Chapter 71: Boltweaver

Skriviks gave him a look. A knowing look. A disapproving look. A nervous look. Or was that just for the elika standing beside him, lounging within the hammock that Kiphoris's own crew had hung up for him? Was it just for the alien beast in familiar skin, the creature wearing the form of one of their own?

"What do you want?" the old Archon rasped. His grip tightened on his staff and he leaned more heavily onto the external support.

Kiphoris felt his breath hissing into his rebreather, boiling hot with rage and a lack of ether. He needed to sup - and soon. Each exhalation whistled through the cracks of his battle-mask, and each inhalation keened right back. It felt... fitting.

"Krayd..." Kiphoris snarled, turning his sword - his beautiful dragon-forged sword - up into the purple light of the Monoliks Prime's ancient optic. "I want the King-spawn, the deserter, the backstabber, the cyborg cur."

Skriviks straightened. "Krayd has retreated with his crew to the Monoliks-Syn."

"Then we fly."

"Soon. The Barons will converge in a matter of local days. Where is the hatchling? Where is Valdas's heir?"

Kiphoris felt more than just rage. Bitterness too. "Taken. By the exiles."

"For what reason?" Skriviks urgently pressed.

"To deny us, perhaps?" No, that didn't feel right. They were traitors, but they weren't wicked. They weren't malicious. They just didn't see. "To spare the child the rigours of older ambitions."

Skriviks growled. "That... lands us in a spot of difficulty."

"I don't care. I want Krayd. I want him before me. I want him broken."

"He-"

"Is a murderer, Skriviks-Archon."

Skriviks narrowed his inner eyes. "And he will be judged and sentenced, so I have already declared. You walk a dangerous line, Dreamer."

The elika gracefully clambered out of the hammock and stretched out her limbs. Her armour gleamed; her cloak was seamless, not a tear to be seen. "Do you wish?" she huskily murmured, outer eyes half-closed and shuttering as a suggestive smile.

Kiphoris grunted noncommittally. Be quiet, he wordlessly ordered. Arke said no more. Satisfied, he glanced across the alley-turned-den to where Palkra rigidly lay out on a stretcher and pointedly ignored both him and the Ahamkara. "Tarrhis is dead."

"I am aware," Skriviks snapped.

Rage blossomed once more. No, it was already there, just... recycling. He was angry, thoughtful, and then angry again. Always the same series of emotions. It was a searing thing, burning him inside out. A fire that could not be quenched. Kiphoris thirsted for the only thing that stood to stamp it out - vengeance, bloody and drawn-out. But... he still had to think of the wider picture. Of the dreams that deserved his attention. "Who will be regent in his absence? Who will be Kell?"

Skiviks said nothing.

"I just want Krayd," Kiphoris whispered. "Nothing else. Just him. Give him to me, noble Archon. Please. Just him. He is all I want."

Arke leaned close, closer, beckoned forth by the mention of 'want'. Skriviks watched her sidle closer, wide-eyed. Kiphoris dropped his sword and sheathed it, standing up.

"All I want is Krayd. Give him to me and I will see your dreams through."

The dragon at his shoulder hissed, displeased. "There is more-"

Kiphoris held up a hand. "I am yours to command. I will safeguard all our people, fight whomever I must to keep our house alive. Just give me Krayd. Just him. Just one eliko."

Skriviks took a breath. "You are audacious, Dreamer. Playing at a power you have no hope of controlling. Greater eliko than you have tried - and failed."

"Just Krayd, noble Archon."

"Granted. Take him." The elder Scar sighed. He gestured towards Arke. "And what of this beast, your familiar?"

"Mine." Kiphoris said, raising his chin - a move that so often landed others a sentence of docking.

He was not docked for his boldness.

He was not punished.

Skriviks barked out a single hoarse word and left. One that sent a wave of chittering whispers through the ranks watching. One that had Palkra sitting up and glancing over with wide, shocked eyes.

"Mrelliks."

000

"You're taking Melkris. And Beraskes. And-"

"Arahynn?" Formora guessed.

"Him too." Ikharos nodded

"You're... concerned."

"Did you expect otherwise?"

"No, it's just..." Formora smiled at him, teeth flashing. Ikharos paced about the Skiff's interior before her, arms folded and brow furrowed. "It matters not; continue, please."

"I get the feeling you're laughing at me."

"Only on the inside."

"Ah. 'Spose I can live with that." Ikharos sighed and sat down beside her. Formora affectionately knocked her shoulder against his. The Risen huffed. "I am concerned."

"I'm no hapless damsel."

"Know that. Wouldn't have it any other way." Ikharos touched their shoulders together again. "Just... the things we face are a cut above 'managable threats'. Can't help but think we've landed ourselves in the deep end."

"So...?"

Ikharos groaned. "I'm saying that however good you are, our enemies may prove better. That's the basis for my worry."

Formora leaned against him, closing her eyes and breathing out. "We'll be in contact."

"True."

"With ample military support."

"Again, true."

"And we know how to kill them."

"Do we? Reliably?"

Formora tapped Vaeta's pommel, laid on the bench on her other side. "Enchanted blade."

Ikharos made a face. "Suppose so, but it's still too dangerous. We need... something better."

"Melkris can shoot out their eyes, give us time to discover another method."

"Right, right. You're taking him with you, by the way."

"Any reason why?"

"He's a fantastic marksman and better spotter; nothing will outshoot him."

Formora nodded. "I'm taking Beraskes as well. And Neirim."

"Neirim? The Psion?"

"Neuroc and I spoke. He's a gifted... what's the word you used?"

"Marksman," Ikharos muttered.

"A gifted marksman. Perfect for what lies ahead."

"And what does lie ahead? Immediately, anyways?"

"Nothing," Formora replied. "We're eighteen leagues from where the outer border of the Tarmunoran demesne lies. The land of elves stops there. It will be marked with oaks planted in the midst of infertile plains; the markers of the edge of the elven lands."

"Great," Ikharos said, sounding less than excited. "After that?"

"Another stretch of windswept emptiness before the cold settles in. We will be traveling through snow and ice in the mountains."

"It's summer."

"This is the far north."

Ikharos snorted. "Ah, well, suppose you've got me there." His hand gently slid into hers. "Be careful."

"Of course." Formora kissed him. "You too. Promise me."

"No," he retorted with the shadow of a smile.

"Ikharos."

"Fine. I'll try not to die."

"That's not... So be it." Formora groaned, fondly exasperated. She stood and strapped her sword to her belt. Her body-armour was already on, sheenless black and disarmingly unimpressive. "Shall we?"

They met Zhonoch by the edge of where the Cabal regiments were lining up, a mile from the motionless Land Tank. The vessel still struck her with awe, still intimidated her, still tugged on her sense of wonder of 'If they can manage that, what can we do?' It was a fortress, just like Ikharos said, but outfitted with more than the bare necessities to outlast an unfortunate siege. It was a garrison and home, a factory and royal court. The Primus was its king, and the legion both its citizens and standing militia.

