Special thanks to all who leave reviews! I love all of you even if it's just a hello. Also Slayer is a dude for the comment who a asked

Armour: Titanium

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: (425/425)

It was like a dream.

Last night, after successfully convincing The Terrarian to stop crying and do anything else, The Guide had hurled himself into bed and fell asleep before even hitting the pillow. He'd never been so thankful to be unconscious. He had never been quite that tired; he'd never been quite so sleep-deprived. Thanks to The Dryad's mysterious... whatever she did, The Wall didn't bother him at all last night. Free from his nightmares, he slept like a log through the morning and late into the afternoon. He was finally awakened at nearly four in the evening by the gentle rustling of squirrels playing in the trees, the sounds of birds twittering and the cool pleasant scent of the breeze wafting in through his bedroom window.

The breeze... Crimson?

His face was still half-buried in his pillow as he slowly eased out of a much needed sleep. He tentatively cracked open an eye to take in his surroundings, not knowing exactly what to expect. Over the past two weeks, The Guide had gradually grown accustomed to the dreadful sights and scents of The Crimson. To him, the stinking mists and the stagnant air had simply become 'normal'. The low storm clouds shrouded the sun and its life giving rays so completely, there was scarcely a difference between night and day - and he simply made do with candlelight. Being held under veritable house arrest by the bloody, thorn-ridden grass that lashed at his ankles more aggressively with each passing day had simply become routine. It was shocking how quickly he got used to the misery. Worryingly shocking ... but that didn't matter anymore.

Because as The Guide gazed out the small bedroom window, he nearly shed tears of joy. For indeed, if his senses were to be believed, The Crimson had disappeared overnight! How? He hadn't the foggiest idea - but he couldn't dispute his eyes. He had nearly forgotten how glorious the sun looked, warm and shining down from its place in the sky. The light filtered through the half-translucent leafy canopy and painted shifting patterns on the wooden floorboards. Those warm golden rays beamed in, reflecting off the little particles of dust in the air and enrapturing him with their beauty. The air outside was clear and crisp, the opaque fog that has plagued them for so long had been banished entirely. From his narrow field of vision - he could see the trees restored to their former glory, boasting strong, heavy boughs and crowned with bright summertime leaves.

Is this real?

He raised a hand to pinch himself, but found his fingers half paralyzed and curled into a painful claw. Yes... he was certainly awake. All of this was real... And that meant all the myriad of creatures teeming in the trees outside were really there.

how... how did the population rebuild so quickly?!

The Guide pricked his ears, amazed by the beauty - but also the illogic of it all. The sweet utterances of the songbirds floating in with the lazy afternoon breeze. There were so many birds that their songs overlapped one another. In just the few minutes The Guide had observed, he had already seen five identical squirrels run along his windowsill, chattering and squeaking to one another. Although it was daytime, the noises of cicadas and crickets chirped from the undergrowth.

Did The Dryad do this? Well... I suppose I can't complain...

It was very strange, but it was very wonderful. This was the orchestra of nature, the sound of burgeoning life. What a far cry it was from the oppressive, foggy silence he had long grown used to! The Guide let it tickle his ears as he drew a deep breath.

haaah...

But the most shocking difference he woke up to was most undoubtedly The Smell.

That horrid stink was gone! That putrid stench that caused him to choke and sputter and gag on every breath. The disgusting rot that made his eyes water and his lungs wither and cringe. Oh, what a joy. He had been wonderfully happy yesterday - having been brought back to life and then re-united with his Terrarian... but it seemed that he had yet to exhaust the blessings due to him. He had suffered much, yes, but his reward was as sweet as the suffering was bitter.

For as he greedily drank in the air - so decadent it was like honey on his tongue - his heart was lifted up. He felt his chest swell and billow. He was suddenly bursting with thankfulness to nobody in particular. He hugged his pillow and grinned stupidly into it as he giddily waited for his tears to stop. He tried to distract himself and dry his eyes by staring about his room. (Hell, he was a grown man. He shouldn't be crying over these things...) ah, no matter.

