Armour: None

Weapon: None

Acc(0/11): None

Health: (50/425)

Armour: Victide Armour (Ranger)

Weapon: [UNUSABLE]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: (375/400)

The bitter sun peered through a veil of gray smog, casting a disgusted eye on the vile, pulsating land beneath. A putrid breeze moaned over the ravaged wasteland, carrying in it all manner of soured bodily fluids and shriveled scraps of flesh. There were lakes filled with bile here. Ponds full of digesting stomach fluids that stripped clean any of the crimson creatures unfortunate enough to wander into their depths. Pale bleached bones stuck up from the ground. Bones of dragons, bones of giants. No creature, no matter how powerful, could kill The Crimson through violence. They could only survive it and escape it. In times past, The Lunatic Cultist had often used The Crimson as an execution ground for dissenters in his organization. They would be stripped of all their magical trappings and provided only a blunt wooden blade for protection. Their struggles were then broadcast as a warning to those who would dare stand in defiance of him.

*shff...shff*

Sometimes the unfortunates placed in The Crimson lasted minutes. A few had lasted hours... But The Hero had lasted nearly a week- although he had no choice in the matter. In any case, The Cultist was well aware of what The Crimson would do to a naked and unarmed person. It would eat them alive. They'd be torn to shreds. They'd be trampled into pulp. They'd be melted in vats of acid. They'd be flayed. They'd be skinned. The Cultist had seen it happen hundreds of times in his scrying broadcasts, but The Hero would have experienced it just as many times in his own flesh.

*rumble*

The ground below trembled and undulated as he descended out of the air. The motile ground seemed to smell him and hungrily reached its tendrils to grasp at his ankles. He obliterated them with the wave of a hand and stepped down onto the spongy, acidic ground. He felt a goopy viscous fluid soak through the soles of his shoes and twisted his lip in disgust. How abominable. The Cultist had not intended for The Hero to suffer for so long in this hellscape. after all, he was not a sadistic man. The Cultist had expected to find The Hero wandering aimlessly in the woods and chasing rabbits to kill his boredom. He would not even condemn his worst enemies to this kind of torture...

In fact, it was quite a shock to him that The Crimson had spread at all! (Although he was a worshipper of The Dreaming God, he had no love for his deity's fleshy Bastard derivatives) He was certain The Dryad race had done something a hundred years ago to keep The Crimson within it's bounds. Had their powers waned over the century? How worrying... but such things are a discussion for another time...

However... the fact The Hero had suffered so gravely was perhaps for the better. The Cultist had been carefully considering between fetching The Hero or abandoning him in favour of summoning a new one. He was well aware that The Hero had a very headstrong personality. He would not easily bend his will nor submit himself to orders... however a week in this place was more than enough to break even the strongest of men.

And The Hero... he was thoroughly broken.

The Lunatic Cultist knew it the moment he laid eyes on the pale, shivering form huddled there at the center of The Summoning Circle. It neither moved nor acknowledged him as he approached. Had he given up trying to fight The Perferators? He had obviously stopped running from them. Three tremendous worms were frozen amidst bursting from the ground. One was only a few feet from The Hero, its maw gaping wide to devour him. Another was spurting acidic ichor wherever it went, peppering the ground with deep puddles of burning venom. They were horrid, vicious things, covered in blisters, sores and all manner of teeth and bones. They were accompanied by their monstrous hive which was likewise frozen in time. The Cultist paused to gaze at their looming forms before stepping into The Summoning Circle and walking up to the man -that miserable creature- curled up in its centre.

"..."

There wasn't much that needed to be said. The way his eyes stared forlornly into the distance made it clear The Hero had no more fight left in him. He was tired, exhausted even, and was no longer interested in battling any longer. What a fall from grace indeed, from one who would herald the beginning of a new age, to a wretched creature who had submitted himself to the mercies of merciless worms.

And if he had been beaten so thoroughly that he would submit himself to worms, then he would surely carry out Braelor's orders without complaint.

The ground squelched beneath his feet as The Cultist kneeled to match The Hero's eye level. The poor man was hugging his knees to his chest and had buried his nose into his arms. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and he trembled uncontrollably - as if anticipating the next death that would inevitably rip through his body. He was truly a skittish wreck, but The Cultist didn't blame him. How many times had he died just today? To him, immortality had become quite the curse.

The Cultist addressed him gently.

"Child... are you ready to go home?"

The Hero flinched violently at his voice and didn't raise his eyes. He merely nodded and let out a rattling breath of relief before sinking more deeply into his crossed arms. The Cultist was certain he saw tears running down The Hero's face, but would not shame him further by pointing it out. Instead, he stood and reached into his cloak, de-compressing The Hero's abandoned armour and dropping it in a heap. The Titanium plates landed with loud thumps at The Hero's feet.

"Braelor has confiscated your wings. I suggest that you make no mention of it to him."

"..."

The Hero acknowledged him with the slightest movement of the head.

"Stand up."

He stood.

"Dress yourself. It's time to go."

Something had changed.

Perhaps it was something in the air? Maybe the drone of the trees had shifted its tone... Was it the smell of the place? He wasn't certain, but he was sure something was different. Whether it was for good or bad, The Terrarian hadn't a clue, and that made him nervous.

...!

He sensed it the moment he stepped through The Compound's tall gates. In that instant, he was struck with a thrill of panic; a panic which caused him to promptly dropped The (sleeping) Party Girl in the grass and sprint through the mist. He ran past the half demolished outdoor gondola he had so lovingly built, over the now-destroyed patio and scattered crafting stations, and straight through the door of The Guide's house, knocking it cleanly off its hinges. By force of habit, he snatched it out of the air and stowed it away as barreled into the wrecked living room.