Zhonoch greeted them with a stiff salute. She liked him, Formora decided. He was rigidly courteous and straight-to-the-point, dedicated to his people and his duty. All were commendable traits. All suited their purposes well. He wasn't always approving of what he saw, particularly towards the seemingly disorderly state of her own fyrnvard, but he never said anything.

"You're taking them," he gruffly said to Ikharos, pointing to two idle machines of brutish appearance floating above the ground. Two dozen Uluru were in formation between and around the… Goliaths, Ikharos had called them. Four other machines, smaller but no less bulky, floated ahead with Psions either in the saddles or tinkering with the controls. "Neuroc is in joint-command. You have your savages and kin, human, but our soldiers answer to the Flayer."

Ikharos tiredly nodded. There was a glint of... something in his eyes. Focus? Determination? Resolve? One of those things. "I can live with that."

"Have you gathered your own share of troops?"

"To some degree," Ikharos confirmed. It had been decided that he was going to take Kida, Javek and Raksil, along with Arahynn and Ästrith. Zhonoch looked at her; Formora nodded as well. She had Beraskes, Melkris, Eilífa and two mage-guards - the twins Nalstré and Eierín.

Zhonoch huffed, looking back at his own people. "Who are my guides?"

"Lord Bellaen and Piriikse."

"An elf and barbarian."

"You'll be glad for their help before long," Ikharos said pointedly.

Zhonoch moved his head. "Time will tell, human." He pointed to another regiment, like Ikharos's one. "That one is yours, elf. Val Iir'ur leads and Neirim is there to ensure they behave." The Uluru gave her a look. "Good luck with the Slip."

"With the wha-?" Formora started to ask, frowning, but the Uluru turned around and walked away - over to his fellow officers, grunting and bellowing with rumbling joviality. One of their number boasted sharpened tusks, jutting through modified holes in their helmet. Six silver rings were fitted along the ivory growths, three on each tusk. Runes of unrecognizable make had been etched into the metal of each piece. Similar runes dotted the pauldrons, faulds, and even ceremonial wings of other Uluru.

"Probably some in-joke," Ikharos told her. "I'll go grab my people. We should be heading out ASAP."

"I'll do the same," Formora replied, reluctantly taking her eyes off the Cabal. They were... interesting to watch. Perhaps it was the novelty of studying yet another new people, but something about them was just as enticingly fascinating as the Eliksni were. They were an old people, strong, intelligent, and came with their own storied histories. There was so much more to learn. "Be safe."

"Good hunting," Ikharos returned. They separated - Ikharos to the Skiff docked out in the open and the Eliksni around it, Formora towards the treeline where her own people waited, staring at the distant form of the colossal Imperial Land Tank.

They set out just as dawn broke. Formora took to her steed, the golden-coated Elsvarí, and ambled ahead with the others trailing behind. They shadowed the edge of Du Weldenvarden, watching the distant and shrinking forms of the other scout groups head in their own directions - Ikharos towards the sea and Zhonoch boldly marching across the plains. Formora didn't envy the Uluru; she had experienced enough of dragon-war and Skiff-fighting to fear the open skies. The ocean and forest both provided some cover, at least, but the Vigilant had none.

It hadn't looked like he'd much minded, though. His group had been the most robust of the three, given twice as many soldiers as well as more war machines. It was favouritism, perhaps, but Formora didn't feel like begrudging the Primus because of it. Zhonoch was a compatriot while they were little more than temporary assets. Besides - she had seen the warmth between the two, right through the alien features and foreign mannerisms. A budding appreciation, but present all the same.

Her own Uluru were a little more relieved for the canopy above, though. Formora did not see or hear it - instead felt it on the edges of the reduced metaconcert ranging between the Psions within her contingent. She was not the only one to notice either; Eilífa and her guards sensed it and confirmed it to one another with meaningful looks. Even that hadn't gone unnoticed, not by the other side.

Neirim picked up his pace, marching alongside with his weapon drawn but aimed down at the ground. It was an odd piece, shaped vaguely like her own rifle or Melkris's wire rifle, but with a marginally shorter barrel and an oversized sight. A Cabal headhunter, her Marauder whispered to her as they left. It held a similar purpose to the firearms she'd listed: fighting at extended range.

"You're keeping us out of the sky's eye," the Psion murmured. His grasp of common speech was, like the rest of the Cabal, startlingly even and solid. He spoke as if he had grown up knowing the language, speaking it all his life - not as if he'd only happened upon it a few months prior. "The Hive are slow - they cannot grow Tombships so quickly. That comes later."

Formora idly wondered what a Tombship was. Something that could fly, she guessed. Like a Skiff? A Thresher or Harvester? A frightening concept, that - she imagined the mighty Knight she had fought given all the far-reaching versatility boasted by Calzan's sleek ship, or something like it. "Harmony can fly," she told the Psion, returning to his question.

Neirim made a sound. It was next to impossible to glean whether it was a scoff or grunt or even a chuckle. Psions were... strange. "Affirmative. They can. Some of them." He looked at her again. "You have personally faced Harmony before?"

"I have," Formora replied. "It ambushed us along the Spine. I slew it for its efforts."

"How?"

"Sword."

"Flayer Neuroc reported the same. Elven blades can pierce Harmonic hide?"

"They can," Formora affirmed after but a moment's hesitation. Rider blades, in any case, but many elven weapons followed the same framework - attuning the weapons with magic, even if to a lesser degree.

"What would it take to requisition a shipment of arms? To hire a weaponsmith to more readily supply our forces?"

"A miracle."

"What do you mean?"

Formora glanced to her other side, where Beraskes noiselessly padded along. The Marauder looked tense, uncomfortable. She didn't like the Cabal being so close, that was clear to see. "It has taken much to gather even the warriors we have with us now, armed with their own equipment. What you propose would take time and considerable effort; there are many hurdles to cross before my people would ever dare to supply a foreign army."

Neirim said nothing. He gradually fell back to march with his own kind. The metaconcert retracted, pulling away from the notice of elven minds.

Their goal was simple: to flush out any hostile presence ahead and ensure the path was stable enough for the Land Tank to traverse. The titanic Cabal construct trundled along in the distance behind them, home to an army of gun-toting giants. Even after all she had seen and learned, the simple idea of it still boggled the mind. Formora found herself sitting down to watch the war machine every second evening - when they stopped to rest. She supped on each occasion with Eilífa, her guards and the Eliksni while the Cabal tended to their own matters within the perimeter of their temporary camp. A gulf opened between them, small but noticeable - and one Eilífa made attempts to bridge, despite Beraskes' protests.

Against his better judgement, or so he grumbled, Melkris helped out. Formora allowed them to try; she had no desire to become a target for all the suppressed dislike and distrust stretching between both foreign peoples. Instead she turned to the radio - the device that strung each of their separate groups together.

Formora first checked with Zhonoch's group. Piriikse, the other Eliksni mage, answered and cheerfully told her, "We are still walking, Formora pak Zeshus. Still walking."

"Have you encountered Harmony?"

"Nama."

"Hive?"

"Nama."

"Is Lord Bellaen present?"

"Bellaen-Mrelliks is speaking with Zhonoch-Vigilant."

