So for loadouts, Hero is always listed first, Slayer is listed second - unless one is not present in the chapter. Usually you can just tell cuz Hero is HM and Slayer is PreHM. If nescessary, I will denotate them in the future.

Special thanks to story comrade. much love

Armour: Brimflame

Weapon: None

Acc(10/11): Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Celestial Emblem, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, FrostSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Amalgamated Brain, Evasion Scarf.

Health: (500/500)

Armour: Victide Armour (Ranger)

Weapon: Mandible 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)

She must have been delirious for days.

After being mysteriously transported from the spider caves, she had tottered her way through the blackness of the night as poison ran through her veins. When she stumbled upon a small outpost - she thought it was her salvation! Until, she saw The Armoured Destroyer standing there. She... she couldn't remember exactly what happened after that, but there was a zombie's rotting visage, a terrifying chase, and a horrid pain as her wounds were bathed in rot... After that, she...

Well, she wasn't sure.

But now she was awake.

And was far too groggy to be terrified of the tremendous tree monster crooning over her.

What in the world...

The Stylist blinked heavily. Everything was slow. There was liquid sloshing in her head. She could hear every one of her straining breaths and could leisurely count her heartbeats. There was a kaleidoscope above her, a great pattern of iridescent greens and blues, yellows and reds - as if a thousand butterflies were swirling continually over her head. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before, and enraptured her as she eased out of a long, long sleep. She was too weak to move her head to look, but the fabric? beneath her fingertips were cooler and softer than the finest silken sheets. It was as if she were laying on the petals of a tremendous lily.

'Ah, There we are Dearie - That poison hurt you quite a bit I reckon? Well it's all out now! Rise and Shine darling!'

The strangest voice. It spoke her language, but seemed to be composed of a thousand different noises - as if the woodland itself was speaking to her. The Stylist let her neck loll to one side in an effort to find the source of the noise, but a group of strong vines wrapped around her to hold her head in pace. She blinked in protest, and only then realized there was a large needle inserted at the base of her throat - attached directly to her jugular.

... ah?

She... She should be panicking, but she didn't. She couldn't. There was a peace that had been forced upon her. An alien contentment that made it 'okay' to simply lounge here and let that needle do whatever ... whatever it was doing to her. What... what was happening? She tried to stir herself to action, but her efforts were overridden by a flow of chemical grogginess. She had been sedated, and there was nothing she could do but raise mental protests.

Huh...

The voice tutted at her. A large screen of dragonflies eyes unfurled and stared at her with scrutiny. This should likewise be terrifying, but The Stylist simply wasn't afraid. She lay there with a placid assurance everything would be alright, all the while knowing something was very strange, and very wrong. She argued with herself, then managed to twitch a finger in protest. At that, the kaleidoscope seemed to pulse and chuckle kindly at her as it drew near. A fan of leaves descended to pat her forehead. Pollen fell from the leaves and The Stylist immediately felt herself relax.

"Oh my, quite the fighter aren't you? That's fine, Dearie. That's no problem at all... It's good to be lively and energetic..."

The voice seemed to slow. The leaves and blooms all around her seemed to wilt ever so slightly, and The Stylist was conscious of some sort of magic flowing through her veins. Her brain spun. Her thoughts whirled about, trying to remember exactly what had happened. She did her best to fight the sedative, but ultimately fell into its lull. The voice continued, growing slower and more feeble as it spoke - as if being drained of its vitality.

"I've... gone and blessed you, Dearie. Not enough to hold The Seal, but its better than nothing. A Dryad's Blessing is certainly a wonderful gift... You'll be helping preserve the world... It's for this reason I've sought to revive you... you were quite on the brink of death, my dear."

The needle was removed. The vines that bound The Stylist roundabout slackened their grip and fell away, as if exhausted from the effort. With a head full of cotton, The Stylist struggled to sit up on the lily sheets, and - to her pleasant surprise - found all of the burns she'd sustained in The Spiders caves were completely wiped away. There was no longer any trace of them. She lifted her arms and gazed at the pale skin. She was as whole as the day she left on expedition to search for her younger brother.

This... is good. A good...thing.

Her foggy internal monologue was interrupted by The Dryad - who had withdrawn itsbranches upon itself and seemed to be curling up to rest. Its voice was slow and languid, and although The Stylist wasn't entirely sure what had happened, she was expressly aware that her life had just been saved - and not only that but the horrid scars that burned almost every inch of her skin were all but naught. She was quite confused and felt quite drunk... but was also grateful. The Dryad spoke again, her voice like a myriad of rushing waters.

"So... Dearie, I'll be sleeping for a bit..."

The Stylist's head was beginning to clear. Everything was coming into focus. She was sitting on the petal of a tremendous flower - completely naked - with a small trail of blood trickling down the side of her throat. She was horribly famished, and so thirsty she thought she'd die. The Dryad - who had all but retreated into the ceiling (the woodland spirit had taken over the inside of this... castle? structure) rustled at her kindly. Another leaf extended to pat her on the head.

