"So. . . what's this thing look like, anyway?"
The Phoenix, kindly obliging, filled his mind with an image of his soon to be enemy.
Locke cursed silently. This was going to be fun.
"Is there. . . any way to kill it?"
The Phoenix nodded. "It is hardly immortal. Fight it as you would any other demon; just be sure to find a way around its shriek."
Locke scratched his head, annoyed. "Gee, thanks. All I have to do is avoid sound itself. Great."
--
Keye had wedged himself up behind a set of pillars. Blood was flowing freely from his ears. He couldn't hear a thing, and for that, he counted his blessings: the incessant scream of that. . . thing, was enough to drive a person insane. No doubt he would be very sorry about it after he got out of the accursed temple – if he ever did – but for the moment, deafness was a welcome boon. He clicked another arrow, its tip streaming glacial air, into place. The creature already bore seven of its twins, and he hoped that number eight would do the trick.
It was coming. He could feel those intense vibrations in the floor. He'd grown accustomed to it; after all, they'd been playing this game of hide and seek for over an hour now. Through some supernatural grace, Keye had managed to keep his distance, and only its inhuman screams had managed to catch up to the dodgy thief thus far.
But it was only a matter of time. This he knew all too well. Unless he managed to do the thing in soon, it was all over for. He'd run out of energy, he'd collapse, and it would pull him in.
Keye wasn't ready to die yet. Not like that poor bastard he'd left behind in the main hall. And even if his fate was to be lost forever amongst these stony walls, eventually dying of starvation, he had no intention of letting that thing get a hold of him.
So he prepared himself. Keye had managed to get himself into a rhythm; after running through two or three rooms, he'd be given enough time to set up for two quick shots. Nothing more. To try three was tempting death, despite the quick loading capabilities of his weapon. The creature was slowed substantially by the tight hallways, but once in the open, it moved with a speed that belied its bulk.
He watched. The rumbling grew steadily as it advanced, forcing itself through endless passages, seeking nourishment. It was starving. It wanted food, it had scented food, and it would have that food.
Keye steeled himself. His bow was poised and ready. The buzzing in his head went largely ignored. He'd had trouble standing, no doubt from the sudden loss of his hearing; but nothing, not dizziness nor lack of skill, would prevent him from getting off this shot.
This time, he was aiming for the head. And if his first shot missed, or didn't work, then he'd go for the throat. How could anything live without those two vital parts?
It came.
--
"You know, the easiest way to get rid of this thing would be to just bring the hallways down on it. You're part of the temple; can't you just collapse the section it's in?"
The Phoenix shook her head adamantly. "No, I cannot. My soul is tied to the temple, true; but I cannot manipulate it in such a drastic manner."
Locke snorted in exasperation. "But what about all the crap you did with the walls? Where I was out in space?"
She smiled patiently. "All in your mind, I'm afraid."
"Shit." Suddenly very tired, Locke seated himself. Since when was he the idea man? That had always been Edgar's department. Or Banon's. Or Celes', maybe. He just carried out the plans with his skill and panache. Even as a treasure hunting, happy-go-lucky loner, he'd tended towards simply taking things as they came. Planning wasn't foreign to him, just annoying. "Well. I imagine that the most important factor is to get rid of that scream, then. Maybe I can take it out the old fashioned way if I can manage that."
The Phoenix slipped down beside him. "But how? From what I've seen, it relies completely on its voice. That is how it feeds. Such an attribute must be heavily guarded."
Locke shrugged. "Hell, I dunno." He collapsed back against the marble. "I half miss having Keye around. Two against one would be preferable."
"Would you like to see him as he is now?"
Locke blinked, sitting up. ". . . you can do that?"
She nodded. "But of course. I can witness everything that is happening in the temple at any given time."
"Let's do it, then."
--
And he shot. As soon as four hooked tentacles dragged the bloated bulk of the Banshee around the corner, its vacant eyed, white visage peeking into the room, Keye let fly, his arrow streaming white haze across the hallway and into its misshapen chest. Its mouth dropped open – huge, malleable, and seemingly bereft of limitation – and a scream reverberated through the temple. Keye didn't hear it, though the aftershocks of its explosive power cut through his head, worsening the buzz. He ignored it and quickly slipped another arrow into place. Already, the greyish mound of spindly legs and whipping tentacles had emerged into the room, hooks flailing about, seeking purchase to further its progress.