"Instruct him to reach out to Däthedr some time soon."

"Eia, Zeshus, I will."

"Good." Formora exhaled, relieved. "Thank you, Piriikse." She connected with Ikharos's group next, Beraskes helping her operate the device. "Is-"

"I'm here."

"Ikharos."

"Formora."

She smiled and rolled her eyes, though he couldn't see it. "Has anything happened?"

"Well... we learned Raksil can't swim, Arahynn's looking for war stories from the Legionaries, Javek caught a fish with magic to feed to his spider, Neuroc's doing weird Psion things and I'm trying to herd them all onwards. So... yeah, nothing strange. Yourself?"

"Eilífa and Melkris are trying to make friends with our Cabal."

"Good on them. I mean, I have serious doubts it'll work out, but good on them regardless." Ikharos paused. "Ästrith is asking after Beraskes. Is she well?"

"I am," Beraskes chirped over Formora's shoulder. "What of the glint-blade?"

"The... the what?"

"Aez Trett."

"Ah. She's good. I think. Lemme check." Ikharos's voice receded into silence, then came back not a half-a-minute later. "She's doing fine. Again, I think. Elves are..."

"Elves are...?" Formora interrupted, raising an eyebrow he couldn't see. "Elves are what?"

"Ooooh, I could say a lot about elves." She could hear the easy, relieved grin in his voice. We'll go with 'happily-detached' for now."

"What does that even mean?"

"Mind in another world but not quite and doing so with a tiny knowing smirk. Slightly holier-than-thou attitude and all, but I suppose that's a racial trait so I'm not going to mention it."

Formora's own smile faded. "Are you-"

"Channeling my inner juvenile self, yes."

"Am I-"

"Nope. You're pretty alright. Just a little scary."

Formora made a face. "I'm scary?"

"Used to intimidate me a little."

"I'm sorry, I'm scary?"

"Weren't you? I think I'd know - it was me waking up every morning and swallowing that little shred of fear before heading out to meet the spooky elven lady."

"You're nervous about something," Formora realized. "You're rambling because-"

"Because I feel something," Ikharos admitted, teasing tone all but disappearing. "There's... a pressure. We're heading into Harmony country and I can feel it. Hell, we've only been marching ten days days now and I can feel the edge of it. It's like being near the Hellmouth - near the mother of all Hive nests. Things are getting... bleak. Dark. Can't you feel it?"

"I'm not as sensitive to paracausal essences as you are."

"More's the pity; would have loved having another Warlock to bounce ideas off of." Ikharos hummed thoughtfully. The sound came through the radio as a crackle. "Still..."

"Still?" Formora settled down, crossing her legs. "Do you want to talk?"

"Yes," Ikharos quickly said. "How about something menial and... Let's see... do you know how radios work? The one you're using right now?"

"I do."

"Wait, you do?" He sounded surprised.

"Yes." Formora shooed the clicking/chuckling Beraskes away, mouthing 'I have this'. "Radio waves, invisible to the eye, bouncing through the air. You told me."

"I did?"

"Or Kiphoris did."

"Kiph?" Ikharos went silent for moment. "You're... confusing me with a two-metre tall, four-armed, four-eyed alien?"

Formora huffed, mostly for show. "Yes, yes-"

"He's got mandibles. Exoskeleton. Blue setae for hair."

"Setae?"

"Crab-fur."

"I'm... sorry?"

"Hair-like structures found on- No, nono, stop it, we're talking about how you've mistaken me with an Eliksni Captain."

Formora pressed her lips together. "You two were... were quite often on the same page."

"Same page," Ikharos echoed doubtfully.

"You approached problems largely in the same manner. You came from the same place-"

"Same star system, that's all.

"-and you both share many of the same experiences - experiences you regaled me with time and again.

"He's still an entire other species. You can tell just from looking at him." Ikharos sounded exasperated. Fondly, though. Not that it meant much to her. "The arms, Mora. The eyes. Hell, even the size of him!"

"Yes, well, it was all a blur of so many new and fantastical and frighteningly dangerous things, so forgive me for not being sure who exactly explained communication devices to me." Formora exhaled tiredly. Regret ran through her. "He... he should be here. He should be helping us."

"He's-"

"I know, with his people, but... this war concerns them too."

"Concerns everyone planetside, but drawing them all into this little war of ours isn't all that feasible - as your own race has so brilliantly proven." Ikharos paused. "Besides - most everyone on this planet isn't prepared for a war. A modern war, played between interstellar civilizations and propped up with paracausal energies. Your elves fit one half of it and the Cabal another, but the dwarves? The humans? The Urgals? Not a chance."

"We're speaking of the Eliksni."

"Yeah. One of the most powerful species to ever tread the stars - and they're refugees on the brink of extinction."

"We've circled around the point," Formora sighed. "Kiph should be here."

"... He should," Ikharos reluctantly agreed.

"With us. We worked well together. We were friends. All three of us. More - we were a crew, a Fireteam, a... force all on our own."

"He promised to kill me after all was said and done."

"You liked him too."

"Death threats-"

"You throw yourself into death's embrace time and again."

Ikharos went quiet.

"This... issue with the Eliksni needs to be dealt away with," Formora followed up. "We need them. We should want to work with them. You liked them - even with all your history, you enjoyed being with them."

"Aroughs-"

"Was an atrocity, and one we should not be quick to forget, but abandoning the Eliksni to their own devices and stealing away a number of their soldiers was not an ideal response."

"I left them with one demand," Ikharos said, more quietly. "To kick their house in order, or I'd return to do it for them. That's the only mercy I'm willing to spare for... for mass murderers."

"Not all are to blame."

"But a significant portion are. I was fed a lie and I believed it - that they were civilized, merciful, good. Some, maybe. But the bad really outshines the good. You weren't there. You didn't see the-" Ikharos choked off. "You... didn't see."

Formora sighed - again. "Perhaps not, but what I see before me... we need them. Or what happened in Aroughs will happen everywhere, across the entire world."

Ikharos grunted. "Maybe. I'll... I'll work with Javek. Maybe we'll send a datapacket with footage of Harmony. Hive too. Might be enough to spark them into action - action pointed in the right direction." Another pause. "I have to go. Neuroc's looking for me. I... Formora? Stay safe. Wiol ono."

Formora's smile returned, but as a ghost of itself. "You too."

"I'm-"

"Risen, I realize. Do so anyways. Wiol ono."

"... I'll try." The connection abruptly cut off.

Eilífa's and Melkris's progress (they cooperated together far too smoothly for Formora's liking) bore some fruit. The elven noblewoman had two of the Uluru soldier - Legionaries, Formora thought, although she wasn't overly familiar with Cabal ranks - engaged in conversation, while the shockshooter was quite possibly teasing the dead silent Neirim, motioning to his rifle first and then to the Psion's weapon.

"Is something the matter?" Formora asked, approaching the two. Her guards followed close behind, avidly watching the Cabal - out of caution and curiosity both.

Melkris snorted. "Psion won't play mine-game," he said in Low Speak.

"What game?"

"I believe," Neirim said in echoing common, voice scarcely louder than a whisper, "that the brigand is attempting to challenge me to a test of marksmanship."