Not here...

The Guide's body wasn't where The Terrarian had left it. He sucked a deep breath and looked around the darkened room, which was lit only by those ever burning fireplaces. He checked the floor. He checked beneath the couches, nothing. What happened here?! Where did The Guide go? Why were there leaves and dirt everywhere? Had The Guide somehow risen as an undead zombie during midday? Was he wandering around searching for flesh?

...

The Terrarian shivered as he recalled his first experience with a horde of zombies, then felt his guts flip as he remembered how many he had butchered mercilessly thereafter...

If The Guide had 'risen' Would he be able to strike him down?

*thump... tap...tap... thud.*

The Terraian gritted his teeth and slowly turned to face the stairwell, falling silent in order to more clearly hear the uneven footsteps staggering around upstairs. Were they The Guide's footsteps? Had the man really risen from The Grave? Perhaps one of The Compound's residents had locked him upstairs to wander and rot... The place smelled of The Guide, and it also certainly smelt of rot.

*Thud...thud!...(Gaaah! Dammit! Fuck!)*

More staggering and groanings from upstairs. Garbled speech and what appeared to be mindless rage echoed down the stairwell ...and it was undoubtedly The Guide's voice. Was he really a zombie? He sounded like one. The Terrarian automatically moved to investigate, but faltered at foot of the stairs. What was he going to do when he saw The Guide? What was he going to say? He heard his breath becoming short and his nerves grow taut and jittery, but despite it all - he drew his blade and climbed the steps.

(That damn shitty Dryad!...)...*kicks*

There was no benefit in thinking too much. He wasn't particularly good at thinking to begin with... but If The Guide was a zombie, then The Terrarian simply needed to cut him down. This was going to be a fight, there was no room for pithy emotions in a struggle between life and death. He chilled his heart with each step he took until he stood outside The Guide's bedroom door. His mind was completely blank. His blade was held at the ready. His body was loose. He was prepared to kill.

"..."

He planted the heel of his foot against the solid wooden door, and with a mighty shove, he flung it open with so much force, the doorknob crunched into the solid wood wall opposite. The Terrarian stepped into the room and raised his eyes, prepared to cut down the remains of his first and only friend.

...

But (thankfully) instead of lunging across the room to stab the figure standing there, he was met with a sight which rooted his feet the the ground. For a long moment, he remained frozen there, one foot inside the room, the other in the hallway. He clutched his blade tightly in his balled fist, and - with eyes wide open - blinked several times to ensure his wishful thinking wasn't showing him hallucinations. Even when he lifted his visor from off his face, he could hardly believe what he saw...

"Oh... hey there Buddy."

Why was The Guide standing there - looking quite alive and very non-zombie-like. He didn't look very happy, but he certainly wasn't hankering for flesh. In fact, his face was drawn and darkened when The Terrarian kicked his way into his room, but the moment The Guide laid eyes on him that dark expression vanished. His eyes lit up. He grinned. He raised his arms as if inviting an embrace, but caught himself and sheepishly planting his hands on his hips. His tired eyes were crinkled with both exhaustion and relief. He immediately begun his signature radio talk.

"It's, um... well, it's been a while hasn't it, Slayer? Ah, by the way, I remember seeing your missing arm with The Party Girl, although I didn't see her today. If we find her then-" The Guide startled, cutting himself off mid-sentence. there was a long moment of silence before he resumed, his voice softened.

"-... aw, hey now..."

Strangely, The Terrarian's vision had become blurry. He blinked, and blinked and blinked again before realizing there were tears running down the sides of his face. The Terrarian vanished his blade and quickly snapped down his visor, guarded and confused. Just what was going on? How was The Guide alive? Wasn't he very clearly dead? The last time he'd checked, The Guide had no heartbeat, there was no breath in his lungs... for an entire day he had lain lifeless and now...

Perhaps this was some kind of scepter? A ghost?

A ghost?!

The Guide - just as he had before - appeared to read the thoughts directly out of The Terrarian's mind. Except this time, he didn't prove his corporeal ties with words. In the embarrassingly long amount of time The Terrarian had spent attempting to reconcile his eyes with his brain, The Guide had closed the distance between them, threw his arms about his shoulder bracers, and pulled his fully armored companion into a spiky hug. He gingerly patted the top of The Terrarian's helmet and pretended to ignore the rapidly growing wet-stain on his shirt. There was a chuckle in his voice when he spoke.

"I'm really alive, y'know, although I can hardly believe it... what about you? The past week must have been tough... why don't you sit and tell me about it..."

Guide: Aw, buddy, c'mere (hugs)

Slayer: Do not wrestle with me. You are very weak. You will die.

Guide: You're such a fking buzzkill

Oh Boy... Everyone's finally back together :,) It's been a long time coming. it's now time to accelerate plot! I just need to tie up some loose ends with The Party Girl's intentions - Do some discovery with The (Original) Merchant, and spend some more time with Ammy and THe Resistance coalition. Ah, and also the Stylist... I had a plan for her, but upon second thought, it's not a particulariy good one... I may kill her off. Ah, oh well :thumbs_up: hope you enjoy.

So btw, it was implied but not explicitely stated that The Hero just stopped trying to fight and kept getting spawnkilled pretty much instantly. like poor baby :-( RIP. The Cultist just used some wacky magic that I'm not about to try to explain to freeze the worms in place.

lmao T is kinna awk. btw, for the skit I totally wanted to add it into canon, but I just couldn't fit it in. :,-). Regardless I love all the skits/notes and idea you guys give me. much love.