Sorry Late again :(
Armour: Brimflame
Weapon: Winter's Fury(Unusable), Stormfront Razor
Acc(11/11): The Bee, Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Cryo Wings, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, FrostSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Amalgamated Brain, Evasion Scarf. (Unlimited Buffs)
Health: (500/500)
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)
*jingle*
*SLAM*
The Archmage yawned and puffed his pipe as the foundations of his crystal fortress rumbled. The cold air seemed to rattle and splinter, the furniture shook and slid about - carving deep grooves into the pristine floor. The tremendous icy windows rumbled and cracks began to spiderweb across them, sending the refraction of the fading sunset flitting about the room. Although he was aware that this was just the beginnings of a more complete destruction, The Archmage wasn't particularly perturbed. Ice was eternal. If it was shattered, vaporized, melted, blasted to bits, it could always be reformed. Ice was something constantly in flux. It was nature, the cycle of destruction and rebirth. Who was The Archmage to deem any part of that cycle good or evil?
(*smash, crash*)
There goes the foyer... and the staircase.
Besides, there was a certain beauty in destruction. A purity in desolation. Everything needed to be purged in order to be built anew. The old generation must pass before the new one takes its rightful place. Such was the way of this world. The heroes of old had ample time to take down The Tyrant... they have tried and failed for the past 100 years. Now that The Hero had been called into this world, it was foolishness for the Old guard to stand against him.
(*crash*)
Those foolish old men.
And for all his wisdom, The Archmage simply could not discover the intentions of The Resistance command. Did they not call The Hero into this world? Did they not understand he was the hope that would lead them to victory? If so, why scorn him? Why show such hostility that the boy froze in terror at the very mention of the name 'Braelor'? What idiocy! Indeed, it was as if they were intentionally attempting to make The Hero their enemy. If they had chosen that doomed path, The Archmage would surely not join them.
What are you thinking? What motive could you have?
The Archmage glared out from between the cracks in the window at the tiny pinpoint of light nestled in the valleys of the black mountain. The Resistance torches were far off due to the hostilities of The High Command. How odd, this whole situation. If the intention of The Resistance was to destroy Yharim, then why did they make The Hero their enemy? Why did they deem him, who had been a resistance ally for centuries, an enemy because he had taken The Hero's side? Surely there was some ulterior motives at work within The Resistance's power structure. It was just a matter of discovering it. In the meantime,The Archmage found it was best to tuck his castle out of sight - lest The Cultist snap and hurl a meteor at it.
(*stomp...stomp...stomp...*)
*crack*
(*stomp...stomp...stomp...*)
But apparently, it looked like The Castle was going to be destroyed anyways.
As the sounds of an infantile temper wound their way up the glassy spiral staircase, The Archmage stood from his ever faithful chair and levitated his book back into its place on the shelf. With a glance, he lit the fireplace with a cool blue flame. The movement of his finger re-arranged the glassy furniture in the room. He sat back down, facing the door and-
*BANG*
The tall, intricately carved doors burst open with such violence that they shattered upon impact with the opposite walls - powdering the room with a cold dust. The chandelier overhead creaked and rattled, dropping sparkling spears to the ground. It was all quite a mess, but The Archmage was all for it. There wasn't even a hint of anger or frustration in his face as he watched The Hero stomp in and hurl himself facedown into the library sofa with an ungainly *thump*.
"Well, Hello there, my boy."
"..."
The Hero was clearly caught up in some mood and didn't answer him. He lay there limply in those artificial rags and occasionally flailed to further express his frustration with the universe. The Archmage chuckled and puffed at his pipe, observing The Hero with a gentle eye. He really was an interesting one - not like The Terrarians The Archmage had known in times past. Well, perhaps he had never encountered a Terrarian at this stage of life. How old was he? Not even a month. And despite being monstrously powerful, his age made him naïve and vulnerable.
