I wrote the entire chapter, then Fanfiction ate my work. and I had to do it again but pissed so :/
you get the point tho. The writing was better. smh my head my head.
Armour: Victide Armour (Ranger)
Weapon: Tendon Bow (Jester Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(11/11): Band of Regeneration, Amidas Spark, Sailfish Boots, Luxor's Gift, Ocean Crest, Counter Scarf, Crown Jewel, Tsunami in a Bottle, Frog Leg, Aero Stone, Shield of the Ocean
Health: (400/400)
He was struck with a sense of looming terror as they trudged into The Crimson. The sights and scents of this place were all too familiar... more familiar than he was comfortable with. How many nights had he spent in this hellish land, groping around like a blind man, his skin dyed red with viscera? How long had he hacked through the myriad of thorns and fleshy debris in search of his missing limb, tolerating the Crimson's miserable aberrations which picked and nipped at him? It was here he had allowed his flesh to be defiled, tolerating that foreign cancer to gain foothold in him to warp his muscles and stain his bones. Here, he had trampled his pride and cried shameful tears into the venomous dirt. To preserve his life, he had opened his veins to this land. It siphoning off of him, drinking his blood to grow and burgeon.
... I hate it.
He hated it. He hated it with every fibre of his being. Only a fool would willingly return to the place that had treated him so... but he was a fool. A miserable fool. Here he was - blade in hand, clearing the path as they traversed further into the cursed land.
I hate it...
His lungs heaved and sputtered as they were assailed with the stink of bloody rot. His body seemed to remember the taste of Crimson, and it trembled as he forced it to move. The ground beneath his armored greaves bounced and gave beneath his feet - tearing apart to revealing grasping cilia beneath. Blood poured readily with the slightest of disturbances, those meandering vessels - so much like the roots of a tree snapped and sputtered, spouting forth pus and fluids with every step he took.
I hate it.
... but he continued onwards. He continued to move. It was too late to change his mind for whats done is done. He made his choice. Was it the right choice? He didn't know. But from the moment of his birth... did he have any choice to begin with? The instant he opened his eyes to this new, beautiful world - there he was. The man whose hands held The Terrarian's puppet strings to manipulate as he pleased. The Guide, whose presence was small - but whose influence was like a behemoth.
And since then, nothing had changed.
He was here because The Guide had led him here, just as The Guide had led him everywhere. What had he ever done on his own?! His home - The Compound - had it not been built at The Guide's behest? Every monster that fell beneath his blade had fallen under The Guide's command: The King Slime, The Desert Scourge, The Cnidarian in the depths and The Giant Clam. It was The Guide that built Amidas's castle, and The Guide who killed the Eye of Cthulhu, and The Guide who ordered The Travelling Merchant's death...
The Guide who killed The Dryad.
...
Had he realized this too late? Or perhaps, were these thoughts were just the musings of the ignorant? What did he know?! He knew nothing. He didn't trust his own mind for he was merely an infant. And because he was merely an infant, he knew he could not survive on his own. What would become of him should The Guide leave him now? Ah - surely he would flail in obscurity until the day he died.
...
Hadn't The Sea King predicted that this would happen? That if he continued this way, he would become a save? Of course, he had dismissed such an outrageous claim. He did not believe it... because he was a fool. He had brushed off the wisdom of the ancients with his brilliant month-old brain. What a fool he was. Amidas offered him an escape, but instead, The Terrarian had driven him away. The Dryad too, the first friend he had ever made... she offered him a choice. But... but he cut her down at The Guide's command.
And now... now, he had nobody.
Nobody but The Guide.
I hate it.
He hated it... but he could see no other path. What were The Guide's intentions? The Terrarian could never know. The simplest of lies could deceive him. Would he simply be used and abandoned? (the very thought caused his very core to shudder and grow icy cold) No. The Guide had promised it would not be so.
He could not discern the depths of his companion's mind. That man could make him do anything he wished, seemingly whether he wanted to or not. He had placed his trust in someone terrifying. Where The Guide went, he would surely follow. Indeed, even unto the depths of hell.
Because there was no other way.
What's done is done.
