MERRY CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR FRENS!
Armour: Brimflame
Weapon: Winter's Fury, Undine's Retribution, Stormfront Razor
Acc(11/11): The Bee, Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Cryo Wings, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, FrostSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Permafrost's Concotion, Evasion Scarf. (Unlimited Buffs)
Health: (500/500)
Armour: None
Weapon: Galeforce (Ichor Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(1/11): Voodoo Doll
Health: (400/400)
Until he saw it, he was thoroughly convinced this place was nothing but an illusion.
It... it wasn't unreasonable for him to think so, all things considering. The absolutely enormous border spell was convincing enough on its own. There was no mage who could maintain such powerful magic, over such a large area, for such a long period of time except for The Lunatic Cultist... or The Witch of Massacre - and The Guide was fairly sure neither of these had decided to spend an entire day sitting in some forest pouring their mana into a practical joke.
...
Moreover, the magical perfection of this place was just wrong enough to be unsettling. Each stone was the exact same: the same chip of micah in the top left corner, the same stripe of texture stretching horizontally across its face. The patch of moonglows bent their heads in the field, were likewise entirely identical. Indeed, each blade of grass, each wrought iron lantern, every red brick on that patio... everything was utterly fake. Everything was rubbery and artificial, as if the entire compound had been built from miniatures, from plasticky children's toys.
And thus, he had good reason to believe he was still laying in his bed, thrashing under the spell of stupid giggling students.
But now, The Guide knew none of this was a joke. Nothing was remotely funny about this situation at all. And although some small part of him was feeling positively silly for stomping around and yelling at non-existent pranksters all day, the black terror in his guts overshadowed every other emotion in him.
Don't Panic.
The Guide could feel adrenaline zipping through his veins. He counted his ragged breaths as every muscle wound up to the point of cramping. He listened as the thuds against his sternum accelerated faster and faster - until he feared his heart would simply burst. He wanted to run. He needed to run - but his limbs would not obey him, they did not even budge. His bones were welded together. His feet were rooted to the dirt. Around his ankles, the grass swayed to an erratic tune, as if dancing to a maddening unseen flute.
Oh fuck... just take deep breaths! What's wrong with you!
Overhead, the trees stretched into the sky, looming like malignant monoliths - their gnarled blackened fingers grasping as if to seize the stars from their heavenly places. The white-blue glare from the retaining wall seemed to make the contrasting darkness a thicker and more velvet, creeping black. Everything was silent... eerily silent - yet there was an unheard buzz that tore frantically in his brain. A frenzied whine that tingled in his fingertips and scraped against the backs of his eyeballs. His vision narrowed. His breath came in strangled pants. He was so scared, he wanted to vomit. What the hell!
"..."
Because that thing was here!
It... It really didn't look terrifying. Nothing in its appearance merited this reaction at all! Indeed, had The Guide seen a photograph of what now lay before his eyes, he wouldn't even pay it a passing interest. It was just a knight, well built but lacking its cuirass and helm. Its face was odd, but not monstrous. A common face, somewhere between boyish and handsome. Somewhere between young and old, yet too symmetrical - too artificial, like it were a mannequin or a sculpture. It moved oddly - smoothly as if underwater. The muscles were cords beneath its wan skin, jaunt, angular, and running full of raw strength and sinew along its back and its arms. The pattern mimicked the musculature of a man, but was far more viscous than what was natural.
But when The Guide entered through the gates and stepped onto the perfectly trimmed lawn, it turned to pierce him with those pale, dead eyes.
And what his logical mind did not comprehend, some deep - primal instinct understood all too well.
This thing... was dangerous.
It wasn't dangerous the way a lion was dangerous.
...
It was dangerous like God was dangerous.
He was facing the inevitable. He was nose to nose with death. He was standing before an enormous behemoth whose length and breadth stretched from the earth to the sky. Its eyes were on him, and that pale gaze pinned him where he stood like a great spear through the gut. There was no doubt in his mind that this Knight was responsible for the thousands of dead animals that were scattered across the woodland. In the same way they did not escape it, neither would he.
I'm... I'm dead.
A long, shocked silence stretched between them - rolling the seconds thin and long. The night whined. The grass billowed.
Then, it spoke. Not loudly, but the voice split the silence like lightning.
"G-guide...you came back?"
He could not read its body language, but perhaps it might've been startled. It stared with wide eyes. It opened and closed its mouth as if testing the joint. Finally, it moved its lips and tongue, but the sound began from against The Guide eardrums instead of emitting from the creature's open mouth. Its tone was flat, yet somehow filled with equal parts disbelief and rage. Its face was likewise expressionless, but small lines appeared in places they ought not to. Was the creature malicious? The Guide could not tell. His logical mind said it wasn't, but something deep inside him was screaming. He took a stumbling step backwards - one after another - until his back was pressed against the smooth wood of The Compound's inner gates.
Holy hell... what's happening?! It knows my name! Why does it know my name?!