"Eia," Melkris cheerfully confirmed. "We do?"

"No."

"Oh, psesiskar nam'kir..."

Neirim's eye flickered. "Insults will not work on me, outlaw. I am no Uluru, pounding their chest at the first perceived wrong."

"Gah." Melkris scoffed, twirled about and helplessly held out his arms. He switched to Low-Speak. "The Psion is cowardly and incapable of conceiving fun. I despise both."

Formora watched as the shockshooter walked away, humming to himself. She turned back to Neirim. "Is everything alright?"

Neirim offered her only a glance - one which felt as if it pierced right into her soul - and retreated back to his own camp without another word. Strange - the both of them. With a soft, exasperated sigh (oh, how often she was driven to the motion), Formora strolled to where Eilífa and her new acquaintances stood about. The Legionaries both saluted as she approached and the elven noblewoman raised her fingers to her lips. "Lady Láerdhon."

"Lady Televvar," Formora greeted in kind. She was at a loss where the gathered Uluru were concerned, however. "Warriors," she cautiously ventured.

"Commander," an Uluru murmured. Its voice was a rough, baritone thing - less discordant than how Eliksni spoke but deeper. An opposite to the Psions' higher-pitched, flanged voices.

"All is well, I trust?"

"Indeed," Eilífa cheerfully reported. Her eyes twinkled with wonder. "We are speaking of the stars."

"Oh?" Formora felt some of her unease slip away. "Then I will leave you to it. Remember, though - we march on the morn, so make the most of this respite."

"As you say, my lady." Eilífa bowed her head - as if she were a vassal to Formora's own station rather than an aristocrat of equal standing. Perplexed, Formora frowned as she left the Cabal and elf to their conversation, not a little thrown off by the gesture. It wasn't the first time it had happened either; Däthedr had transferred command of the fyrnvard to her before Zhonoch and Neuroc without any hesitation, and Bellaen had been subtly deferring to her as a leading authority on all matters beyond Du Weldenvarden's borders since they had first met. It was... alarming.

But it was also advantageous - an advantage freely given. Islanzadí had been wrong. Her supporters, traditional and isolationist, were wrong. Matters beyond their nation still required their attention and intervention; hiding away within their woodland cities helped no one. They were ready to fight Galbatorix - but barely at that, and nothing more. Were they so jaded after the losses suffered during the last Dragon War that they saw no alternative but to cower and hope nothing visited unto them more destruction and death?

How well that had turned out.

Formora wandered back to the edge of the forest, lost in thought. The trees were thinning out; they were nearing the end of Du Weldenvarden and the beginning of the empty north. Their aerial cover was not to last.

A massive steppe yawned out ahead of them. Rolling dunes of wind-whipped grass and crusty earth stretched on for miles and miles. Formora could only just make out the tips of mountains ahead, ivory fangs rising above the gums of the earth. Clouds gathered above it all, grey and dreary. No storm, not yet, but the sky darkened further ahead. Even the gales that swept in from the west were of the bone-chilling kind, totally unlike the gentler summer breezes of the south - of Alagaësia.

"Occatz squadron," Neirim said, pointing up into the sky. Formora followed where he was looking and spotted three thin trails of smoke high above, threading in and out of the clouds blanketing the heavens. Threshers, she suspected. Or Harvesters, perhaps - but most likely Threshers. They were the quicker, more battle-ready kind, she had been told. Harvesters were designed purely to ferry living bodies into battle. Odd that the Eliksni fused both functions into a single vessel - but then again, they were a practical people with a limit on resources, so it made some sense.

Formora preferred Skiffs. They held a grace Cabal vessels simply did not. And they didn't stink of burning oil either.

"They will watch over us," Neirim continued. "And intercede if need be."

"What if they need help?"

"They are under orders to retreat if aerial resistance is encountered."

"And what would happen to us?" Formora asked.

Neirim shrugged. The motion looked wrong on him. "Collateral. Necessary casualties. We cannot spare the Threshers for a skirmish doomed to fail." He glanced at her. "Life is cheap. Death is cheap. Haven't you learned that already, elf?"

Dismayed, Formora opted to ride ahead, cutting all further talks with the Psion short. Her steed, and those of her guards, took to the open plains easily enough, though the lack of trunks around and canopy above had them flicking their ears with some discomfort.

They were all out of their element.

Camp was made three days out from Du Weldenvarden. They had passed the oak tree markers more than a day before. With it went all sense of security, of home, of knowing that some advantage surely laid with them. Formora felt exposed, vulnerable and all sorts of nervous. She and Melkris huddled around the shockshooter's radio for a distraction.

"Pick up," Melkris ordered, voice hushed. His words tumbled out through his fangs as an irritated hiss. "Silly Splicer, pick up."

The radio spat static. "'e're here. This is Javek, Splicer of no banners."

"Javek! Ah, finally! I have not heard you speak in weeks!"

"Oh. Melkris." There was a crackling huff from the other side. "We only departed-"

"So long ago..."

"Nama. Don't be dramatic."

Melkris grinned. Formora leaned forward. "Javek?" she asked. "Vel. Is everyone in good health?"

"Ah, Zeshus! Vel, vel. Eia, we are well. We, uh..." A rustle filtered through. "Chelchis is hungry. Is there much to feed upon?"

Formora hesitated. "Spiders don't... fare well in cold climates."

"Oh. But if I use magic-"

"And what life persists out here is well-adapted to hiding from predators."

A thrumming hiss emanated from the radio. "Then... what will I do, Zeshus?"

"You could leave Chelchis here, come back for her later. Whisper new spells, give her instructions."

Another hiss. "I will ask Kirzen for the words. Thank you."

Melkris exchanged a worried look with Formora. "Little Chelchis will be fine," the shockshooter said. "She has Stone-spirit. Send her back to the elf-forest."

"I will, I will, just... do you want to speak with Ikha Riis?"

"Yes please," Formora replied. "Is he available?"

"He speaks with Neuroc. I will ask." Another rustle, as if Javek was getting up and leaving the radio where it was - which was likely the case. Formora heard a muted "Ikha Riis!" somewhere in the background, following with groaning and a sharp whistling sound. It ended abruptly, followed by a click.

"Hello?" Ikharos asked. "Mora?"

"I'm here," Formora replied.

"And I!" Melkris chirped. He grinned unashamedly. "Have questions, Kirzen!"

"I... okay. Shoot."

"Eia, that is exactly what I want to ask!"

"... Mora?" Ikharos said after a brief pause. "What's he on about?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Melkris?"

The shockshooter took the radio into his hands. "How do you speak with Neuroc, Kirzen?"

"With words," the Risen deadpanned. "Y'know, the thing we do with our mouths?"

"I mean with Psions."

"Again, words. They're not so alien as to employ an entirely separate method of communication. They have tongues, lungs, brains - things you have. I think. Two out of three for certain, the last is... debatable."

Melkris pouted. Or rather, Formora thought he pouted. All she saw was a shuttering of inner eyes, mandibles shaking out and a low hiss emanating from between the shockshooter's serrated teeth - but none of it was done in anger. She knew what anger looked like on an Eliksni, and this wasn't it. "I'm asking for your help, Kirzen."