Keye began to fall back. His finger tightened against the trigger of the crossbow, and his arrow flew forward, piercing deeply into the creature's grotesquely muscular neck. He witnessed another of its soundless screams before retreating. It rumbled forward behind him, hooks already sinking deep into the pillar Keye had hidden by.
He ran. His legs attempted to stumble, but sheer will drove him on: a will that insisted survival, and indeed enrichment, were still possible in this equation. Surely, this was the guardian of the place. Keye could not even hope to think of something more horrifying than this. And if that was so, then we would live, for he knew he could kill this creature. And after that, he could find his way back to the entrance. And then, he would locate the riches of this place. Oh yes, he would. He'd be rich.
He continued to run.
--
"He's still alive. Good lord." Locke scratched the accumulated stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "I don't think he'll manage it doing that, though. His energy will give out before long." The Phoenix nodded a silent agreement.
In some deep recess of his mind, Locke couldn't help but feel sorry for the con man. He was sure that Keye had fully intended to simply leave his 'colleague' down here to rot, once the job was done. Hell, he already had taken off on Locke, leaving the younger man for dead. It had only through the untimely intervention of the Phoenix that he was still alive.
And yet. . . Locke wanted to help him. Thief or not, he had a powerful conscience. The door swung both ways in that sense - he had morals, but he stole things; he stole things, but he had morals. And his morals told him to save this man.
But how to draw the demon away? That was the question, in the end: for if he simply ran in there and tried to help, it would first deafen and then devour Locke. That would not help Keye one bit. No, Locke would have to somehow get the Banshee to follow a different target.
But what would that damned thing want more than a human soul?
--
The Banshee stopped. Its pale, sinewy face stretched upwards, nose snuffling the air lightly. But more than that, the thousands of sensors lining its enormous body had been set off. There was something. . . something in the temple. . . the thing it had been waiting for, all this time. . .
A Phoenix. One had just been born. And the Banshee knew where it was. The putrid bag of pink flesh up ahead, possessing naught but a tainted soul, was suddenly of no concern.
Sinking into itself, head reorienting at the back of its body, it started back through the temple with renewed speed. Its pale lantern eyes guided it through winding corridors of a limitless nature towards a beacon of delicious light.
--
"Sorry about this. You gonna be okay?"
"I shall. And, even if I am meant to exist no longer, it will be fine so long as my race continues."
--
The Phoenix was in the midst of the great hall. Right in the centre of everything, still one with the image of Rachel, standing freely with her gown flowing around her in a ghostly fashion. Waiting. She had made her presence, for the first time, fully known to the creature. And now it had the chance to finish what it had begun.
Starved beyond measure, it came, lurching with abnormal speed into the hall. In those voluminous eyes lurked a hunger unsurpassed by any. It didn't matter that this Phoenix was already just a soul; in fact, that would save it from having to crack open its head first. It lunged, hooks extended, and a huge, fleshy tube sliding easily from out of its throat and mouth. It dripped tendrils of mucus upon the floors. It came, rumbling, wanting, needing.
And the Locke made his move. The creature, intent upon its prey, had not noticed him. He was perched against a single pillar of the left colonnade, high above the demon, daggers deeply plunged into the stone. But no longer; for he pulled both out with a mighty heave, and pushing his bended legs away from the pillar he fell upon the Banshee. It hadn't even a chance to shriek before he criss-crossed his daggers against the flesh of its bulbous throat, piercing the skin and vocal cords contained therein.
His landing, needless to say, was ungraceful, and he was certain that he'd broken a rib or two. It also bore the rather horrifying attribute of covering him in purplish gore, as the banshee was now bleeding profusely.
"Go!" he screamed at the Phoenix, and she vanished at once. The demon, now dumbfounded and mortally injured, began to thrash violently, and managed to send Locke flying against a pillar as one of its long tentacles catapulted him off of the ground and into the air. Luck still seemed to be with him, however, as the hooked ending on it did little more than scratch his face before sinking into the stone just beside his cheek.
Wincing in pain but forcing himself to roll, Locke got onto his legs and made a staggering dash for the door. He came within a hair's breadth of slipping on the pooling liquid at his feet before his trained muscles managed to balance the young thief properly. Gasping, he flung himself through the door, the intense heat taking his breath away and nearly doing away with conscious thought. As it was, however, Locke managed to hang on – barely – and slammed into the dirt path just outside the temple. His motor skills came to an abrupt halt and he struggled on the ground, half stunned, attempting in vain to move.