Hehe... ugh... (*sniffle*)

And as he glanced about the small bedroom, he recognized that even luxuries and creature comforts had been restored to him. Polished glass windows so clear they were hardly visible, sparkling crystal vases, heated floors and indoor plumbing... he was living like a king. His home had been put in order last night. The Terrarian's compulsive janitorial instincts must have sent him through here - for there was no longer any evidence of violence to be found. When The Demolitionist blew the door off its hinges, the explosion resulted in a great deal of dirt and rubble being scattered around the room. Many of his belongings had been destroyed and strewn about. There had been shattered glass and gunpowder peppering the floor...

But none of that remained. The room had been swept, scrubbed and polished to an obsessive perfection. Everything was bright, clean and airy. The old table had been removed; a new one sat on its place. Rather amusingly, there were two vases of suspiciously identical flowers and three tremendous bowls of apples decorating (crowding) the tablespace. The Guide couldn't quite understand why The Terraian had left his entire body weight in fruit on the table, but chalked it up as the almost man's clumsy way of showing appreciation. The Guide didn't even particularly like apples, but regardless found the gesture endearing.

heh... I guess I have to eat a few now...

With a grunt, The Guide rolled (fell) out bed and stretched away his stiffness. He was achy all over, but his condition was certainly better then when he laid down to sleep. He snatched a half-finished healing potion from his bedside table and downed it as he hobbled his way towards the produce section. Strange, what was that peeking out from behind the bowls? The Guide blinked and squinted. A sheaf of papers? He couldn't tell from where he was. Interested, he walked to the other side of the table. As he did, he recognized he was long overdue for a shower. When the air smelled foul, he couldn't tell if he also stank... but now, it was very very obvious. The Guide was almost as eager to hop in the bath as he was to satisfy his curiosity. Almost.

... huh?

But the moment he laid eyes on the two items tucked behind the large clay bowls, he forgot about his body odor entirely. He quickly sat down and seized the documents as if he were a starving man who'd just chanced upon a loaf of bread.

The first was a large bloodied scroll sealed with a professional-looking wax stamp. The seal had yet to be broken, and although it was damaged, clearly showed the imprint of the Travelling Merchant's Guild in the dark red wax. The outside of the document had the words 'Information requested by: The Young Noble. It was a pleasure doing business with you' inscribed on it. This was the report The Guide had purchased from The Travelling Merchant so many weeks ago... it should contain information about the 'Vulture-Headed Mage'. The Travelling Merchant knew The Guide wanted to kill The Mage, so hopefully he also included tactical information and the like...

Blood on the pages... The Slayer found him.

But clearly, The Travelling Merchant hadn't known The Guide wanted him dead as well. Had The Guide been a lesser man, he might have forgotten he had instructed The Terrarian to kill The Travelling Merchant on sight. Of course, he hadn't... but neither did he dwell upon it. He didn't like to think of himself as a murderer, but after the harrowing experiences he'd endured in his battle against The Resistance detachment, he found himself far less sensitive to this sort of thing. After all, he himself had been tortured. The scars on his hands had yet to heal, and his last two fingers were still paralyzed in place. He had been threatened with death over and over. For about a week, it loomed like a specter over him. He had even seen hell with his own eyes!

So being complicit in a murder was certainly distasteful, but it no longer caused his guts to do somersaults in his belly.

He could tolerate it... after all, if he wanted his revenge against The Vulture-Headed Mage, he couldn't be squeamish about these things. The Guide sighed as he held the bound scroll in his hands. It was weighty, built of heavy canvas parchment and was about as long as his arm, but twice as thick. He could see bits of maps and diagrams poking out from within the scroll. The Guide knew that the moment he opened this scroll, he'd head directly to wherever The Travelling Merchant directed him. The moment would be the beginning of his campaign for revenge.

Tch.

The issue was... did he even want it?

After suffering the way he did... did he really want revenge? Did he really need to struggle and risk life and limb to kill the one who had killed his family? They didn't care. They were far too busy suffering hell to hate the one who had slain them. Now that The Guide thought carefully about it - The Wall was a far more pressing issue than some pithy revenge. Now that he had learned the truth behind his 'blessing' - he knew he was in a race against time. If he didn't get around to killing The Wall, then when he died, he'd inevitably become part of it. The Wall contained the souls of everyone he knew, the souls of every unfortunate who was killed in The Crimson lands, and if he had children - the 'blessing' of his lineage would likewise doom them to the same fate. For his own sake, and the sake of (almost) everyone he cared about, he needed to fight The Crimson. He needed to kill The Wall... The Vulture Headed Mage could wait...