"Who do you want to talk with?"

"Neirim."

"The Optus. Why?"

"I want to challenge him."

"To?"

"Shooting."

"Not at each other, I hope?"

"Nama," Melkris quickly amended. "I am not so petty."

"Have you... have you asked him?" Ikharos hesitantly inquired.

"Eia."

"And...?"

"He refused."

"Well, I can't help you there."

Melkris grumbled. "I was hoping for entertainment."

"Challenge someone else."

"Argh, eia eia, fine." The shockshooter's eyes found her, all four narrowed with consideration.

"Can I..." she trailed off, motioning to the radio.

"You."

"Me?"

"Eia. You."

"Melkris, what-"

"Shoot with me."

"Why would..." Formora expelled a tired breath. "Alright, yes, but can I speak with Ikharos?"

"Eia, of course! You only had to ask." Melkris tossed the radio over. Formora caught it and held it up to her ear.

"Ikharos?"

"I'm here. We're about to head out, though, so may have to cut this short before long... what's up?"

"This is a talk best shared. Can we include Zhonoch?"

"Sure. Gimme... there."

The radio fizzled. A Psion's voice suddenly cut in. "Who-"

"Zhonoch," Ikharos barked. There was more activity over the line, then an Uluru's deep voice filled in the sudden gulf.

"What?" Zhonoch boomed.

"Mora?" Ikharos asked.

Formora took a breath, turning around to face the mountains in the distance. "We're coming up on the Ezdraldn Mountains. At our current pace, we'll make it in a week and a half - but I want to know what happens when we do?"

"Consolidate our forces," Zhonoch grunted. "Take the measure of the place and find a way past. Are there passages large enough for the Amarz Amalz?"

"I... believe so," Formora replied, hesitating. "I only made it halfway over the range, and that was by air."

"Hive must have reached it by now," Ikharos said lowly, "easily."

"Probably almost through," Zhonoch agreed.

"But what if they aren't? What if they've left us a surprise?"

"Then we crush it underfoot."

"As long as we're all on the same page," Ikharos muttered grimly.

Formora squinted. "What of Harmony?"

"Them too. Mountains: perfect place to hide, perfect place to hold, perfect place to lay an ambush. We could have trouble."

"How sparsely distributed are the mountains?" Zhonoch asked.

Formora exhaled. "They aren't. Not widely, in any case. Some of the passages can grow narrow, lined with cliffs and sheer drops."

"How long would it take to go around?"

"Months, even at your Land Tank's current speed."

"Then we push through. And break whatever stranglehold they think to lash around our throats. Merida-X8, how long before you reach the mountains?"

"Week at most. We're making good time. You?"

"A solar cycle or two behind you. Has there been any sightings? Of anything - hostile or otherwise."

"No," Ikharos said thoughtfully.

"I must report the same," Formora admitted. "We have encountered little life, even animals."

"But the Hive definitely came through this way. I can feel their soulfire smoke, decaying in the air around us. Wind's blown it everywhere, shooting the trail to bits, but they did come this way. We have to- Neuroc?" Ikharos took a deep breath. Someone said something in the background, but Formora couldn't make it out. "Right, uh we're marching again. We'll speak soon." His side of the channel switched off.

Zhonoch grunted, again. "Likewise. Report the moment you spot something, elf. For the Empire." His voice faded away. The radio went silent.

Formora turned around, intending on nothing more than to retreat to her bedroll, but Melkris stood in the way - beaming at her, outer eyes closed. "Zeshus?"

She was tired. She was tired and she was spending time with Melkris, playing along with one of his many intricate and seemingly pointless games. Formora wanted nothing more than to slip back to camp, to catch some sleep for the march on the morrow, but...

He looked so earnest. So hopeful. And she knew it was all a ploy for him to get what he wanted - but they all needed some joy in their lives. She couldn't deprive him of it; Melkris was her friend. Her friend. Unconditionally. He hadn't cared about her past, her fears or hopes or losses and wrongs. He was just... nice to her. Warm. Funny(at times). Endlessly exuberant, lifting them up the moment they fell down.

They laid across a dune of solid, hard earth and aimed at a distant target - a dead sapling, all alone, thorny branches curling into the air like skeletal fingers.

"Five," Melkris murmured, peeking through his wire rifle's sights.

Formora peered through her own rifle's scope, aligning its crosshairs on the sapling. "I see them. What are the rules?"

"We take turns. First to hit three, wins."

"Then whoever takes the first turn will automatically win," Formora pointed out.

Melkris chittered happily. He glanced at her, eyes bright with mischief. "If they do not miss."

Ah. There was the catch.

"I will allow you to shoot first," Melkris purred. "Because I am so kind."

Formora scoffed. She took aim, settled her rifle's stock against her shoulder, trained the sights on one of the sapling's twigs - so very far away - and breathed in. She fired.

The broken branch hung by a scrap of rotting bark. She'd hit it - but not directly enough. Formora pursed her lips. "Pseksisk. Does that count?"

Melkris made a dissatisfied sound. He shot all of a sudden, taking her by surprise. Formora looked at the sapling again - and the branch on the direct opposite side from her target flew off, smoking towards the base. "Eh..." The shockshooter leaned back and gave her a searching look. "I will offer you this one mercy."

Formora squinted. Her rifle's scope, outfitted with a tracking system, wasn't picking up on the sapling as a target. Nor was it helping her focus on what she wanted to shoot at; it scanned the direction she had it pointed in and came back with nothing of import.

Melkris tugged it away. Formora almost hissed out a complaint, but the shockshooter shoved his wire rifle into her hands. It felt... unfamiliar. Lighter than her own weapon. It looked more organic, almost like a living thing. "Why-"

Melkris sat up and turned the barrel over in his hands. "Too heavy. Too clunky. I thought human weapons were good." He glumly glanced west. "Ikharos's weapons all look so impressive."

"Melkris."

"Ah." He turned around. "Easier with Eliksni-rifle, yes? Try it."

She frowned at him, but turned her gaze back at the sapling. The dual scopes offered by the wire rifle confused her at first, but once Formora found out how to switch between them it became so much easier. The weapon felt organic too; there was a gentle purr beneath the plating, a hum emanating a soft warmth. The stock... just wasn't there. She feared the kick - and then squashed that fear. Eliksni were strong, but they were a careful people too; if a stock was needed it would have been there.

Formora aligned the primary, long-range sight on the next branch. Her finger curled around the trigger, tightening... and fired. There was a kick, but it was simple thing to wrestle the weapon back down without issue. Formora glanced back through the wire rifle's lense - and yes, the dead sapling had lost a third limb.

"Thank you," she murmured, passing the rifle back. Melkris grabbed it greedily, tugged it up and fired the moment it was in his care. Another twig dropped away. He passed the wire rifle back with a grin. Formora took in a deep breath and held it; she repeated the same procedure as before, slowly making sure she had it under control, and fired.

The last branch fell away.

"Now we are even," Melkris exhaled happily.

