arm was completely numb-that only rarely happened. He mused to himself that they'd put up a decent fight, after all.
With dread and resignation churning his stomach, the old man opened his eyes and pushed himself up off the ground with the aid of his cane and his working arm, the other hanging uselessly at his side for now-it'd come back, it always did, so he wasn't worried about it.
It took him a moment to dare to look up to the stairs of the dungeon, and when he did, his shoulders slumped and he shut his eyes again, grimacing.
He was used to the sight by now, of those who had fought and lost, but it never quite stopped getting to him and making whatever of him was human want to be violently sick.
But...he had to look. He squinted one eye open, looking over the damage.
...Only two out of the five, as far as he could wager, though it was a little difficult to tell with the bodies in so many pieces. It looked like he'd taken down one of the bowmen and one of the lesser acolytes who'd apparently been armed with only a knife to supplement their magic.
He could see no other evidence of death, there-just trails of oddly black-tinted blood leading away. And he was almost thankful he didn't find a mask.
He sighed, and he turned away, refusing to deal with the mess until later. Click-click-click went his shoes and his cane as he shuffled down the hallway towards the door, entering the darkness of the dungeon entry. He shut the door with a creak behind him, and laboriously sat down, his back against the wall and his face turned to the ceiling without really seeing it.
He wished that, one day, they'd learn, but he knew it was too much to ask for. Even with how terrible the battle must have been, he knew it would not deter the cult from trying to take back what was theirs.
He knew they'd come back.
They always came back.