I spent all last week playing dark souls so I couldn't write. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. Dark souls is exactly the kind of masochism I have come to love.

Anyways, I'm excited for this chapter. hope you enjoy.

Armour: Brimflame

Weapon: Winter's Fury, Undine's Retribution, Stormfront Razor

Acc(11/11): The Bee, Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Cryo Wings, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, FrostSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Amalgamated Brain, Evasion Scarf. (Unlimited Buffs)

Health: (500/500)

The Archmage wasn't quite what he used to be.

Perhaps it was that long period of imprisonment he had endured at Yharim's hand. He hardly had a clue what he had been doing for the past hundred years - trapped and slumbering within his home-turned jailhouse. Had The Empire been sapping his strength for some nefarious purpose? It was possible. Or maybe the stress of the war was getting to him. The Arctic Mage had fought his fair share of wars before, and to say he was battle-weary was an understatement. These old bones wanted peace, but even now-peace eluded him.

I'm just getting old.

And although he'd been telling himself exactly that for the past two hundred years, this time, The Archmage was seriously wondering if the years had finally caught up to him. He was - after all - nothing more than an ordinary human. An ordinary human that had layered himself under so many charms and enchantments that his blood crackled with mana and his lifespan stretched out ten times what was natural. Eventually, he knew something was going to break.

How amusing it would be if his wards all shattered now.

I cannot help but wonder... will I suddenly shrivel and rot? Will the years rebound upon me? Perhaps I will freeze as I die, or elsewise my magic will burst from within me and level the mountains?

"Humph."

The Old Man puffed weakly on his pipe and made a pained motion to sit - his trusty crystalline chair immediately materializing to support his weight. With a muttered incantation, he waved his palm over the -frankly- horrific perforation in his stomach and watched listlessly as the wound stitched itself back together. It'd been a long, long time since he'd fought a battle - and one as old as he didn't take kindly to surprise attacks. Frankly, he didn't fancy being attacked in any capacity, but sometimes he simply had to make do. Embedded in the floor was the bloodstained weapon that had injured him. Even separated from it's owner, Braelor's massive scythe buzzed and clamored with a hungry, vicious energy.

The Archmage twisted his lips in a sad amusement as he watched green static crackle about the weapon's form. Over the years, That Scythe had grown in power as it was passed down Braelor's lineage - but he? Hah...In the past, he was able to recover entire limbs in the blink of an eye - now, look at how pathetic he'd become? For Braelor to even be able to thrust his scythe through his belly was ridiculous. The Archmage had been present at The Titan commander's grandfather's birth. He had been the one who placed the cutting enchantment on that scythe. To imagine it would turn against him?

I suppose even I cannot escape time.

Ultimately there was no point in worrying about it. He must simply make do with what he had. Originally, he had half a mind to fight Yharim directly if he showed his face here, but considering his sorry performance against Braelor, perhaps it was best he simply pack his bags and run. Because if Braelor were even remotely close to Yharim in strength, he would have fought him by now. The very fact he was fighting this war of attrition meant currently, The Resistance didn't have a single force potent enough to fact The Tyrant.

And if The Archmage could barely handle Braelor, he hadn't a whisper of a change against Yharim.

*crackle*

The Archmage's eyesight flickered briefly as the magic mending his stomach finished its work and dissipated with a sting. He let out a pained groan before gingerly slumping in his chair. He puffed more heavily on his pipe and sighed as he observed his wrecked foyer. Almost everything had been smashed and cleaved beneath that brutish, yet wickedly sharp scythe. Most of his windowpanes have been sliced to ribbons, whatever wasn't sliced was shattered. His furniture had been broken down so thoroughly, it resembled sparkling sand on his floor. There was a certain peace to this too... just him and his chair, sitting in an empty room and staring at gray sky and the mountains beyond.

*hmmmmmmmm*

A cold draft was gusting in from the North, its chill blowing through his clothing so thoroughly, he truly felt like nothing but a bundle of frozen bones wearing the robes of a mage. Was he merely a walking skeleton? Perhaps... but he wasn't useless quite yet. These old bones had earned a name for themselves - 'Permafrost' The Archmage. His name was carved into the annals of history. How shameful it would be if he were killed at the hands of Braelor. No matter how weak he became, his pride simply would not allow such a sorry thing to happen.

*hmmmmmmm*

For floating in the centre of the room, bobbing on a cushion of gusting mana, was an enormous sphere composed of perfectly clear ice. Frozen - mid attack -within this crystalline globe was The Titan Commander. He was a fearsome sight, truly. Twelve feet tall and just as strong as he looked, he whirled around that flashing scythe with a terrifying ease. What a pity about his... less than stellar mental faculties. The Titan Commander was never one for politics. He was a skilled leader an battlefield tactician, but concerning the intricacies of court, the backstabs, trickeries and betrayals of power struggle, he might as well be a sitting duck. What sort of treachery had led him here, frothing at the mouth and bellowing for his blood?