"But I-"

"Failed on your first shot."

"Psesiskar," Formora huffed. "I hit it."

"Still there, Zeshus."

"I hit it."

Melkris pointed at the sapling and gave her a look as if to say: did you?

"You're impossible," she accused half-heartedly, passing the wire rifle back to him. Formora looked it over. "But..."

"But?"

"I do appreciate... this."

"Of course you do!" Melkris crowed. He tossed her rifle on the ground, then carefully laid his own between them. His upper, dominant hands slid over the weapon's casing, caressing its frame. "A masterful design, eia? Humans may be smart, but nothing you ever make will compare to mine-rifle."

"Oh?" Formora raised an eyebrow. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Don't say anything, just... look." Melkris uncorked the circular chamber below the base of the barrel, just in front of the trigger. "Fusion charge and wire-wrapping." He slid his talons into the part where it connected with the rifle and drew out a tiny, needle thin strand of silvery wire. "This is what it shoots, Zeshus."

"It shoots... this?" Formora knelt down. "How?"

"Cuts into strips, fills with Arc, fires. The wires pierce hide and the energy burns. Clever, eia?"

"Indeed." Formora leaned closer. It was ingenious. Frighteningly so. How imaginative people were where the art of butchering one another was concerned.

But was she any different?

Still, the rifle was impressive all the same. Melkris reattached the disc and opened up paneling on the barrel's side. Bright blue light filtered out from within. "Liquid coils, filled with Arc. Stores all the power I need."

"It's very... intuitive," Formora managed.

"Eia." Melkris stood up, stretched out his arms, and then slung his rifle over his back. "We are even, eia? Good competition, Formora." He nudged her rifle towards her with his foot. "Mine-sympathies, working with scrap like this."

"It isn't bad, Melkris."

"Bah!" The shockshooter marched back to camp, swaying with good cheer. Formora sighed, picked up her rifle and followed him - but not without a distasteful look tossed in the direction of the sapling.

She had been so close.

The days trickled by. Land Tank behind, mountains ahead - both closed in on them. The air turned sharp, first, and then truly cold. The weather dropped on them; clouds hung low and black overhead, stray streams and rivulets of mountain water froze over, rains turned to soft snows. It was a winterscape, totally at odds with the south - totally out of place with everything. It was too cold for where they were. Formora half-sensed it was twinned to some malignant presence or malicious spell, given the abruptness of it all, but there was no changing the fact that the elements now struck against them, trying to hinder their progress with physical punishment.

Nonetheless, they carried on. Formora and her companions cast spells to keep the worst of the chill at bay, and the Cabal machines as well as the elf-horses soldiered through the snow gradually piling up the further north they traveled, but it still dragged at their spirits and confidence.

"This doesn't fit the local geography," Neirim mentioned, a few days out from the mountains. "This is likely artificial."

"I suspected as much," Formora said, nodding tiredly. They had gone without reprieve for three days straight in an attempt to catch up with the progress made by Ikharos and Zhonoch - both of whom were closing in on the mountain range, both of whom had thus far reported nothing unusual. Except for the weather. They'd all remarked upon it with differing degrees of uncertainty. "Do your people have technology for this?"

"Yes," Neirim replied, and in a casual manner at that - as if he hadn't just admitted to possessing the ability to govern the very weather itself. "But we didn't bring any with us." His singular eye flushed with so many alien emotions. Formora could almost feel them. Almost... taste them? "My inquiry is... why? Why use it here?"

"To hide something." Formora re-orientated herself northwards.

"Hide what?"

"Existence. The Harmony hid themselves from my people, and all others on this world, for millennia. They spent this time sowing discord and spreading death, all from the shadows." Formora grimaced. "It's almost as if they feed on our ignorance."

Someone nudged her shoulder, waking her. Formora opened her eyes and sat up, shivering. She pulled her cloak closer, but the warmth she sought was out of reach. "Yes?"

Eilífa, who appeared as tired as Formora, gestured to the distant mountains. "We have but one more trek, my lady."

Formora drowned the complaint bubbling to the surface and raised herself up. "Then let us dispense with this arduous task and be done with it."

The snows had built up into banks, blanketing the hills and dunes in pale glittering white. All was steeped in chill, but the clouds above promised only rain - and soon to come at that. Formora debated with herself whether it was a blessing or a curse. Ridding themselves of the snows was ideal, but at the cost of even more discomfort? They were already pressing themselves to the brink; she didn't find anything the oncoming storm promised to be in any way, shape or form enticing.

The fact it was a storm was not lost on her.

The storm was watching.

It saw them. It watched them march.

Formora rode Elsvarí well into the day. The elf-horse took to the task well enough, but it was clear to see that the poor beast was as miserable as she was - driven on only by kindness and loyalty. At some point she was going to have to send the animal back to Du Weldenvarden, much like Javek's spider. The horse had no business suffering whatever new punishment the mountains had to-

Elsvarí's ears flicked, urgently. The elf-horse whinnied with distress.

"What is it?" Formora whispered, leaning against the beast's neck. "Hvaët er älf? Er hvaëtsum-"

The stench hit her, all at once. The stench of rot and ash and death. Formora sat up, a cry forming on her lips, but one of the Cabal war machines - an Interceptor, she recalled, with a single Psion occupant to pilot it - roared past her and ahead, thrusters booming and glowing cannons unfolding on the sides of its battering-ram front.

Something rose above the snow, lobbed high over the banks, cascading through the air with fierce speed. Formora might have imagined it a flung pile of snow and sleet - if not for the inhuman shrieking emanating around the shape. It crashed down on the ground, narrowly missing the Interceptor and throwing the bellowing machine end over end. The Psion tumbled from the thing, bouncing against the ground - and came to a stop by the foot of the shooter.

The assailant raised its leg and crushed the Psion's head beneath its bony sabatons. A violet puff and a sickening crack marked the unfortunate Cabal creature's end - and the killer's three green eyes raised up to settle on the rest of them. More emerald stars twinkled into sight ahead, piercing through the dark, snowy veil with cruel focus.

"Hive!" Formora gasped out.

Elsvarí raised up, front legs kicking into the air and crying out in panic. A slim thread of purple flashed through the air - and needled through the horse's head, barely missing Formora's own. She smelled singed flesh and burning hair, just before her steed collapsed on its side, hard - catching her leg beneath its bulk. Formora bit her tongue, hard, and hissed out a cry of pain past clenched teeth. She tasted blood. Her leg was broken; the distinct snapping sensation, followed by a brief coldness and then burning agony, had been unmistakable.

The Cabal roared overhead. The Goliaths crashed forth, spewing fiery death, and the rest of the otherworldly soldiers followed suit. Rockets and flames cracked over head, unleashed by bellowing brutes and keening Psions.

"Lady Láerdhon!" Eilífa and Nalstré dropped down beside her, at once trying to lift up the limp weight of Elsvarí, but they only managed when Beraskes skidded by them and hefted the horse up with her own spectacular strength. The Marauder's lower arms snagged Formora's shoulders and dragged her back, away from Elsvarí and down behind a snowbank.