"Child... your life belongs to you - but I have saved it for the sake of the world... I implore you, please do me this favor for the sake of all that is good."

'For all that is good?' 'Save the world?' What kind of speech was this, and uttered from an ancient Dryad no less. The Stylist did not see herself as a particularity brave individual - and such a calling intimidated her greatly, but The Dryad had clearly saved her life. Common decency required that she - at the very least - consider this request. With lips pressed together in apprehension, The Stylist opened her mouth to reply, but her voice hadn't been used in so long, all she managed was a rasping croak of affirmation. Regardless, the entire tree structure seemed to nod and a tremendous set of clear wings fluttered in acknowledgement.

"There is another 'Blessed One' living here... An adorable young man, called 'The Guide'. I'd like you to meet him."

"...okay."

"And I... need the two of you to... have as many children... as you can manage."

The Stylist blinked.

"Excuse me, What?"

"Ahahahaha!"

She laughed raucously and slumped onto the bar, knocking over her mug of ale as she pounded the table's surface with the heel of her hand. Her bubblegum-pink hair was splayed on the table, soaking up the alcohol and making a general mess of everything. An entire army of butterflies congregated around her, hungrily sipping at the alcohol - only to fly crookedly away. With every move she made - the more of the tiny creatures she crushed... and it appeared she didn't care one bit.

Good Lord... it's only morning, just how much did this little lady drink?!

The Old Merchant sighed and sipped his glass of ale as he watched his self proclaimed 'drinking buddy' get absolutely sloshed. If she had been anyone else, The Old Merchant would've demanded she stop and sober up - but it was very clear that The 'Party Girl' (a fitting name indeed) was actually one of King Yharim's fearsome CC Agents. If she wanted to kill herself through alcohol poisoning, he wasn't going to stop her. Besides, she was the least of his worries. He wasn't drunk... but with how confused he was - he might as well be.

Maybe I'm seeing hallucinations?

The two of them were sitting beneath the outdoor wooden gondola and having a breakfast of apples and booze. Everything he touched felt real. Everything he saw looked as realistic as he remembered it... but the utter ridiculousness of it all was causing him to seriously question his sanity.

Is The Dryad even real?

Because after being assaulted by a giant monstrous insect-tree-lady, The Old Merchant had made his way into one of the buildings to sleep. When he had walked across that field, he was absolutely certain the place was crawling with The Crimson. The grass was scarlet. There was blood and veins running beneath it. The weeds lashed and clung to his clothes and stuck wicked splinters into his ankles. The fog was so dense and horrid, he could scarcely see nor breathe...

... but when he woke up, The sun was shining. The grass had become emerald green. The oppressive fog in the sky had dissipated and the horrible stink had been banished. It was a relief to be sure, but the strangeness didn't end there. All about them, a tremendous amount of animals scurried to and fro. The field was covered in white rabbits. Identical brown squirrels chased each other, crawling over every surface they could find. Entire flocks of birds lifted so thickly from the trees, they looked as if they were a single entity. The fact that they were all cardinals made things even stranger; their chirpings filled his ears until he could hardly think.

I've gone mad.

And in the center of the clearing - to the right of the large patio filled with weird floating platforms and stacked with all sorts of crafting stations - was a tremendous wooden structure whose purpose The Merchant couldn't even begin to fathom. Hanging from that structure was a fully armored knight, who slowly dismantled it with a pickaxe. Every piece he struck with his tool popped off in a perfect wooden cube, which vanished the very moment it came free. Something about The Knight was familiar... but The Old Merchant couldn't remember anything about him at all - almost as if he'd been removed from his mental records entirely.

I must be dreaming.

Was this purgatory? Maybe - The Old Merchant remembered that he'd died. He also remembered that young man who stayed with him in his last moments was the very same person he had just watched a tree monster bring back to life yesterday afternoon. He remembered laying on that kitchen table, bleeding out, dying - and with his last breaths giving his treasured Golden Medallion to The Guide who said his last rites... then...

Then his memory went foggy.

And suddenly he arrived back in The Compound. He had his Golden Medallion back. He had all his wares... but was still in desperate need of answers. All morning, he had been trying to extricate anything comprehensible from anyone who'd speak to him, but alas The Party Girl was a babbling mess. She laughed at just about anything he said despite nothing being funny at all. The Dryad was a literal monster and he was eager not to meet her again. The Knight gave him the heebie jeebies - and wouldn't talk to him anyways...

The only person who might tell him something was The Guide... and, ah!

The Old Merchant stood to his feet as the first house's front door creaked open and a brown haired youth stepped into the field. The poor man still looked a bit battered, but certainly much better than yesterday. He was hungrily munching on an apple and had stopped mid-meal to converse quietly with The Knight, who dropped from a dizzying three storey freefall to speak to him. Worryingly, The Knight indicated towards him with a nod before rappelling back up the sculpture to resume its demolition. Interesting. Did The Knight just give a report to The Guide? It certainly looked that way. From that brief interaction, it was clear just who was the head of this Compound... and it was from the head that The Old Merchant would obtain his answers.