The Banshee, fully enraged by what was happening, and now aware that its sought out prey had eluded it, had come to the gruesome conclusion that the bringer of its misery had to pay. The gore pulsing out of its neck meant nothing to it. Death meant nothing. Only revenge, now. Dipping within itself and reorienting its head at the other end of its body – doing so managed to rip the wound open to an even greater degree – it sent its claws forward, seeking to ensnare the fallen thief but finding only a surprising difference in temperature outside the temple. It attempted in vain to scream in pain, but only a small, bubbling gurgle emerged.
Locke, veins standing out on his neck, grasped at the dirt, dragging himself further and further from the mouth of the temple. Tentacles began to worm their way out around the sides of the door tentatively, pulling the bulk of the creature slowly forward, allowing it to acclimate itself enough to continue the chase. Locke gasped, trying to get onto his knees, and instead landed face-first in the dirt. Still he persisted in his flight, dragging himself along steadily, the creature visibly wincing behind him as it emerged into the inferno. Rivers of sweat slid down its thick, greyish skin.
Grasping a nearby Phoenix statue, Locke pulled himself, unsteadily, onto his legs. He wavered, vision going hazy, nearly losing consciousness again. His eyes seemed to swim in shades of black and white, ever threatening to engulf his sight completely. However, Locke held on, using the biting pain in his ribs to keep his head above the murky waters of faintness. He struggled forward on shaky feet, staggering to and fro, but headed on a determined path towards the dirt tunnel leading back to the surface. If he could just escape for a while longer. . . it would bleed to death. . . just a bit more. . . or so he hoped, anyway.
It came forward. Its hooks dug deeply into the dirt. Its legs, thin and insectile, drove it forward in a frenzy. Heavy globs of blood stained the ground, bubbling from the intense heat. Its neck was an absolute mess. To Locke, who managed to spare a brief second to view his pursuer, it seemed even more nightmarish now than before.
It was this imagery that saved his life, for the horror of the creature gave his legs even greater motivation. His muscles sprang to life as he recovered from the temperature shock, carrying him into the tunnel with a sudden speed that made him gasp in surprise. His boots crunched the hard dirt steadily as he ran.
But it would not be outdone. Sensing the desperation of its prey, the Banshee lunged forward with renewed vigour. The shock had begun to wear off. Its heady rumble echoed up and down the tunnel as it entered, burbling its threats through a second mouth. It and Locke seemed wholly matched in speed.
And so they ran. And crawled. And Locke, at length, could not help but call out, "Why me, why me, why me. . ." as his legs carried him to an uncertain fate. Would the goddamned thing never run out of blood?
The end, much to Locke's relief, nearly fifteen minutes after entering the tunnel, was surprisingly anticlimactic. Drained of almost every drop of its vitality – literally – the Banshee simply collapsed. The rumble stopped, its echoes lingering only a moment. Those fading sounds gave Locke sudden pause, and his panicky run, which had devolved into a tired trot by this point, came to a halt. He peered back into the darkness, unable to see the creature behind him.
Now came the time of choice. By all rights, he should go back and see whether it was dead or not. He had been charged with the job of killing the thing: and if, in fact, it were not destroyed, he had to do it in for good.
But what if it was a trick? What if the Banshee was just using its silence as a ruse? Locke had little doubt that the creature could be devious when it had its wits about it. And it was not difficult for any creature to feign death with its throat slit open. No, instead of coming into the range of its tentacles, he should just take off. It was probably dead.
But what if it wasn't? What of the Phoenix? Would she be stuck in the same spiritual impasse that she had been for far too long already? Her image floated back to his mind, and when Locke saw his beautiful Rachel pleading for him to be sure of it, he knew what he would do.
When he actually found the thing dead – Locke had to stab it in the eye, just to make sure – he nearly collapsed from joy. His joy was eclipsed somewhat by the fact that he could not get back around the creature to see if the Phoenix was okay, as it blocked the tunnel.
But the thought of her vanished quickly. His brain soon began to swim with a new quest, a new purpose.
He would find the Phoenix. Or the Magicite bearing its soul. And Rachel, the real Rachel, would be in his arms once more.
--
Keye actually managed to find a way out; however, his exit of choice happened to be located some distance above the door to the temple. He fell out - stunned by the intense heat - hit the dirt, and rolled, quite limply, into the pit of lava. It was a strangely comedic death for so serious a debacle.
NOTE: I think I ran out of energy on this one. Hence, to entertain myself, I dropped Keye into some lava. Yes.
