Back on a roll! Things never move as quickly as I want them to, but yes
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: Aerospec Armour (Ranger)
Weapon: Galeforce (Jester Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(11/11): Band of Regeneration, Amidas Spark, Frostspark Boots, Luxor's Gift, Ocean Crest, Counter Scarf, Crown Jewel, Bundle of Balloons, Harpy Ring, Aero Stone, Skyline Wings
Health: (400/400)
I'm flying.
I squint into the blazing sun as I whirl through the sky, tumbling over the gusts and swells of air like a feather dancing in the blasting wind. I look down and see the bright treetop canopies interlaced with colourful birds and parting to reveal flowery meadows. The earth is split with lakes, ponds rivers and streams, even at such an altitude, I can hear the babbling of brooks and the roaring of waterfalls, the water flowing down until it's deposited in estuaries and oceans. Fish leap from the sparkling riverbeds. Dragonflies hover between heavy cattails. The clouds are wispy, cold and wet to the touch. If I look to the horizon I see the curvature of the earth: Foaming ocean, the scarlet lands, green to the west, icy peaks to the north. I'm free. This world is mine.
Nothing can touch me.
My heartbeat is hardy and strong. I can feel it wracking my pulse and thrumming through every blood vessel. My fingertips are cold, I stuff them into my armpits as I listen to the rushing wind in my ears and the icy crackling of my wings. I suck in a deep breath and grin... the air is so cold it chills my lungs but I have no qualms. I'm far too elated.
Because I've drunk my fill of victory.
I've spilled the blood of my oppressors.
I went down to those Crimson plains, yes, that very place which marked me with the cold brutality of death, and I avenged myself. The place that tore my limbs asunder, that filled my skull with acid, that shattered my bones like glass, that scrambled my innards to mush. That place where The Worms lived... the worms that plagued my nightmares; the worms that edged on the corners of my vision. The Worms that killed me a thousand times...
I killed them.
As many as I could.
I went down to The Crimson Border and I tore out every perforator cyst I could find.
And just like before, the worms swarmed, the hive appeared... and I slaughtered them.
I cut them to pieces. I watered the thirsty ground with ichor and gore. I shredded those worms until they were just teeth and meat mash. I bludgeoned the hive, cutting it unto unrecognizable pieces. In a wild frenzy, I cackled and grinned, rejoicing in my strength until my enemies were no more.
Then, I searched for another cyst.
And I did it again.
And I did it again.
And again. And Again.
Until my terror was put to rest.
And my heart was at peace.
I've trampled my fear beneath my feet. I stand as conqueror over my own death. I revel in my victory and I look to the future with a haughty eye.
Because nothing can touch me now.
...
...
I shut my eyes as the wind whistles past. I'm hurtling through the air with wild abandon - falling, rising, flowing with the breeze. The wind whips my faceplate and causes my cape to flap wildly behind me. The Archmage has called for me a bit ago, but I insist on enjoying my time in the sky. Instead of teleporting 'home' (the word is foreign on my tongue), I fly north. Why not? I am aware there are still threats out there - murky in the distance, but my heart is at ease; there is a place where I am safe. My turmoil is stilled because I know I will be welcomed when I grace those icy doors. Indeed, I don't think I ever had a home until now. The library inside The Resistance was no 'home', but simply the cell where I - the prisoner - was assigned to labor.
(*fwoosh*)
...
But that is the past. Now, I'm established. I know I can fight. I'm no longer helpless. I have a base of operations. I have the power to crush armies.
What stands in my way now?
I pull off my helmet to scan the ground as I continue to fly north, drinking my fill of the landscape beneath. As I begin to clear the woodlands and approach the wide, wheat coloured plains, I see a speck of brilliant gold reflecting from a faraway clearing. I blink and consider what exactly that might be. I know from my geography textbooks that gold ore deposits cannot simply be found laying on the surface (or, in the rare case they are - they have been mined already by prospectors). But my curiosity gets the best of me. I must go see. Excited, I veer off my path and begin approaching that shine - only to stop short. I squint as I dangle in the stratosphere.
...huh? who's that?
That glint... its not an ore deposit, but rather a person wearing golden armour. He really is fantastically far away. Even I - with my magnified vision, could barely make him out... so why does it feel as if he's watching me?
...
Something in the back of my mind grows uneasy. A slow, oppressive dread - like the dripping of a leaky roof. A mounting feeling, the beginnings of something far more terrible than I could imagine. That figure is surely watching me, and he surely must be dreadfully powerful. Still, my curiosity gets the best of me. I pull out my magic mirror, but don't activate it quite yet. It takes just a split second to trigger. If he turns around and leaves, I will continue to enjoy my journey. If he approaches, I will have ample time to escape. We continue to stare each other down.
(whoosh)
The wind howls mournfully, a keen that causes my hackles to rise. I'm becoming antsy and grip the mirror hard. There is about thirty miles separating us, but - for some reason - I don't feel any safety with distance. Just who is this figure? He is not emitting any sort of aura nor is he blasting the earth about him, but something about him simply exudes gratuitous power. He simply stands there, still, silent in that empty field, gazing at me like a deity gazes at an insect. I'm transfixed, I wonder who I have come into contact with.