The Archmage surpressed a smirk as that thought flitted through his mind. The words 'Terrarian' and 'naïve and vulnerable' simply didn't go together. Such a thing was almost nonsense to the common vernacular. All the legends treated Terrarians like dragons. They were supreme monsters, deities, almost, who bowed to no one and crushed all who dared to oppose them. If you were so stupid to provoke them, you sign your own death warrant. If - for whatever reason (justified or otherwise) - The Terrarian wanted you dead... well, there was never a survivor. Sooner or later, they would win.
Because The Terrarians were the rightful heirs of this world.
They always won.
And because they always won, The Archmage knew that siding with The Hero was a victory in and of itself. It mattered little if The Hero had failed to do any particular thing The Archmage asked him to. All that mattered is that he earned The Hero's trust and The Archmage was considered 'a friend and advisor'. Soon, The Hero would grow to be unbelievably powerful - and he didn't seem the type to repay favors with vitriol. Still, despite his current weakness, The Archmage didn't dare consider The Hero his pawn. Such thinking was against the set order of this world. Instead, with the same careful kindness The Archmage had always addressed him with, he stroked his impressive moustache and inquired.
"Oh Dear, Hero, you seem troubled. Tell me what ails you and I will do my best to help."
"..."
There was a brief silence as The Hero collected himself and gathered his thoughts into words. As he righted himself, so did everything he had broken. There was the low sound of creaking as shattered ice evaporated from the ground, once again leaving that slick and glassy surface. The chandelier regrew its razor icicles; The ornate door blossomed outwards in a slightly different, but equally intricate pattern. By the time he opened his mouth to speak, the castle - from top to bottom - was entirely whole.
The Hero seemed to be particularly expressive when upset. His face was the very picture of disappointment. He kicked his legs back and forth. There was a frustrated whine in his voice.
"Archmage, why are people so foolish?"
The Archmage raised his eyebrows and took a long draught from his pipe. What a coincidence. He had been pondering the exact same thing. He responded with a smirk.
"Some people are indeed foolish... but more than likely, we simply do not understand their motivations. Find a man's motivation, and only then do you understand his actions-"
"-How do I discover a person's motivation?"
The Archmage blinked at the interruption, going silent just long enough to indicate such a thing wasn't welcome. He resumed once The Hero began to look sheepish.
"It's a skill borne from observation and experience. You will learn it over time. Tell me what happened, Hero."
The Hero chewed his lip before sighing and laying forth a great number of ingredients on the coffee table - pulling them out from the space beneath his sleeves. Stingers, vine fragments, Jungle Spores, and a great number of Moonglow bulbs tumbled out from the palms of his hands. Bottles of honey, Beeswax, restoration potions and living shards clattered against each other. Even living things! Ten fat purplish grubs squirmed on the cold surface to be followed by three frogs, which promptly gobbled them up. Sated, they hopped off the frozen table and quickly went rigid on the floor - forced into hibernation state by the cold temperature. Two snails and a ladybug followed, as well as an entire wasps nest (Thankfully, the castle was too cold for hornets to swarm). The Hero, having emptied his 'pockets' looked up at The Archmage expectantly. He pointed at the handful of Living Shards.
"I killed a giant bee and saved everyone, then killed a giant onion and saved everyone... and now everyone hates me!"
He threw his arms up in exasperation before crossing them over his chest to slouch. He pouted as he glared at his loot, the evidence of his victory. Yet although he was victorious, his downcast expression was not that of a victor.
He grumbled as he continued. It was rather amusing to hear these sorts of immature complaints spoken with with oddly eloquent speech. This was a toddler's conversation, but was interspersed with vocabulary only ever found in academia.
"Everyone seemed to accept me before I fought those overgrown abominations, but afterwards, I was regarded with suspicion. I overheard their mutterings. Something about Draedon and CC... then they planned to turn me over to Braelor!" A flash of rage flitted across The Hero's features. "How could they say such a thing! If I save them, they hate me. Perhaps I should kill them and they'll love me!"
The Hero's expression was dark. The Archmage could tell he was seriously considering that death threat. His eyes smoldered like coals beneath his brow, the slit pupils reminiscent of a snake's or a dragon's. A young dragon was what he was. An infant monster who, although he had already displayed incredible feats of destructive strength, still went about scrabbling for every bit of advice he could get. The Archmage puffed his pipe, allowing time for the air to relax. The sun was sinking down over the horizon. He turned his gaze towards those jagged peaks as the last vestiges of daylight disappeared.