The Phoenix, kindly obliging, filled his mind with an image of his soon to be enemy.
Locke cursed silently. This was going to be fun.
"Is there. . . any way to kill it?"
The Phoenix nodded. "It is hardly immortal. Fight it as you would any other demon; just be sure to find a way around its shriek."
Locke scratched his head, annoyed. "Gee, thanks. All I have to do is avoid sound itself. Great."
--
Keye had wedged himself up behind a set of pillars. Blood was flowing freely from his ears. He couldn't hear a thing, and for that, he counted his blessings: the incessant scream of that. . . thing, was enough to drive a person insane. No doubt he would be very sorry about it after he got out of the accursed temple – if he ever did – but for the moment, deafness was a welcome boon. He clicked another arrow, its tip streaming glacial air, into place. The creature already bore seven of its twins, and he hoped that number eight would do the trick.
It was coming. He could feel those intense vibrations in the floor. He'd grown accustomed to it; after all, they'd been playing this game of hide and seek for over an hour now. Through some supernatural grace, Keye had managed to keep his distance, and only its inhuman screams had managed to catch up to the dodgy thief thus far.
But it was only a matter of time. This he knew all too well. Unless he managed to do the thing in soon, it was all over for. He'd run out of energy, he'd collapse, and it would pull him in.
Keye wasn't ready to die yet. Not like that poor bastard he'd left behind in the main hall. And even if his fate was to be lost forever amongst these stony walls, eventually dying of starvation, he had no intention of letting that thing get a hold of him.
So he prepared himself. Keye had managed to get himself into a rhythm; after running through two or three rooms, he'd be given enough time to set up for two quick shots. Nothing more. To try three was tempting death, despite the quick loading capabilities of his weapon. The creature was slowed substantially by the tight hallways, but once in the open, it moved with a speed that belied its bulk.
He watched. The rumbling grew steadily as it advanced, forcing itself through endless passages, seeking nourishment. It was starving. It wanted food, it had scented food, and it would have that food.
Keye steeled himself. His bow was poised and ready. The buzzing in his head went largely ignored. He'd had trouble standing, no doubt from the sudden loss of his hearing; but nothing, not dizziness nor lack of skill, would prevent him from getting off this shot.
This time, he was aiming for the head. And if his first shot missed, or didn't work, then he'd go for the throat. How could anything live without those two vital parts?
It came.
--
"You know, the easiest way to get rid of this thing would be to just bring the hallways down on it. You're part of the temple; can't you just collapse the section it's in?"
The Phoenix shook her head adamantly. "No, I cannot. My soul is tied to the temple, true; but I cannot manipulate it in such a drastic manner."
Locke snorted in exasperation. "But what about all the crap you did with the walls? Where I was out in space?"
She smiled patiently. "All in your mind, I'm afraid."
"Shit." Suddenly very tired, Locke seated himself. Since when was he the idea man? That had always been Edgar's department. Or Banon's. Or Celes', maybe. He just carried out the plans with his skill and panache. Even as a treasure hunting, happy-go-lucky loner, he'd tended towards simply taking things as they came. Planning wasn't foreign to him, just annoying. "Well. I imagine that the most important factor is to get rid of that scream, then. Maybe I can take it out the old fashioned way if I can manage that."
The Phoenix slipped down beside him. "But how? From what I've seen, it relies completely on its voice. That is how it feeds. Such an attribute must be heavily guarded."
Locke shrugged. "Hell, I dunno." He collapsed back against the marble. "I half miss having Keye around. Two against one would be preferable."
"Would you like to see him as he is now?"
Locke blinked, sitting up. ". . . you can do that?"
She nodded. "But of course. I can witness everything that is happening in the temple at any given time."
"Let's do it, then."
--
And he shot. As soon as four hooked tentacles dragged the bloated bulk of the Banshee around the corner, its vacant eyed, white visage peeking into the room, Keye let fly, his arrow streaming white haze across the hallway and into its misshapen chest. Its mouth dropped open – huge, malleable, and seemingly bereft of limitation – and a scream reverberated through the temple. Keye didn't hear it, though the aftershocks of its explosive power cut through his head, worsening the buzz. He ignored it and quickly slipped another arrow into place. Already, the greyish mound of spindly legs and whipping tentacles had emerged into the room, hooks flailing about, seeking purchase to further its progress.