"Your leg-" Nalstré began, wide-eyed. His sister, Eierín, stood behind him and Eilífa with her sword drawn, gaze fixed on the firefight blossoming into fruition ahead.

"Help me heal it," Formora gasped. Her hand went to her leg - oh, it burned, it stung, it seared her nerves with liquid fire! - and she pulled her magic to the forefront of her mind. "Heill thornessa benn, heill thornessa mïnen, waíse heill..." (Mend this bone, mend this leg, be healed.)

Eilífa and Nalstré chanted in tandem, repairing the damage and resetting the break. The sensation sent shivers up her spine, aggravated the hurt already lancing up from her leg, so Formora quietly added, "Tuatha du verkr." (Temper the pain.)

All sharp feeling in the limb disappeared. Formora heaved for breath - and listened. The Hive were... roaring, answering the Cabal warcry with their own. More shrieks cut through the air, more explosions resounded across the steppe. Neirim slid over the bank beside them, eye flashing with colour and battlemask affixed to his lower face. His rifle's barrel smoked and glowed.

"They have a sniper," the Psion spat out. He barely spared them anything more than a cursory glance. Melkris followed him over the lip of the tiny ridge, snarling obscenities in Low Speak. His own chest rose and fell quickly, cycling air in and out dangerously fast.

"Big Knight!" the shockshooter gasped in accented common. "Big Knight! Big Knight!"

Neirim made a crackling, humming noise. He slowly raised his head to peek over the edge. "Spawn of the Darkblade. This was intended; no happenstance clash. Ambush."

A violet bolt slipped through the snow and shredded through the frozen earth. Neirim rocked back, the shot scarcely missing him, and allowed himself to slide further down. He turned to Formora. "Adherent, far ridge. Three-quarters of a chren away."

Formora levered herself up onto her knees, breathed a sigh of relief when her leg didn't give in, and unslung her rifle. "Which direction?"

"Direct north."

"What of the Knight?"

Neirim motioned around. Uluru were still charging, firing regularly, while Interceptors and the two Goliaths had already shot over the edge on roaring jets. The other elf-horses, those that had survived, had raced from the fight. Not that cavalry would have made any difference; firearms completely nullified the use of a mounted charge. "They have their orders, we have ours."

"I don't," Formora muttered. She held up a hand, heart thumping, and flushed the magic forth. "Garjzla."

A werelight, soft gold, appeared in the air and floated up. Another Void bolt ripped right through it the moment it rose above the ridge, scattering the dying sparks of the spells to the wind.

"Watching us," Beraskes hissed in Low Speak.

"Hive can smell our magic," Formora remembered, turning to her companions. Eilífa, Nastré and Eierín stared back. "We healed..."

"What?" Neirim pressed. "What do you mean?"

"I have an idea." Formora gestured to the other elves. "Stay here and cast spells, harmless ones, as many as you can manage."

"My lady?"

"Do it." Formora looked around. The ridge drifted at a southwest angle. "We can curve around, flank the marksman."

"We'll be out of their sight," Neirim realized, catching on. "Have an angle - on all of them." He lifted his rifle. "Understood. I'll create a diversion."

Formora got to her feet, but hunched down to avoid exposing herself above the snowbank. "Beraskes, stay here, guard them-"

"Nama! Go with you!"

"Do it!" Formora snapped.

The Marauder hissed, then grumbled, "As you decree, Zeshus."

"Melkris-"

"Wait." Beraskes plucked something from her belt and tossed it. Formora caught it. "Shimmercloak. Go quick, Zeshus."

Formora nodded her thanks and raced off, Melkris running on four limbs behind her with his wire rifle clutched between his secondary hands. They made it all of forty paces before something small and gangly tumbled over the ridge right in front of them. The thing was thin, grey and hissed like a starving beast. It raised its eyeless face, opened a wide mouth full of gleaming fangs and pounced. Formora tossed her rifle ahead, drew Vaeta and ducked under the uncoordinated leap while thrusting her shortsword up into the rabid creature's ribcage. It mutedly cried out - and then Melkris slammed into it, dragging it off her blade and ripping its head off its shoulder with his bare hands. He tossed the still-chattering skull aside and nodded her onwards, uncharacteristically focused. Formora hesitated but for a moment before carrying on. They resumed their run.

Another pair of Thrall gave chase. Melkris dealt with them quickly, turning around and tossing a pair of electrified knives with pinpoint accuracy. The kills garnered some attention - and an Acolyte leapt down in front of Formora, wielding its own short, jagged blade. She brought Vaeta to bear, deflecting the initial strike and chopping into the Hive morph's arm, then drew her blade across its neck with a quick flick of her sword. The beast fell with a gurgling gout of soulfire rippling out of its ruptured throat. She left it to die on the wayside, hurrying onwards. Melkris caught up, grabbed Beraskes' stealth kit and activated it, dragging Formora close to hide them both. They were not beset upon by Hive rabble again.

The ridge narrowed out and lowered the further they went. Their ducked sprint slowed to shuffling crouch, then to crawling on their bellies until the rise gave way to flat ground. Formora brought her rifle up in a single practiced movement and scanned the area. The smart-scope picked out the heat signatures crashing together in the direction of the skirmish, where firefight devolved into a dreadful sort of melee - one where the towering Knight leading its underlings excelled. One of the Goliaths was already aflame, near destroyed outright, what with the massive scar laid into its hull by the huge warrior morph's cruel sword, and the beast had an Interceptor in its offhand, lifting the machine up by its crumpled nose.

Static played over Formora's skin, crackling in the air around them. Three Psions, landlocked as opposed to their rapidly dying out Interceptor-kin, arrayed themselves before the giant Knight and forced out blasts of violet from their eyes. Three lines of Voidflames flared up across the frozen earth, right towards the beastly warrior, and culminated in a massive pulse that forced the Hive beast off the ground and into the air. Two Threshers dropped out of the sky and strafed above, cannons shredding into the displaced monster's carapace. It dropped with a resounding boom, and then lifted itself up with a deep groan. The left side of its face was gone, leaving just one-and-a-half eyes to glare at the Psions responsible. The beast snapped something in its own tongue and its loyal retinue - lesser Knights, some armed with swords and most with handheld cannons - surged towards the Cabal with singular intent.

A thread of indigo crossed through the air and killed the farthest Psion instantly, tearing a thin hole right through its head. Formora's scope snapped to the side, following the bolt back to its source. Somewhere in the mist, somewhere...

There. A glow of Void, and soulfire eyes just above.

"Melkris," she whispered.

"I see, Zeshus." His wire rifle hummed. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Ready yourself."

Formora sucked in a deep breath. "I'm ready."

"Fire when I say. Three, two, one... now."

They fired, in unison - shots ringing out across the steppe. The distant soulfire glow and bubbling Void disappeared. Formora rose up, already swinging her rifle back towards the rest of the Hive, but Melkris grabbed her arm.

"Something is... wrong," he said, hushed.