The Witch of Massacre? No... Perhaps this 'Draedon' character The Steampunker keeps talking about? Mayb- ah!
The Golden Figure has begun to move and I react accordingly. I can feel his eyes piercing through me like hot brands as he takes one step towards me, than another... then he leaps in the air and I activate my mirror.
And in the lag time between the activation of the mirror and the execution of the spell - a delay of, perhaps, a tenth of a second - the golden figure covers 30 miles.
His speed is so great, my eyes can barely register him! One moment he is a speck in the distance. I blink, and those deadly golden gauntlets are wrapped tightly around my throat. I open my mouth, but cannot make any noise. My eyes bulge out of my skull. My heart melts like wax. In that instant, every ounce of bravado evaporated; I regret every congratulatory compliment I paid myself.
"...So, The Archmage..."
The voice is deep, terrible and distorted. Not the voice of a man, but the rasp of a monster. Yet although he is a monster, I sense a vast intelligence behind that pulsing cyan light. I am aware that if he so wished, he could easily twist his wrist and kill me in an instant... but he refrains, as if my existence is entirely inconsequential. I gasp and gape as I cling to the mirror. I tremble as I see the malice in those hidden eyes...
I cannot see his face, but I know he sneers at me.
Then, I vanish.
There was nary a friendly place in the bitterly could mountains of the north. Everything was white, frigid blue, brutal and intractable. Perhaps the only exception to this rule was The Resistance infirmary. The head doctor there was supposedly an apprentice of The Capitol's foremost medical practitioner, and exercised all of her expertise with non of her (notoriously terrible) bedside manner. Traditional medication, tribal healing, magical concoctions and the cutting edge of surgical technique, everything was employed here for the health of The Resistance.
And it was here, in the hubbub of the warm, candle-lit infirmary that two women sniped at each other from behind a privacy curtain. One, the elder, was laying in bed with her entire left leg encased in a plaster cast - upon which a great number of glowing runes had been drawn. She had short red hair and intense green eyes, which she turned on the young woman sitting at her bedside. Her voice was snipped.
"After spending an entire day with that bumbling idiot, you truly believe he is Yharim's spy? Steampunker, you know the consequences of such an accusation. He did save our lives twice. Are you so ready to hand him to the executioner?"
The Steampunker's gaze was equally steely. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and pouted. She appeared exceedingly angry, but kept her voice very low, as if telling a secret.
"Bandit... you know how I told everyone that the Plant Monster likely killed The Tavernkeep?"
The Bandit nodded, furrowing her brow. The Steampunker spoke through clenched teeth, inadvertently increasing her volume as she became more excited.
"Well, he wasn't. I found The Tavernkeep with Faze's knife sticking out of his chest. If I had told everyone that, some idiot would have tried to attack him, and none of us would have made it out of The Jungle. Everyone already suspected he's Yharim's lackey, but this is the nail in the coffin, isn't it? I mean, he killed our team leader! Maybe The Tavernkeep accused him of being a spy, and Faze went and killed him!"
"..."
Had The Steampunker not raised her voice to such a degree that everyone in the bustling infirmary was now privy to their little secret, The Bandit might have said something. But nothing she said would have mattered anyways. For a short moment, The clinic was silent... then, the chattering became ear deafening. A burly hand yanked aside the privacy curtain and a Dwarf - dressed in the regalia of an officer and sporting a broken arm - barked at them.
"I am Second Petty Officer, Demolitionist! You -" he jabbed a stout finger at The Steampunker, "You had better come with me, and repeat everything you saw in front of the high command. Infiltration must be taken seriously. If Yharim finds our headquarters, the war is over. Move, soldier!"
The Guide had feared that, upon suddenly being granted access to such a great library of knowledge, he would no longer taste the joy of discovery. But whether The Terrarian knew it or not (he most certainly did not) his odd heritage and incredible number of physics-bending abilities could even shock a thousand year intellect. Who could imagine a crass bomb could blow apart clouds? And who would have imagined clouds could be picked by hand? Of course, when The Guide requested to hold one of those perfectly cuboid cloud puffs - it vanished to vapor in his palm - but the impossibility behind it all was astounding.
I wonder what they feel like...
It appeared that of the millions of minds coagulated in The Brain of Chluthlu, not a single one had played companion to a Terrarian... or whatever The Slayer was. In any case, The Guide had a job to do. A dryad from three hundred years ago had created blueprints for a sky-themed armour. It employed the qualities of clouds and sunplate forged of fallen stars. The exact mechanics of how it all worked would take some concentration to bring to the forefront of his memory (granted the details were not corrupted), but The Guide was not particularly concerned with it. What mattered was that the armour worked. In addition to increasing The Terrarian's defensive and offensive capability, he sported a pair of wings and was immune to fall damage.