His breath was molasses in his throat, choking him and leaving spots in his vision. The whine in his head was clawing at the inside of his brain. This... this random man - was about to make him pass out by fear alone?
Nonsense.
He was The Guide. He had long ago learned to wrangle his emotions into submission. He wasn't going to flee like a mindless creature, whose thoughts were nothing more than base instincts. He wasn't dying today. He just needed to control himself. The Guide gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and-
*Thud*
"Ouff!"
And The Knight plowed into him.
It'd dashed across the field so quickly, it was nothing more than a blur. One moment it was standing on the patio. The next, it had bowled straight into him with something akin to a football tackle. The collision was far, far less impactful than what The Guide was dreading for (his panicked brain immediately calculated The Knight weighed only about as much as a small dog) but it still knocked the wind out of him like a baseball to the gut.
"Gack! Wh-what are you doi-"
The Guide's breath was cut short as The Knight threw its arms around him and squeezed his lungs completely empty. He felt his ribs creaking. His muscles cramped. His eyes began bugging out from his head and he uttered a strangled shout. In response to such violence, he began to flail and claw at The Knight's back with his professionally manicured fingernails - only to be immediately horrified when his hands came away bloody. Only now did The Guide realize The Knight's skin was... extremely delicate. He had to hold babies far more often than he would've liked (sometimes his sister made him babysit) and immediately realized The Knight's skin felt exactly like a newborn's.
And... heavens forbid, if he ever were possessed to claw at an infant - he now knew very well what the result would be. He had left bloody furrows in The Knight's back; rivets of blood issued forth, running down to drip onto the emerald grass. The Guide's hands were painted scarlet. Scraps of ashen skin had accumulated beneath his nails.
"Oh gods, are you alright?!"
Now thoroughly panicked, he showed his palms and wheezed out a shocked apology - an apology that went entirely unheeded. The Knight didn't really seem to mind the injuries. It seemed unable to feel them at all.
"... Guide, Guide... why did you leave..."
The bear hug only tightened. The Knight squeezed him as if he were a ghost that would slip away if he weren't held down. That chaotic whine reached an apex until it roared in his ears. It filled his head until he could hardly hear the words The Knight was muttering, unhingedly into his shoulder. At some point, it bared it's teeth and The Guide was pretty sure it was drooling into his shirt.
"...Guide... Guide"
"Uh..."
Now that The Knight was no longer staring at him with those wild, dead eyes, the terrible dread in his guts was beginning to fade. If... if this Knight was the one who killed everything, then it was definitely a good thing that it decided to hug him instead of running him through (unless, of course, it was intending to squeeze him to death like an anaconda). Still, he was quite confused with this whole debacle. He had the sense there was a lot of backstory here that he had yet understand - but was still required to navigate. Clearly, This Knight was powerful, deadly and quite willing to murder just about anything. It was also mistaking him for somebody else. Immediately outing himself as an imposter might not be the best of decisions.
So, The Guide gulped and awkwardly patted The Knight on its bloody shoulder. He gasped as best he could with his chest so restricted.
"I-I'm back now, so, uh-... that's what matters. Right?"
A tense silence. For a moment, The Guide wasn't sure if The Knight understood him. Finally, it muttered something that was probably an affirmative.
"...mhm."
(phew)
"Great. Want to... let me go?"
The Knight huffed again. For a moment, The Guide thought it'd release him - but suddenly it froze. Armoured fingers seized like vices, digging painfully into his ribs. The soft muttering stopped. The teeth snicked and it reared back, eyes blown wide to stare carefully at his face. It bared its teeth to speak. Its voice changed, suddenly turning aggressive and guttural. It's tear-streaked eyes had become as hard and as emotionless as diamonds.
"You..."
"Erm-"
The Knight mashed its face back into him and pressed its nose into the base of his neck. Rather disgustingly, there was the sound of ... loud sniffing. Once, twice - thrice for good measure, The Knight pinned him there as it snorted like a beast. The Guide, despite being scared quite silly, managed to keep his cool. He held his breath. He balled his hands into fists and tried to calm his nerves.
It's just a big... human-ish dog man. Just don't move... breathe...
After a long, long moment, The Knight released him. It's face was completely flat and emotionless as it stepped back.
A shining blade appeared in its hand.
The blade flashed up; its point pricked at his throat.
"You are not The Guide."
"...whoa! Whoa!"
The Knight opened its eyes wide; it bared its teeth to the roots.
"...Who. Are. You."
"Have you come to mock me, Cultist?"
Of course, the brat was angry. He had made it very obvious he didn't want to speak with him when he first kicked his way out of The Cultist's tower - but it'd been three days already and The Cultist could wait no longer. He rolled his eyes from behind his porcelain mask and touched down upon The Hero's absolute monstrosity of a boat-house. He stooped to peer through the half-walled off door. Glowing dragon eyes glared back at him from the darkness.
"Mock you?"