Formora glanced back in the direction of the Hive marksman. "But we-"

Three green stars reappeared - staring at them. Emerald fire flashed up, stealing the bright, malicious eyes away - and planted them right in front of her with another plume of alien fire, attached to a Hive creature taller than she and armed with both a Void-fueled rifle of chitinous make in one hand and a long thin blade of silver-black steel in the other. It was a slender thing, but taller than even an average Knight and bearing chitinous crests on each side of its shelled helmet. Its third green eye flickered with wicked smoke and fire.

Melkris snarled and leapt at the creature. The Hive sniper shifted - so finely Formora only just caught on to the movement - and kicked the shockshooter aside, hard. Formora brought her rifle around, finger already on the trigger, but the oversized rapier sliced cleanly through the firearm's casing. Formora dropped it, stumbling back, and pulled Vaeta out of its sheath just as the alien pressed its attack. The first strike against her was lazy, so obviously telegraphed that she half-expected it to be a feint - but then it clashed against her own sword, forcing her back a step as the creature brought its strength to bear. Slender though it may have been, it was as much a Hive brute as the giant tearing the Cabal apart at that very moment.

"Brisingr!" Formora shouted. Fire, blessedly of the orange-scarlet kind, enveloped the Hive. It lowered its blade and just... looked down at itself.

"Nógr abr sem," it whispered, voice grating on her ears. "Né frëma eïnradhinr. Né frëma vanyali." (Enough of that. No more words. No more magic.)

Something hit Formora, not physically but within. Her world... shrunk to the present, to the moment, to all she could feel and exert control over with normal, causal processes. Her magic had been suppressed - which was... impossible. Impossible. Magic couldn't be caged. Magic couldn't be-

"This is my sword," the Hive beast continued. It spoke in a language neither Harmonic nor human common, but the meaning of its twisted speech imprinted upon her mind nonetheless, and in excruciating detail. The fire wrapped around the creature died away to nothing. "My sword-of-words."

Formora backpedaled, horrified. "You can't-"

"I must. I will. Your patrons think themselves safe in their words, in their meaningful metaphors. There is no safety." The alien warrior grinned, skeletal jaws opening and corners of its mouth pulling back; fangs gleamed in the light of blazing war to their west. "I can taste the stench of Sky. I can taste the essence of Osmium blood, wrongfully spilled. You are of his cause, woefully misguided, pitifully unprepared. Where is he?"

She tried to draw on her magic, to herd it out with a barked "Jierda!", but it shirked from her touch. It was there - out of reach, out of control, out of the way. The curse laden on was suffocatingly oppressive. "You... you are wrong." A disease, a rot, a malfitting puzzle piece, a parasite, a scavenger, a cretin, a demon. "You won't have this world."

The beast leered at her. No more words, no more pleasantries; it strode forward and lashed out with blade, again and again, with startling speed and tremendous force. Formora struggled, first, but her anger and affront hurried her on, drove her to meet every blow with all the willpower and strength she could muster. Vaeta and the rapier met, again and again, crashing and splashing sparks.

Alas, without her magic... well, what was she? A Rider's edge was their magic. An elf's edge was their magic. Even as Forsworn, even as exile begrudged, her edge was her magic. She fended off the Hive creature again and again, sent counterattacks its way again and again, but... nothing changed. It took no injury, no scratch, nothing. It, reinforced with Worm-gifted strength and slaughter-earned power, resisted her efforts and laughed.

What would-

Then she remembered.

Formora gave her mind a blade of its own - not to strike out against the alien consciousness of the Hive, that was not a battle she wanted to commit to, no - and sent it forth, down her arm and along her fingers. Intention sharpened and Arc splashed - weakly, for she was no Psion and neither had her teacher been, but it shocked the Hive creature into flinching, doubling over with sudden sensation.

Vaeta swung up, and though the Hive beast ducked back, she still managed to score the creature's face. It stepped away, bleeding from the remains of its left eye, and turned the other two back onto her. They burned with hate and hunger. The rapier darted out, slapping Vaeta aside-

A shadow leapt from the snow onto the Hive creature's back, embedding an active shock dagger into its neck. The monster seized up and wildly shook, roughly dislodging Melkris and tossing him aside. Formora swept in, driving her shortsword straight into its sternum and thrusted as hard as she could, embedding the blade up to the hilt. The beast gasped over her, suddenly, and she tried not to breathe in the smell of rot. Exoskeleton cracked across its front.

The two remaining eyes narrowed. A three-fingered hand slammed into her and curled around her neck. Formora tried to pull Vaeta out, but it had lodged on something - ribs, maybe, or whatever equivalent the Hive had. The beast lifted her into the air, tightening its grip. Her throat closed up; she couldn't breathe, could barely think through the pounding in her ears, it was going to break her neck.

Melkris yelled and pounced again. The Hive creature raised up its rifle and fired, point blank. The shockshooter fell aside, thumping to the ground and thrashing about, kicking the legs of the warrior. The Hive beast ignored the Eliksni's struggles and pulled her close, grinning once more. She couldn't-

She couldn't-

With one last desperate motion, Formora pulled her sidearm from her belt, shoved the barrel up under the alien's chin and held down the trigger, unloading the entirety of the firearm's clip. Its head fell apart as ash and seared chitin, soulfire-gaze fading away. The grip on her neck slackened; Formora fell away with a ragged gasp and landed badly, twisting her ankle. She heaved in greedy gulps of air and watched the Hive creature's body limply fall back into the snow and burned away, green fire retaking its remains. It was dead. It was dead. Her magic snapped back in one abrupt moment, thrumming just below her skin, blanketing her in its false-warmth. The curse was gone. It. Was. Dead.

A ghastly choke stole her attention.

Formora scurried over to Melkris's side. His struggles had wasted into weak twitching and pathetic scrabbling - at his rifle and towards her. "No." She reached him and rolled him onto his back, surveying his wounds - but it was one, just one, just a single hole in his throat, just blackened flesh all around. "No no no!"

Just Voidburn.

"Waíse heill," Formora gasped, hand falling over the open injury. "Waíse heill!"

The spell almost killed her on the spot. As it was, she all but fell over Melkris with sudden exhaustion, watching in dawning helplessness as the flesh around the gushing wound slowly, gradually, mended itself molecule by molecule - at a snail's pace. Not fast enough. It wasn't fast enough, it couldn't fight the Voidburn, couldn't fix the damage, couldn't-

Something rose up from the shockshooter's chest, right up to his throat and squeezed past her fingers cold and sharp. The ether reformed in the air in the pale silhouette of the Eliksni it had come from... and scattered to the winds.

Melkris's glowing eyes went dim.

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!

Don't you love it when Atheon kicks you just at the end of the damage phase, because someone dropped the relic by his feet? So when you try to grab it to avoid a wipe, the big glassy bastard himself does a stomp and punts you into a different timeline? I mean that literally; I was dropkicked right into Venus, skidded across the ground because Titan Lift, twirled around to get out just as the dmg phase ended - and the portal just... closes.

I felt a lot of emotions during that encounter. The most definitive, though, had to be the sheer dread at the end. My blood went cold and I gasped out of pure horrified panic - and then we wiped.

The short of it is: don't drop the Aegis by Atheon. Please, for the sake of your raid team.