Right... priorities...

And so, with a great deal of effort, The Guide refrained from breaking the wax seal and placed the scroll aside - instead turning his attention to the other article hidden amongst the mountains of fruit. He reached out and pulled the large object out from beneath a pile of fallen apples. He stuck one into his mouth then dropped it in shock as the large book came free.

*thonk*

"Ah, shit! Where did he get this?!"

The Guide recognized it immediately and blurted out his thoughts, before quickly clapping a hand over his mouth. He furrowed his brow and reached out to examine the heavy, leather bound volume. The cover was worn and familiar. The pages were frayed at the edges - just like he remembered it. The Journal was a comically large patchwork of torn documents, handwritten notes, drawings and excerpts all messily stapled and glued together. Its previously pristine pages were now stained with sour bile and stinking blood, but it's contents were still very legible...

Not that The Guide needed to read it, of course.

He knew all the contents. Every dot, every tiddle, every symbol and every encryption.

Because he had penned every word of that journal.

Of course, someone like him didn't need to keep a written record. His photographic memory was far more accurate than anything he could put to paper; still he wrote in it religiously. He found the exercise therapeutic and wrote in it every day for fifteen years. As a result, the Journal had grown alongside him, a record of his entire life. It grew out if its bindings the same way he grew out of old clothes. The tome had been rebound and re-papered countless times, and had ended up looking quite ugly, but regardless remained very precious to him. He always knew where it was - and he was very certain he had left it in the library the fateful day The Lunatic Cultist had murdered everyone in his hometown.

Why is it here? How did The Slayer know it's mine?

As happy as he was to be reunited with this precious possession, the fact that The Terrarian had found it was... a bit worrying.

Of course, perhaps The Terrarian recognized his handwriting (The Guide knew he couldn't read, and even if he could - he didn't know the code The Guide used to encrypt his entries) and was simply returning what belonged to The Guide? Perhaps he had tracked it by scent like a dog? Did he think anything of it? The Guide certainly hoped not. Last night had proven The Terrarian was soundly on his side. This was quite an accomplishment in of itself, as now (as distasteful as it was to say, especially of his own adopted 'son') The Guide had authority to command a monstrously powerful warrior. They had a good working relationship going, and the last thing The Guide needed was for The Terrarian to connect the dots that associated his own birth with deaths of everyone The Guide knew and loved. What would he think if he found that The Guide was sending him to murder his own creator? Would he blame himself for the catastrophe? Would he imagine The Guide hated him also? He'd certainly be filled with a sense of insecurity... perhaps even seeing this as a betrayal?

The Guide sighed and pinched his brow. He had already disclosed why he wanted revenge against the Vulture-Headed mage. He had told The Terrarian in great detail of the gruesome deaths of his family at the hands of the wicked magician. Whether the almost-man retained that information or not, The Guide didn't know... but if The Terrarian discovered he was the result of the deaths of those he was tasked to avenge... well, the result wouldn't be pretty. For once, The Guide was rather glad The Terrarian wasn't an exceedingly thoughtful person - lest he discover these uncomfortable facts and immediately and confront The Guide with them. Frankly, The Guide was unsure what he would say in response...

But I don't think he knows.

Perhaps The Terrarian hadn't seen the magic circle? It was probably covered in flesh by the time he appeared there. Maybe he was in shock so he didn't find it strange that he'd appeared in the center of a derelict village after 'recalling'. Did he know the village was 'The Guide's village'? He... probably did - because he had found the journal there... but perhaps he thought nothing of it! Probably. Hopefully.

He's not very sharp anyways. It's fine.

Well, The Guide told himself, if The Terrarian had any serious reservations he would have raised them already. He hadn't - so The Guide wasn't going to go out of his way to disclosing this bit of information to his companion. It wasn't beneficial knowledge. It was completely inconsequential news. Although it might not be the right thing to do, it was the convenient to keep this a secret. Revealing it would cause more harm than good, and The Guide was eager to retain all the 'good' he could get. He didn't feel particularly good about lying to his companion - but telling the truth would be far too painful for both of them.