They marched in silence as they scaled the heaving hills and dodged the pits of bubbling digestive acids. The very ground beneath their feet was alive and hostile, lashing out like whips and trying to swallow their footsteps. The mist was warm and moist, seeming to gasp and billow from great pores in the living earth. Everything was motile. Everything was horrible. Amalgamations of organs, muscles and eyes wandered towards them from across the scarlet plains, their forms so utterly distorted, he could no longer discern what they once were. Great evil eyes blinked up at them from the ground. Flapping tongues hung from the brittle trees like ornaments, spraying acidic spittle at anything that got close.
And The Terrarian trudged on, his bow in hand as he cut down the myriad of monstrosities that stumbled to attack them. It was strange holding the fletchings with only three fingers, but he quickly got used to it. He had to... after all, The Guide would soon demand he slay another creature. He tried not to think on it as he sent starlight bolts sailing across The Crimson land. Tremendous pulsing spiders fell before his shining arrows. Bipedal monsters whose eyes were wild and whose jaws hung against their chests flailed and screeched as their frail forms were consumed in cold fire. Those vicious, floating silverfish that had caused him so much anguish after the bomb... they too fell in quivering heaps. Tens of them. Maybe a hundred.
(chasms and organ chambers... ugh there aren't any landmarks! How am I supposed to find the entrances?! Ah!)
But the most terrifying one of them all walked beside him. The Guide muttered as he followed, his nose buried in a sheaf of papers The Sea King had supposedly left before disappearing. Frankly, The Terrarian wasn't sure why they hadn't been burned in the furnace by now, but it wasn't his place to question things. He was far too demurred to do anything but languish in self pity. Was this justified? Again, he was unsure. Oh, how he hated his own ignorance.
No.
He mustn't have doubts for it was too late for them. The Dryad was already dead. He couldn't backpedal now. He must have faith in the one that walked with him from the very beginning. He would trust him utterly. He would grasp hold of that promise and simply pray The Guide would uphold this pact.
Because there it was. He knew it as soon as he laid eyes on it. That gaping wound in the surface of The Crimson, a scab that rose up like an ugly misshapen heap. A hole pierced the hardened blood globules and descended into the depths where ... something within pulsed and breathed, issuing forth a smell so rancid - it was akin to the scent of death itself. The mouth of the pit dripped and shuddered, periodically spewing forth fluid to feed the shallow bubbling pool at its entrance. Bones stood bleached in that puddle of stench. There was no doubt as to what would happen to those that dared venture in.
(Oh great, we found it. Alright Buddy, Let's go.)
But he was a fool.
It would be quite embarrassing if anybody caught him, the esteemed Archmage, ruffling around in The Lunatic Cultist's laboratory looking for notes. Of course, such a thing would never happen. His invisibility spells were quite foolproof. Still, it hurt the old sorcerer's pride. Alas, he had promised to do something for that poor Hero. Terrarians were creatures who should not fear death, but the unfortunate placement of The Hero's 'respawn' caused him to be more terrified than even mortals!
*whistling*
Initially, The Archmage had devised simply move that 'block' of space in which where The Hero would re-spawn from The Crimson to a section of The Resistance courtyard, but such a thing proved more difficult than expected. There was some certain 'immovable magic' tied into the initial summoning spell, and for all The Archmage's efforts, he could not find a method to help his young charge in this manner...
To imagine The Cultist has done something I cannot! Ah, if only he hadn't gone insane, what a fine mage he would've become...
So - the next best solution was simply to 're-new' the summon point, and for that - The Archmage needed the original runes written in The Magic circle. Of course, he could guess, but such a thing was likely to cause disastrous failure. Surely, The Lunatic Cultist would have practiced the exact magic circle many-a-time, and surely there would be papers with it strewn about... but as of yet, The Old Man had yet to find what he was looking for.
"Hmm... perhaps he didn't store the spells here? Is such a thing possible?"
The Archmage mused aloud, well aware that there was no ear or spell in existence that could hear, detect or answer him. Dissatisfied, he motioned towards the stacks of papers and books once more - commanding his spell to search the pages for magic summoning circles. Again, nothing of interest. The Records of The Terrarian's creation - if they existed - were not here.
"Hm... how annoying."