The Cultist perhaps? I wouldn't be surprised. Yet for as pathetic Braelor is concerning politics, he remains an import asset in the fight against Yharim. It would be folly to kill him here.

What a kerfuffle... to find that not only was Yharim out for his blood - and supposedly tracking him with one of Draedon's inventions (it must have been constructed sometime within the past hundred years) but The Resistance too? Would Statis come after him next? Perhaps The Sea King would levy his eldritch powers against him. haah... perhaps life on the run would be more peaceful than risking death each time he left his home.

It's decided then... and although I would like to take The Hero with me, I would not risk having him encounter The King...

What sort of plan did The Tyrant have for him? The Archmage could only imagine. Would he try to capture The Boy? Torture him? Curse him like he cursed Calamitas? Lock him in the depths, or crush him under the sea? He would be well aware that killing The Hero would do him no good, for to him, Death was functionally nothing more than a healing of his wounds and a means of travel. It was this deathless quality of his that would lead him to one day stand atop this world. It was almost guaranteed. It was the will of destiny itself. Given enough time, The Hero would bring down armies, then great cities, then empires. Strength was woven into his bones, and it was a strength that scaled to that of his rival. If a Terrarian has set himself up as your opponent, you might win - once, twice... thirty times even. But you will not win forever. You can kill him a thousand times, but he only needs to cut out your heart once.

And Yharim, being well aware of this, surely had some terrible schemes brewing in his wicked brain.

So it was best for The Hero to stay away.

"And You", The Archmage spoke aloud as he glared at the slowly turning orb of glassy ice. He knew Braelor couldn't hear him, but he addressed The Titan Commander anyways "Should spend some time carefully considering your actions. To imagine you accused me as a Traitor? Child, your brain has gone to rot."

The Old man felt his joints creak against each other as he stood to his feet. The now-healed wound in his stomach tugged unpleasantly as he straightened. He took a deep draught from his pipe before extending an arm afore him and pointing a gnarled finger at Braelor's prison.

"But can you even be convinced? A pity, Braelor. Your precious coalition has been shattered. Your armies are fleeing like rats. What will you do now? Did I not tell you The Hero is our only hope? What will your armies do before Yharim aside for keel over and die?"

"..."

*thud...thud...thud*

Naturally, Braelor didn't respond - but the noise of running footsteps began to echo from below. Braelor's guards, perhaps? How annoying. The Archmage huffed and whirled about just in time to watch The Hero and The Lunatic Cultist nearly tumble over each other as they caved through his living room door.

"Ohoho... hello there, Young One. Fancy seeing you here."

"A-archmage, you're covered in blood!"

My heart leaps into my throat when I lay eyes The Archmage. For a moment, I wonder if I'm seeing hallucinations again, but a sharp jab to the shoulder (courtesy of The Cultist) assures me that I'm not. What horrible thing must have happened for the floor to be splattered in blood? Why are The Archmage's robes painted in red? Is that Braelor's scythe? Why is it embedded into the floor, and why was there a tremendous opaque ball floating a few inches from the ground? Running through the smashed ice castle has already gotten me wound up like a spring. My mind had been going wild, wondering what sorts of things were happening to the old mage.

He's alive... thank heavens

And although I am tremendously relieved he is neither dead nor dreadfully wounded, seeing The Archmage in such a state of disrepair threatened to make me explode alltogether. For as long as I've known him, The Archmage never looked anything less than pristine. His beard was always snow-white. His clothing always blue-grey silk with not even a wrinkle in their presentation. Even his home was like this! The Castle was flawless, delicate, never-changing. It was the opposite of the vicious battlefields which roared in pandemonium without rhyme or reason. Where the plains of war buzz with chaotic 'noise' The Archmage's castle - the place I've been allowed to call home - rings of silence and chimes.

Has 'war' found its way into my home? I cannot allow it. I feel my heartbeat pounding in my temples as I, with a shout, I run (slip) my way across the icy floor - dragging My reluctant Teacher behind me. He shakes me off with palpable disgust while The Archmage chortles at the two of us.

"Archmage! What happened? Did Braelor do this?! Where did he go? Teacher, where is he?"

"Tch! Stop this nonsense, Hero! You're putting me to shame!"

"Ohohoho!"

I feel the tips of my ears grow hot. Are they not taking me seriously? One is laughing at me, the other is scolding me... yet at any moment, Yharim could burst through the ceiling and kill us all! I press my lips together in a thin line and cross my arms over my chest - but my show of displeasure only makes The Archmage laugh all the harder. I grow indignant as he begins to cough and sputter.