Keye began to fall back. His finger tightened against the trigger of the crossbow, and his arrow flew forward, piercing deeply into the creature's grotesquely muscular neck. He witnessed another of its soundless screams before retreating. It rumbled forward behind him, hooks already sinking deep into the pillar Keye had hidden by.
He ran. His legs attempted to stumble, but sheer will drove him on: a will that insisted survival, and indeed enrichment, were still possible in this equation. Surely, this was the guardian of the place. Keye could not even hope to think of something more horrifying than this. And if that was so, then we would live, for he knew he could kill this creature. And after that, he could find his way back to the entrance. And then, he would locate the riches of this place. Oh yes, he would. He'd be rich.
He continued to run.
--
"He's still alive. Good lord." Locke scratched the accumulated stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "I don't think he'll manage it doing that, though. His energy will give out before long." The Phoenix nodded a silent agreement.
In some deep recess of his mind, Locke couldn't help but feel sorry for the con man. He was sure that Keye had fully intended to simply leave his 'colleague' down here to rot, once the job was done. Hell, he already had taken off on Locke, leaving the younger man for dead. It had only through the untimely intervention of the Phoenix that he was still alive.
And yet. . . Locke wanted to help him. Thief or not, he had a powerful conscience. The door swung both ways in that sense - he had morals, but he stole things; he stole things, but he had morals. And his morals told him to save this man.
But how to draw the demon away? That was the question, in the end: for if he simply ran in there and tried to help, it would first deafen and then devour Locke. That would not help Keye one bit. No, Locke would have to somehow get the Banshee to follow a different target.
But what would that damned thing want more than a human soul?
--
The Banshee stopped. Its pale, sinewy face stretched upwards, nose snuffling the air lightly. But more than that, the thousands of sensors lining its enormous body had been set off. There was something. . . something in the temple. . . the thing it had been waiting for, all this time. . .
A Phoenix. One had just been born. And the Banshee knew where it was. The putrid bag of pink flesh up ahead, possessing naught but a tainted soul, was suddenly of no concern.
Sinking into itself, head reorienting at the back of its body, it started back through the temple with renewed speed. Its pale lantern eyes guided it through winding corridors of a limitless nature towards a beacon of delicious light.
--
"Sorry about this. You gonna be okay?"
"I shall. And, even if I am meant to exist no longer, it will be fine so long as my race continues."
--
The Phoenix was in the midst of the great hall. Right in the centre of everything, still one with the image of Rachel, standing freely with her gown flowing around her in a ghostly fashion. Waiting. She had made her presence, for the first time, fully known to the creature. And now it had the chance to finish what it had begun.
Starved beyond measure, it came, lurching with abnormal speed into the hall. In those voluminous eyes lurked a hunger unsurpassed by any. It didn't matter that this Phoenix was already just a soul; in fact, that would save it from having to crack open its head first. It lunged, hooks extended, and a huge, fleshy tube sliding easily from out of its throat and mouth. It dripped tendrils of mucus upon the floors. It came, rumbling, wanting, needing.
And the Locke made his move. The creature, intent upon its prey, had not noticed him. He was perched against a single pillar of the left colonnade, high above the demon, daggers deeply plunged into the stone. But no longer; for he pulled both out with a mighty heave, and pushing his bended legs away from the pillar he fell upon the Banshee. It hadn't even a chance to shriek before he criss-crossed his daggers against the flesh of its bulbous throat, piercing the skin and vocal cords contained therein.
His landing, needless to say, was ungraceful, and he was certain that he'd broken a rib or two. It also bore the rather horrifying attribute of covering him in purplish gore, as the banshee was now bleeding profusely.
"Go!" he screamed at the Phoenix, and she vanished at once. The demon, now dumbfounded and mortally injured, began to thrash violently, and managed to send Locke flying against a pillar as one of its long tentacles catapulted him off of the ground and into the air. Luck still seemed to be with him, however, as the hooked ending on it did little more than scratch his face before sinking into the stone just beside his cheek.
Wincing in pain but forcing himself to roll, Locke got onto his legs and made a staggering dash for the door. He came within a hair's breadth of slipping on the pooling liquid at his feet before his trained muscles managed to balance the young thief properly. Gasping, he flung himself through the door, the intense heat taking his breath away and nearly doing away with conscious thought. As it was, however, Locke managed to hang on – barely – and slammed into the dirt path just outside the temple. His motor skills came to an abrupt halt and he struggled on the ground, half stunned, attempting in vain to move.