That flying thing really gave him a scare... he was really eager to upgrade his armour.
How he could be immune to the damage caused by gravity, but still susceptible to injury employed in the exact same way but via a different force was almost nonsensical. But The Guide didn't raise these protests with The Terrarian. He seemed perfectly happy to believe whatever The Guide had said about the Aerospec Armour, and had wholehearted put his trust in the wings they had just hammered together from clouds and some mysterious ore that they found buried in the island. He had been all tense and jittery until he completed the armour - even refusing to leave the island until he had done so - but once it was finished, he appeared to regain his self confidence.
I wonder why... did he sense something from that comet? Maybe it was a person? agh, I couldn't see it was moving too fast.
The Guide carefully blew on his mug of heated ale as he gazed into the crackling campfire. Outside of his beloved Compound, The Terrarian seemed to have little regard for aesthetics. It was becoming intolerably cold as the sun began to set, and The Guide had requested a campfire be built. The Terrarian had done that, but tossed a sofa in the corner, fastened a golden chandelier to the ceiling and blocked the front door with an anvil, a sky-mill and a furnace. The place quickly began to swelter, so he removed a window for ventilation and handed The Guide a pair of bright red mittens as... some sort of consolation. (where The Terrarian had learned to make these, The Guide hadn't the slightest clue, but he found them quite amusing)
(*screech*)
And so, The Guide was left on his own to ponder and chart their path forward over a fish dinner and as much alcohol as he could drink. The room was ventilated and warm. He was comfortable and relaxed... and his deep thoughts were periodically interrupted by the anguished screams of harpies being shot down with jester arrows.
(*aaaghhhhh*)
The Guide winced as another earsplitting shriek rang out over the silence. Harpies were notoriously human-like. Their voices were nearly indistinguishable from those of women. Their faces were the faces of people. Legend had it that the souls of scorned widows became harpies; it was almost taboo to harm them. Upstanding men could hardly bring themselves to do it...
But that wasn't a problem for The Terrarian. He had been flying around, butchering them for the better part of an hour and collecting their feathers until he had enough to duplicate. The Guide had torn apart a pillow and stuffed his ears with the cotton, but it didn't help much. He would hear those screams in his nightmares, but knew it was unwise to tell The Terrarian to stop. They needed feathers as an ingredient for potions and other crafting. Imagine The Terrarian lost his battle against The Wall because a handful of feathers?! Nonsense. The Guide would ensure The Terrarian had every advantage.
(*thump... step... step... step*)
*creeak*
There was a blast of cold air as The Terrarian opened the door and stepped inside. Although The Guide could not see his face, the way he carried himself indicated he was quite satisfied with his new equipment. He had crafted his current armour in a similar design to the last, burnishing the metal until it was reflective. A great number of feathers stuck out of the armour in frills and flares, but otherwise, it still sported the same design: The slatted visor, the swooping horns, the plume of white feathers... even his new wings were will hidden beneath his winter cloak. Clearly The Terrarian had grown quite found of that vanity and was sticking to what was familiar.
"Guide."
Per usual, his voice was monotonous. He spoke as he hastily rubbed away the flecks of blood on his breastplate and stashed his bow.
"The Crimson Worms were killed."
"What?"
The Guide narrowed his eyes. He was well aware The Terrarian had been killing Harpies and not The Crimson's monstrous intestinal worms. In fact, did The Terrarian even know how to summon them? Had he peeked at the documents The Sea King had given him? No. As far as The Guide was aware, The Terrarian could not read... and neither did he seem to have any desire to learn. He responded in an incredulous voice.
"How do you know that? The Worms. How do you know they've been killed?!"
The Terrarian just stared at him blankly. He motioned with his hand towards the edge of the island as if attempting the beginnings of an explanation - but quickly got lost in his own arguments. After a concerningly long moment, The Terrarian offered a weak shrug.
"A man in black. I saw him fighting. He killed them many times."
"... killed the worms?"
"Yes."
"Where."
"Below. There was an odd cyst. He broke it. The Worms came."
The Guide pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.
Was The Terrarian lying to him? unlikely. He wasn't the type to shy away from battles, and neither did he seem tired of this whole monster-fighting ordeal... still, The Guide had to check. He finished off his ale, pulled on his mittens and wrapped his jacket tightly about him. He nodded towards the front door.
"You saw where they fought? Where? Nearby?"
The Terrarian shook his head, no.
"In the distance. Near The Compound and The Destroyed Village."
"Good. Lets go there and see."
Faze: Oh hello neighbor! I like your shiny golden armou-
Yharim: *DOOM MUSIC*
Guide just checking to make sure the Perfs are dead.
Oh fyi so Guide: He pretty much got all the knowledge of BoC = all the knowledge of everyone killed by crimson. He needs to concentrate to pull the knowledge though, but is now like 1000x smarter and nows everything. Hence the in-game guide knowing pretty much everything.
His personality is not changed though, because he needs to strenuously pull memories like looking for a book in a library.