The Archmage motioned to sit, and behind him his ever-trustworthy chair appeared to support his weight - its legs leaving four wet splotches on the otherwise spotless floor. (The Archmage briefly considered wiping away that evidence as well, but instead decided to be a bit cheeky and leave it. What could The Cultist do about him anyways? He chortled as the thought). He pulled out his pipe from the folds in his robes and began to puff snowflakes, muttering his thoughts aloud.
"Goodness, where did you keep your things - little lunatic pup? On your person, perhaps? No. Your transformation would have left your skin with a rather... damp composition, don't you think? Not the best place to store scrolls."
The Archmage tapped his fingers rhythmically against his armrest and puffed again, speaking out as if he were awaiting answers from the universe.
"Perhaps with your parents, oh whelp? Ah, forgive me, forgive me. You sacrificed them on the altar of The Dreaming God. Where then, O Cultist of the Dungeon would you store the documents for your most powerful spells?"
The old man chortled and nodded as he gazed out one of the tall windows. The icy landscape appealed to him greatly. It was pure and clean - and clearly showed the paths of those who trod across it. Snow and ice - they were intractable and unforgiving, just as he was.
"In which case, Cultist... I know where I'll be sending The Hero next. I certainly hope you will appreciate a reduction in your paritioners. Perhaps you should not have abandoned The Hero so quickly... because I just might convince him to destroy you."
Despite being an old resistance fighter, a man who'd seen years and years of combat and many great feats besides, The Tavernkeep could confidently say he had never been so shocked in his life. He was an expert with jungle expeditions. He knew every nook and cranny of the place and knew the horrors within. He also knew that nobody - save The Resistance's old guard and a handful of Yharim's elite troops - were capable of taking down a Queen Bee in a single strike.
This... 'Faze' (a pompous name if he'd ever heard one) might be somebody after all! Initially, The Tavernkeep had dismissed the young man, simply chalking up the bravado to a 'boy with big dreams'. But much to his surprise, Faze was both ridiculously powerful... and ridiculously naïve.
(Hold the blade like this. Lead with your elbow and- yup! there you go! You got it!)
*thunk*
To imagine the man who spent most of the trip staring wondrously at dirt was, in fact, somebody whose power rivaled that of Statis or Braelor?! Nonsense. Something was wrong. Was he faking? No. The Tavernkeep had seen the sparkle in the boy's fiery eyes. He was genuinely impressed with the ants crawling over his feet, and clearly dumbstruck with the sight of leaves and flowers. It was as if he'd never seen greenery before at all! He wielded the power of armies, but behaved as if he was born yesterday.
(Bandit, what about this?)
(You can't throw something like that. It's way too heav-)
*thunk*
(Ah... wow Okay then.)
And The Tavernkeep was no fool.
There was only one person in all of existence that fulfilled both these criteria: the still-missing Resistance Hero. On that fateful day, The Hero had rebelled against his creators and was subject to some unspecified punishment. According to rumors, he was set straight before sent off to free The Archmage. He had succeeded in his task (clearly, as it was the Archmage himself that brought the news) but had supposedly died in the process. Such a stunt naturally caused a great deal of ruckus amongst The Resistance peons. Some accused Braelor of betrayal, others became disillusioned at the prospect of battling The Tyrant without an unkillable hero. Others deserted - claiming there was no hero at all! In any case, in the few short days since The Hero had been 'killed' and gone missing - The Resistance coalition had been shaken it its very core.
'And so', The Tavernkeep thought as he slipped away from the larger crowd and ventured into the shadowed greenery, 'recovering The Hero is more important than this little resource mission'. Indeed, it was likely one of The Resistance's top priorities. The Lunatic Cultist had all been given instructions to hunt for The Hero to capture or kill him. (The Cultist had revealed The Hero would re-appear in a specific location should he die, making re-capture simple). Of course, all who have seen The Hero in action wouldn't dare attempt such a thing... he was simply too strong, but The Tavernkeep might be the person for the job.
Because he knew The Jungle. He knew every nook and cranny.
He knew of every creature, worm and beast that crept in these rabid green depths. He knew how to quell them. He knew how to antagonize them.
And - The Tavernkeep blinked as he caught a pink glow from the corner of his vision - he knew how to summon the horrors therein.
Faze: "You stabbed me, WHY?!"
Slayer: "Because you're here, and it's easy"
F: "..."
S:"And it does a lot of damage."
Smhmh