But it appeared that The Guide would be the first to open the conversation. As he approached, he pointed his apple core at The Old Merchant, and exclaimed:

"You there! Sir, Tell me, did you come back from the dead? I need to know everything. Come, please, let's talk."

Three days...

No, it's two now.

Two days since My Teacher got that letter containing my Mission... my death sentence. He seemed to find it amusing. I find it much less so. I've read it over and over by the flickering lamplight, attempting to divulge a deeper meaning from those words:

Traverse through the corrupted valleys until you reach the Plain of Permafrost. Unlock the prison there with this key, and prepare for battle with Cryogen. Your mission is complete when you return The Archmage safely to The Resistance.

I do not know the dangers through which I will Traverse, neither am I familiar with The Archmage or his prison... but what I do know is this: Braelor has assigned me this task because he has tired of me. My Teacher no longer looks me in the eye and spends all day searching through summoning books - supposedly in preparation to create my replacement. The Resistance wishes to get rid of me. I see it in the face of every peon who chances upon me. They give me scornful or pitying looks. They no longer cringe and praise like they used to... because I've simply become 'a waste of resources'.

Is this true? I don't know. I ponder it as I carefully tattoo another magic circle into my arm. After my ill-fated foray into The Crimson, I've become quite obsessed with protecting myself even without a weapon. How defenseless I was! How shameful. I have vowed to myself never to be caught in that situation again - as long as I can do anything about it... because The Worms in my visions are nothing compared to The Worms in The Crimson. I've already lived twenty four hours with these murky, writhing shadows, and found that although they are quite terrifying, they have yet to tear me to pieces.

They're not real... not real... not real...

Frankly, I'm not sure if I believe myself... but its surely a convenient lie. The little pinpricks and the telltale feeling of teeth pressing into my ankles have been hard to ignore - but I must ignore them. I have no time for them. I cannot nurse my trauma any longer for now, my life is on the line. I've been set up for failure, and must overcome these unknown and terrifying odds lest my life be forefeit. Should I die now, I am sure nobody will come fetch me from The Crimson. They will abandon me there... and not just for a week, but for as long as I remain sentient under that horrid torture. Nobody has said it to me outright, but I know it. I'm sure of it.

I can't go back... I can't go back... I'm afraid.

I'm driven by fear.

I'm driven by desperation.

I cannot go back there.

My survival instinct drives me to shamelessness as I prepare for the trials to come. I have already raided the storehouses for potions - the PotionMaster doesn't stop me. Perhaps he pities me? and for once, I am grateful for the pity. A Swiftness Potion, A set of warmth potions, Cadence... Magic power. I grabbed everything I recognized, and everything I didn't. I don't know half the brews I've gotten my hands on - but neither do I have time to study them. If the time comes that I must use them, then I will place my life in the hands of the brewers.

My armour likewise. I have put aside the heavy titanium plates for the more mobile brimstone robes. I saw them in the armoury, and - like a rat - snuck in and pilfered them off the mannequin. They were warm to the touch and exuded a dim light. I hoped that they would provide me some help against the freezing attacks this 'Cryogen' might levy against me. Perhaps I've caused an uproar in The Armory and The Potionhouse, but I am far too focused on my own survival to be polite - not that I've ever been particularly polite.

Focus...

There's no time. I have much to do.

I have carefully inscribed on my flesh numerous magic circles, storing a great myriad of spells there in order that in the event run out of Mana or lose my weapon, I may still fight. I have little time to test these, much less practice with them and frankly, am unsure how useful they will be. Regardless, I add them to my growing collection of offensive spells. 'Chain Lightning', 'Firestorm', 'Cloud of Daggers' Some I haven't even tested! Yet I would rather be with than without.

...

A hallucinatory worm nips at my heels; I flinch and my pen slips, breaking the spell and causing the magic ink to lift and dissolve. I grit my teeth and curse my shadowy companions before starting again. I narrow my focus. I ignore everything. The shadow behind me loomed larger and more tactile with every passing hour. I can feel its presence in the room with me, but I have no time to deal with it. Sometimes I feel its breath on the back of my neck, or tendrils tickling my throat - but I simply grit my teeth and bear it - sometimes freezing rigid and trembling as I wait for the sensation to subside.

But I focus. Despite that I want to tear those squirming worms off my skin, out of my throat, from within my guts... I bear it.

I bear it because I must live.

I must live.

I will defeat certain death. I must prevail at all costs. I will now fight for the privilege of remaining under the slavery I had so despised.

I will live.

One Day left.

Slayer: I have acheived the ability to wear the heaviest armour, to survive the worst poison, lift buildings and kill gods... how will you face me?

Hero: *breathes in*

H: *breathes out*

H: BOOK!

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