The Cultist tapped his gloved fingers against the underside of a wayward staircase. The Hero's structure was more akin to an Escher painting than any sort of traditional building. Frankly, it looked like somebody had taken a house, thrown it in a blender, and had it reassembled by a mental patient. At the very least, it was interesting to look at. The Cultist had spent a good deal of time searching for an entrance before finding The Hero to prompt him to action.
"You have made a mockery of yourself, Child."
The Dragon eyes blinked at him. The Cultist was almost certain The Hero must be scowling. When he spoke, his voice was something between a whine and a rasp - as if despite his dismissive tone, The Hero desperately wanted somebody to talk to.
"...that's not very encouraging, Cultist. Why are you here? As far as I'm concerned we have nothing to do with one another."
The Hero was pouting now. In some ways, The Terrarian acted far more like a toddler than The Cultist was willing to put up with. He narrowed his eyes and made his voice venomous.
"Is that how you speak to the one who gave you life? Ungrateful wretch. I am far more related to you than that-..." The Cultist bit back one of his many horrible nicknames for his old mentor. "That dead fool."
*Thonk*
"Leave this instant, Cultist!"
Rather predictably, there was the sound of a fist striking wood. Something splintered and cracked and the noise rang hollowly around the dark room The Hero had built around himself. The dragon eyes were blazing mad and The Cultist could hear The Terrarian grinding his teeth in rage.
Of course, The Cultist would not be intimidated into fleeing - especially not by the brat he had essentially raised. He raised his voice and The Hero fell silent.
"The Archmage is dead, Hero. But look at you! - you've already built yourself a coffin and crawled inside. Should I do you the favour of sinking you into the lake? hm?"
"..."
No response. The Dragon's eyes were seething, but The Hero had no response to his scathing accusations. Of course he wouldn't. He was throwing an infantile tantrum, which was fine - The Hero was technically an infant anyways- but the tantrum had lasted three days longer than it should have. With Yharim on the offense, sending his agents to hunt down anyone affiliated with the now-broken Resistance coalition, The Cultist needed The Hero to stop moping and start working. The Archmage was dead. The Hero would most probably begin on the path to revenge sooner or later, and The Cultist needed it to happen sooner rather than later.
Because right now, every agent in the land was laser focused on searching for him. Draedon's eyes in the sky were likely looking for him, and given enough time - they were going to find him. Right now, nobody on this earth needed The Hero more than The Lunatic Cultist. So The Cultist would say whatever he needed to say to snap The Hero out of mourning.
"Are you so eager to leap into the grave the moment you see someone die? Have you not had your fill of death? You were unable to even bring his corpse here to bury, so you decide to bury yourself?! All your strength, all the power The Resistance had given to you... all of their hopes and dreams are now locked away, moping, in this massive wooden coffin. Pathetic. The Archmage would be ashamed!"
"..."
The Cultist narrowed his eyes, meeting the glowing coals staring at him from the depths of the coffin. He hissed and made his voice inflammatory.
"Look at you... privileged in every respect, born with immense power, born with riches and a thousand servants who want nothing more but to strengthen you. You are a deity walking this earth, but only have strength left to cry. You are ridiculous, Hero."
"... I'm not your hero, Cultist. I have a new name."
The Cultist sneered.
"A creature as feeble as yourself is not worthy of a name, Hero."
The silence echoed. The expression in those eyes went from rage, to consideration, to something utterly inscrutable. When The Hero finally spoke, his voice was broken and strangled.
"...what would you have me do, Cultist? You know very well I cannot face The King. You... will you demand I fight him? No." His voice grew hard. "You've sent me to my death once. I will not go to the grave on your orders. My life is mine! I will live and die on my own terms!"
"So... you will forget everyone and live in a box? I hate The Archmage - but I never hated him enough to forget him."
"..."
There. There was the spark of anger. The spark of sneering rebellion and the fierce independence The Hero had been born with. It was that spark every Terrarian carried within themselves. The spark that fanned a flame that burned down every power on this earth. Kings and gods had been consumed in that snarling inferno. Even at such an age, The Hero's wake of destruction fractured every power around him. He was a young dragon, and he had burned Braelor. The Resistance that hosted him had collapsed and scattered. The Archmage had been crushed. The Cultist too felt the heat of that fire. Nearly all of his followers lay slain and rotting in the depths of the dungeon...
But finally... the spark had roared into a flame. A flame that had flared in vengeance.
The Cultist watched grimly behind his mask. He sighed and stood.
"I care nothing for your terms, Hero. If you want my approval, just get off your fucking behind."
The Cultist turned his back and lifted into the air, but paused as he felt The Hero's eyes burning into his back. Did he need direction? The Cultist chuckled darkly. For as much trouble The Hero had caused him, he couldn't really find it in himself to hate the boy.
He turned and called over his shoulder.
"...The Tyrant's Capital is due east."
Guide#2: Oh hello, nice house you got here.
MonsterKnight: *SNIFFFF*
G#2: bruh
MK: you smell funny, die bitch
Bitch is super weird tbh.