A cool silence rang from the the delicate icy walls. The mountains howled as cold wind kicked up bursts of snow from the mountaintops. It was a desolate, yet regal landscape. The two of them sat in quiet regard as the darkness of night stretched its fingers over the sky. The Hero had briefly put aside his anger to observe landscape with wonder and melancholy.
Alas, such were the blessings of youth. The Hero had seen only a few sunsets - and each and every one of them was glorious.
The Archmage spoke softly.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
The Hero didn't answer him, giving the slightest of nods in response.
"I can only imagine what sort of wonders you saw in The Jungle. I sent you there to fetch Living Shards, yes - but also because I was sure you'd appreciate the scenery there. Was my assumption correct?"
"Yeah...It was." The Hero was still too upset to really smile or show any animated sign of appreciation - but clearly his mood was mellowed out enough that The Archmage was comfortable continuing their conversation. He puffed his pipe. The Hero propped his heels on the coffee table and stretched his arms over his head.
"Well, my boy. Concerning the expedition... I understand you are upset. If its any consolation, at least your identity was not divulged. After such an astonishing display of strength, your colleagues suspected something. If they had suspected you were The Hero - they would not have treated you in such a way. Instead..."
The Archmage furrowed his brow and stroked his moustache in a more thoughtful manner.
"Instead they figured you were Yharim's CC. How odd that they would immediately decide you were an enemy spy instead of a particularly powerful warrior. Quite a leap, I think."
A pregnant silence. The Hero dropped his head over the back of the sofa. He spoke with an exasperated sigh.
"The Tavernkeep."
The Archmage blinked before motioning for The Hero to elaborate.
"I killed our team leader, The Tavernkeep. He was the one who broke the glowing pink bulb which summoned The Giant Onion. I don't know why he did it, but I think he was trying to hurt us. Why else would he do such a thing?"
"Did anyone see you kill him?"
"The Steampunker. Well, she found my knife in his chest. She was very friendly about it - She didn't seem to be bothered at all. But she wouldn't talk to me afterwards."
At that, The Archmage raised his impressively bushy eyebrows. Sometimes it was easy to forget The Hero wasn't so innocent. He had taken thousands of lives, he had died a thousand times... clearly, he was far more comfortable with 'death' than the average person. To him, dying and being killed were very pedestrian things. Perhaps he thought nobody would give a second thought to The Tavernkeep's death, because he certainly didn't. Indeed, he didn't even find it worth mentioning in his very brief summary of his adventures.
A little dragon, indeed.
The Archmage exhaled hard and hunched forward in his chair. The Hero mimicked his posture - those dragon eyes burning into him with an innocent inquisitiveness.
"Hero. Listen carefully. The men and women of this world are not like you. They have just a single life, just a single death. When you raise your hand to kill a man, in their eyes - this is a very significant thing. Although you may not believe it, you must at least pretend you do. When somebody expires, put on a sad face. Behave lethargically. Pretend to be scared. Understood?"
The Hero furrowed his brow and gave a tentative nod, but the frustration was creeping back into his face. The Archmage moved on before he aggravated him any further.
"Additionally, I encourage you to know your enemies. Our enemy is The King, The Tyrant Yharim. Under him is an army much like The Resistance's - but much larger and far better equipped. Within that army is a division called The Clandestine Corps, or CC as you've heard. They are powerful soldiers created to serve in espionage missions. They boast a variety of abilities - supersoldiers, the lot of them. Your incredible strength could be attributed to such. "
The Archmage folded his hands.
"Naturally, they saw your killing of The Tavernkeep as betrayal. Is it not reasonable for them to suspect you were CC?"
"..."
The Hero frowned bitterly. He mulled the concept over in his mind for a moment before shaking his head in defeat. He dramatically collapsing facefirst back into the icy couch's very solid cushions. (The Archmage flinched at the loud thud... any other man would have broken his nose) He groaned something unintelligible and kicked at one of the armrests, knocking it clean across the room.