The Banshee, fully enraged by what was happening, and now aware that its sought out prey had eluded it, had come to the gruesome conclusion that the bringer of its misery had to pay. The gore pulsing out of its neck meant nothing to it. Death meant nothing. Only revenge, now. Dipping within itself and reorienting its head at the other end of its body – doing so managed to rip the wound open to an even greater degree – it sent its claws forward, seeking to ensnare the fallen thief but finding only a surprising difference in temperature outside the temple. It attempted in vain to scream in pain, but only a small, bubbling gurgle emerged.
Locke, veins standing out on his neck, grasped at the dirt, dragging himself further and further from the mouth of the temple. Tentacles began to worm their way out around the sides of the door tentatively, pulling the bulk of the creature slowly forward, allowing it to acclimate itself enough to continue the chase. Locke gasped, trying to get onto his knees, and instead landed face-first in the dirt. Still he persisted in his flight, dragging himself along steadily, the creature visibly wincing behind him as it emerged into the inferno. Rivers of sweat slid down its thick, greyish skin.
Grasping a nearby Phoenix statue, Locke pulled himself, unsteadily, onto his legs. He wavered, vision going hazy, nearly losing consciousness again. His eyes seemed to swim in shades of black and white, ever threatening to engulf his sight completely. However, Locke held on, using the biting pain in his ribs to keep his head above the murky waters of faintness. He struggled forward on shaky feet, staggering to and fro, but headed on a determined path towards the dirt tunnel leading back to the surface. If he could just escape for a while longer. . . it would bleed to death. . . just a bit more. . . or so he hoped, anyway.
It came forward. Its hooks dug deeply into the dirt. Its legs, thin and insectile, drove it forward in a frenzy. Heavy globs of blood stained the ground, bubbling from the intense heat. Its neck was an absolute mess. To Locke, who managed to spare a brief second to view his pursuer, it seemed even more nightmarish now than before.
It was this imagery that saved his life, for the horror of the creature gave his legs even greater motivation. His muscles sprang to life as he recovered from the temperature shock, carrying him into the tunnel with a sudden speed that made him gasp in surprise. His boots crunched the hard dirt steadily as he ran.
But it would not be outdone. Sensing the desperation of its prey, the Banshee lunged forward with renewed vigour. The shock had begun to wear off. Its heady rumble echoed up and down the tunnel as it entered, burbling its threats through a second mouth. It and Locke seemed wholly matched in speed.
And so they ran. And crawled. And Locke, at length, could not help but call out, "Why me, why me, why me. . ." as his legs carried him to an uncertain fate. Would the goddamned thing never run out of blood?
The end, much to Locke's relief, nearly fifteen minutes after entering the tunnel, was surprisingly anticlimactic. Drained of almost every drop of its vitality – literally – the Banshee simply collapsed. The rumble stopped, its echoes lingering only a moment. Those fading sounds gave Locke sudden pause, and his panicky run, which had devolved into a tired trot by this point, came to a halt. He peered back into the darkness, unable to see the creature behind him.
Now came the time of choice. By all rights, he should go back and see whether it was dead or not. He had been charged with the job of killing the thing: and if, in fact, it were not destroyed, he had to do it in for good.
But what if it was a trick? What if the Banshee was just using its silence as a ruse? Locke had little doubt that the creature could be devious when it had its wits about it. And it was not difficult for any creature to feign death with its throat slit open. No, instead of coming into the range of its tentacles, he should just take off. It was probably dead.
But what if it wasn't? What of the Phoenix? Would she be stuck in the same spiritual impasse that she had been for far too long already? Her image floated back to his mind, and when Locke saw his beautiful Rachel pleading for him to be sure of it, he knew what he would do.
When he actually found the thing dead – Locke had to stab it in the eye, just to make sure – he nearly collapsed from joy. His joy was eclipsed somewhat by the fact that he could not get back around the creature to see if the Phoenix was okay, as it blocked the tunnel.
But the thought of her vanished quickly. His brain soon began to swim with a new quest, a new purpose.
He would find the Phoenix. Or the Magicite bearing its soul. And Rachel, the real Rachel, would be in his arms once more.
--
Keye actually managed to find a way out; however, his exit of choice happened to be located some distance above the door to the temple. He fell out - stunned by the intense heat - hit the dirt, and rolled, quite limply, into the pit of lava. It was a strangely comedic death for so serious a debacle.
NOTE: I think I ran out of energy on this one. Hence, to entertain myself, I dropped Keye into some lava. Yes.