"W-what! Why are you laughing! We must flee, the situation is dire! Please - come to your senses!"

"Ahaha- forgive me, Young One. It's just your..." The Archmage motions briefly at my head before he reconsiders and snorts into his pipe, "nevermind. Don't worry about it. No matter the situation, you never fail to bring a smile to my face. Now, why don't you have a seat, Hero? What can I do for you?"

A chair materializes, but I don't sit. I can still see The Archmage holding back laughter each time he looks at me, so I must do my best to calm myself. I should have known that shouting at The Archmage is no way to convince him of anything. Indeed, he's even interpreted my panic as some sort of amusing infantile tantrum. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. The icy wind blusters from the shattered windows, filled with flecks of ice and hail. The twin moons loom down over the mountain peaks - the pupils... are they looking at me? At this angle, they really do look like massive mechanical eyes...

Draedon's eyes in the sky...

A chill goes down the nape of my neck. It it chill of the cold, or just paranoia? I'm suddenly seized with fear once more, and do my best to fight it off. Stop being childish, I scold myself. All around is silence... just the looming eyes and the low rumbling clouds. There isn't an enemy in sight; there is no reason to panic. I suppress the dread that rising up like bile up my throat and steady my breathing. I speak as slowly and as clearly as I can.

"Archmage, we need to leave now."

The Archmage observes me for a bit from between narrowed eyes, then sighs and cuts his gaze to The Lunatic Cultist. His voice goes sharp and frosty, a jarring change from how he usually speaks with me.

"Cultist, what's wrong with him? You didn't do anything, did you? Aside for electrocuting his head apparently."

(I touch my face and find nothing out of place)

The Lunatic Cultist matches The Archmage's hostility. His eyes blaze and he spits his words like curt venom.

"... He's afraid of The Tyrant."

"Hah, That's only natural. The two of them had a run in a few days prior."

"No, Old man...He's afraid The Tyrant is coming, here."

The Cultist twists his head to indicate towards the two massive moons that seem to be approaching from across the mountain range.

"Draedon's invention, we call them The Twins. They track magical signatures and have nearly pinpointed your location. Admittingly, I would be more than happy to leave you to The Tyrant's wrath, but this whelp" The Cultist pokes my armoured calf with his foot, "Insisted on coming for you."

There's a long moment of silence where the two men stare daggers at each other, as if in contest to see who could kill the other with their eyes alone. Finally, The Archmage breaks the silence. His tone is mocking and his face has twisted into disdain.

"Ho?...is The Tyrant now so pathetic, he's even employing ambushes and surprise attacks? How the mighty have fallen."

My Teacher snarls a reply.

"He hasn't." He casts his sharp-eyed glare on me. "Yharim comes with fanfare. With pomp and splendor and twenty thousand trumpets to herald his arrival. He is a man so consumed in his own power, he thinks of himself not as a mortal, but as a god. Did I not tell you that we had ample time? But you did not believe me. Hence-"

My Teacher spreads his arms, as if attributing the current situation to my account.

"...this pathetic excuse for an evacuation."

The Cultist looked back at The Archmage.

"But we're here already, you might as well come along. You wouldn't this one's efforts to be for naught."

My Teacher tries to pat my head but I dodge away to ponder. Is it true Yharim really isn't coming? Well, if The Archmage and The Cultist don't think so - I suppose I should agree with them. Both of them have known The King for a long time. One, as a longtime ally, the other as a longtime enemy. Compared to theirs, my opinion is ill-informed at best and delusional at worst. Perhaps there really is nothing to worry about...

The Archmage gazes calmly at me, his cool eyes meeting mine. It's a cold, almost critical gaze, and in that instant, I feel absolutely silly for making such a fuss about nothing. With the grunt I've come to attribute to elderly people, he sighs and stands to his feet. He brushes at some of the stains on his robes, heedless of my embarrassment.

"(grumbles)... very well. I suppose there's no use in staying here either. Let us be off before he 'appears'."

There's a sparkle in The Archmage's eye as he says the word. He's teasing me and I retort by scrunching my nose at him. Still, although I'm now being mocked for my paranoia, I cannot help but feel relieved that The Archmage has agreed to come along. I let out a sigh and do my best to calm my pounding heart.

...

Then, there's a brief pressure on my shoulder.

It repeats. Only twice.

Too irregular to be my heart beat yet too soft for some wayward projectile.

Someone has tapped my shoulder.

...

"Before who appears?"

Faze: Hey Bitch!
Slayer: ?
F:Ligma
S:What's Ligma
F:Ligma Balls!
S:What's Ligma Balls?
F:...you're not good at this, bro.
S: I'm Sorry.

Yharim jumpscare v2

he's just a troll