(muffled)
(Even so, I'm still upset about it.)
The Archmage chortled again and levitated his chair over to where The Hero was muttering into his pillow. He reached out a gnarled hand to pat the boy's feathery head of hair. The Hero froze upon contact before looking up. He looked bemused.
"Don't despair young one. Sometimes our hearts run away with our minds. Such is the price you pay when you have passions and desires. You are in no state to work as you are now. You are still young, and children should play... look."
The Archmage pointed a finger at the bladed chandelier. There was a great noise as it began to crackle with icy energy before descending to levitate over the coffee table. The blades flared out and rearranged themselves into a vaguely wing-like formation, bobbing there like a great number of ethereal floating crystals. They pulsed with a cold power.
"What is that?!"
The Hero was still demurred, but the astonishiment in his voice was clearly evident. He had lifted his head from that ice cube of a pillow to stare of the levitating blades.
"Wings, my boy. Go fly and clear your head. Go see all the things you desired to see, then come back. It will take some time for me to brew my concoction, so be sure you arrive home when I scry for you."
"Oh!"
The prospect seemed to excite The Hero greatly. The light was back in his eyes and his expression became clear and inquisitive. He leapt to his feet and seized upon the wings to admire their endlessly intricate construction. He wasted no time in heading toward's the door, babbling his thanks the whole way. He was already halfway into the hallway before he froze and turning slowly to look at The Archmage. His eyes were wide. His expression was indescribable.
"...Archmage?"
The Old Man blinked.
"Yes?"
"May I call this place 'home'?"
The Archmage chortled once more as he looked kindly upon the man clinging to his doorframe.
"You certainly may, Young One. Now, off you go. Just come home safe."
Something odd had happened to him.
Something exceedingly strange.
It wasn't that he didn't know what had happened in that crimson pit.
The strangeness was that he did.
He knew exactly what had happened. He knew why. He knew how. He knew the channels and the intricacies, he knew the methods and the logic. Whatever inquiry he posed to himself, (after enough careful searching) an answer would eventually emerge foggily from the depths of his mind. Some of the information was inconsequential - how to bake a cake, how to repair an engine, how ostrich feathers felt against the skin. Some of it was intensely intimate: how this particular noblewomen liked to have her hair done, how the town's brawler ran away with the barmaid, the drama of the queen's affair...
Even the ancient mysteries of The Crimson had been revealed to him in that great flash. Knowledge that was so vast and terrible, The Guide could hardly dwell upon it without succumbing to terror. Indeed, a normal man would have lost himself in that eldritch flood - but The Dryad's blessing compounded with his photographic memory allowed him to not only retain his sanity, but also the swell of knowledge which threatened to tear his brain at the seams.
Block it out... focus. What do I need to know...
As such, The Guide now found himself a stranger in his own mind. He had been thrust into a great library of untapped knowledge which needed to be carefully browsed and parsed to be used. Some of it was degraded by madness. Some was simply forgotten in a great fog (something The Guide himself had never experienced). Some of it was rumors and legends, the conjecture of a million brains - a million lifetimes of memories. What an incredible blessing. What power had been bestowed upon him. In an effort to crush The Terrarian's mind, The Brain had shared its great knowledge with him before being torn to shreds.
shfff...shfff...shfff...*
The Guide winced and squeezed his eyes shut as the biting wind whipped his cheeks. He wrapped his arms more tightly about that burnished suit of armour and dipped his nose into The Winter Cloak's furred muff to shield his face. Thankfully, The Terrarian had changed his armour before embarking on this new adventure. Now that The Guide knew exactly what fluid filled the brain's chamber - he was far less inclined to rub his face in it. He huffed and crossed his ankles around The Terrarian's waist, struggling to breathe in the thinning air.
*shfff... shfff...*
Are we already in the stratosphere? The Floating island should be just nearby... according to this explorer's memories...
The lack of oxygen was straining his lungs. The sunlight was bright, reflecting sharply off the back of The Terrarian's burnished helm and directly into his eyes. Yet, aided by the memory of some nameless explorer from time immemorial, The Guide caught sight of a flash of gold in the opaque white clouds. This was the very sight that the unfortunate explorer glimpsed before his strength gave out and he fell to his death twenty thousand feet below...
"S-slayer... look, to the left... o-over there."
He wheezed out the words into the crook of The Terrarian's neck before slumping heavily onto his shoulders. Thankfully the man in question didn't seem to mind the high altitude, or The Guide's weight on his back. He continued to both climb and build the rope as they ascended up into the clouds and towards the island, seemingly attaching each section of rope to absolutely nothing. Normally, The Guide would be uneasy in such a physically impossible situation, but his newfound knowledge explained the non-science of it all. Terrarians just didn't obey physics. That was the long and short of it. He was quite sure he had nothing to worry about... Right?
Well, he wasn't without reservations, of course. Were somebody else's memories reliable? What if they remembered incorrectly? What if the knowledge was corrupted or scrambled? The Guide was not fain to hang his life on the (possibly centuries old) memories of strangers... but he knew that The Slayer's Victide Armour was not enough to take down The Wall of Flesh.
I need to make him an Aerospec set.
Despite his conviction, his stomach was still doing somersaults in his belly. He was glad he already vomited his breakfast up in The Crimson, and not all over The Slayer's armour.
He'd probably throw me off... ah...
And there it was.
An island in the clouds, a sky island.
It was a tiny idyllic speck, a small patch of green grass nestled in a bed of fluffy clouds. There was a lone tree growing there, it stood small against the great expanse of blue sky. The sun was larger and closer - and although the air was cold, the rays were far more scorching. The Guide could feel his skin beginning to crinkle and blister as - with a mighty leap, The Terrarian launched himself off of the hanging rope and into the island's surface with a thump.
... whoa.
He trembled as The Terrarian let him down to stand, his legs were jelly and his limbs were weak. He collapsed down to sit, feeling the grass on his palms and the too-cold dew tickling his wrists. There was an odd noise in the air, the hollow ring of emptiness. He gasped for breath and raised his eyes to look about, bearing the blustering wind and the cold dampness of the surrounding clouds. All around was boundless sky. He could see from horizon to horizon - blue sky as far as his eyes could see. Below, the earth, a great expanse of bright crimson, the sea, then the green of the pure land. The Guide's breath caught in his throat. He stared about in wonder. Had anyone walked here before? Was he the first to stand here to gaze upon the wonderous land? The Guide turned to The Terrarian (who was likewise looking at the earth below - quite dumbstruck) and opened his mouth to speak, but his voice came as nothing more than a wheeze. He hesitated, then went silent - instead opting to enjoy the serenity of the moment. The sun was high. The air was cold. Everything was silent and at peace.
*thump...thump...*
The Terrarian, unaffected by the lack of oxygen, sated his interest in the lands below and began scouting the small island from end to end. After circling the perimetre a few times, (and shooting a harpy out of the sky) he made a beeline for the golden building at the far end of the mystical land mass. Halfway there he hesitated, then turned back. Approaching The Guide until he loomed over him. The Guide blinked up at him, the beginnings of worry forming at the edges of his mind. He wheezed out a protest.
"h-hey, wha-(oof)"
"The Bird women are swarming. We must go inside."
"You don't n-need to carry me."
"...you're too slow-"
The Guide barely had the breath to voice his misgivings as he was picked up and slung over The Terrarian's shoulder. The armour's shoulder plate hit him squarely in the breadbasket and knocked every ounce of precious air out of him. He flopped his arms and wheezed weakly, but ultimately sighed and allowed himself to be carried to the small building at the far end of the island. The Guide lifted his head to take once last glance over the deep sky when-
*fwoosh*
A thunderclap, the sound barrier shattered.
A streak of black and glowing red shot over them at an breakneck speed.
A blast of icy air trailed it and... snowflakes?
Beneath him, The Terrarian went rigid, whirled around and drew his sword-
But by the time to prepared himself for combat, the enemy was already gone.
Faze: Can I call you daddy?
Archmage: um.
F: Maybe Daddy #2.
Archmage: Number Two?!
Close call right there :)