...sorry buddy. Its best if you don't know.

The Guide sighed as he flipped open the journal to an empty page. There was a fountain pen squashed between the sheets that still had some ink in it. It was a little crusty, but wrote well enough. As if by instinct, he found the place where he had left off so many weeks ago, and began to write - recording all the things he had witnessed. All the things he had done. As if in a confession booth, he spilled everything in his mind onto the paper until his thoughts ran empty, the ink ran dry, and the sun sank low over the horizon.

ATTN: ALL UNITS concerning MISSING CC UNIT #5534

An Internal report drafted concerning missing individual #5534

AGENT has been granted permission to investigate SouthEastern Border (CRIMSON BORDER) for activity concerning THE LUNATIC CULTIST's defection and other phenomenon in the area. No communication exchanged since DISPATCH. Per recently updated Imperial policy, and the number of court officials who have turned against The Empire - All agents must contact Central at minimum every three days. Agent is KIA/DEFECTED.

UPDATE:

Per Order of the King, All Persons Classified as DEFECTED are to be killed on sight. Policy Dictates AGENT #5543's corpse must be collected and disposed of by Central should they be found. Image of AGENT #5534 Attached for reference.

All units be on alert.

The wind howled as it hurtled between the jagged mountain passes, rumbling and screeching down the icy slopes and kicking up the fresh-fallen snow that had settled over the rocky landscape. The cold was oppressive, an aggressive clawing bite that sought to sink its needle claws into any bit of flesh it could find. The glass paneled windows did little to defend against the chill, and The Lunatic Cultist had - rather ashamedly - found himself lacking a place to warm himself - as the castle wing assigned to him was both well lit and drafty. Naturally, he had asked for this. He needed abundant sunlight and ventilation for his spellcrafting and potion brewing (the noxious fumes from potions had oftentimes proven fatal to brewers), but cold nights like this made The Cultist grumpy and wishing he hadn't ever left The Dungeon.

Tch... to imagine the bulk of my followers are faring better than I.

The Cultist was too ashamed to stay the night in the common barracks, nor did he wish to knock on doors and ask for room and board like a beggar. He could have used a heating spell to keep his quarters warm, but that would undoubtedly interfere with his current magical projects. Had he not invited himself into The Hero's quarters, he might have very well found himself stranded in the castle's hallways.

You're useful for something... at least.

The Magical Library, repurposed to house The Hero and aid him in his studies, was a large room with no windows and a single door. A tremendous fire blazed in the large furnace - casting flickering orange light across the many messy piles of books. The place appeared much more disorganized than when The Cultist had last been here. He supposed that was to be expected. After being killed... goodness knows how many times, The Hero was understandably unnerved. He had shakily confessed to be seeing worms in the corners of his vision. He had complained of the shadows following him. He had even mentioned seeing his own reflection mocking him in the mirror.

...

And The Cultist, although he pretended to show some level of impatient sympathy, really didn't care. He had only summoned The Hero in exchange for The Resistance's help in reviving The Moon Lord. Now that The Hero had rebelled and dealt a serious blow to The Cultist's standing among The Resistance, The Cultist had even less sympathy for him. In fact, he had half a mind to simply go and sacrifice another village (exactly 200 souls), make a new Terrarian, and hope this one would be more compliant than The Hero.

The spell takes an enormous amount of resources... haah... but perhaps it's worth it after all...

And The Hero must have sensed this - because when The Cultist marched into the library, he made no effort to acknowledge him. The almost-man was curled up in a large armchair by the fire - dressed in his full armour and wrapped roundabout with what appeared to be curtains pilfered from another part of the castle. He peeked out from within the drapes that wrapped about him like a cocoon and the cross shaped visor to read the 'Almanac of Magical Seashells and How to Identify them'. On the floor beside him was 'Almanac of Wiseman's sayings and quips'. Beneath that was 'Akagseth's Codex on Mathematicks and the Geometry of Summoning Circles'. Still another - this one had been thrown at a wall - 'A Comprehensive Guide on Worms, Leeches and other Invertebrate.'

Alphabetical order... he's reading them in alphabetical order. Tch.

The Cultist shook his head and sighed to himself. This one was a lost cause. How pathetic. He hadn't imagined a Terrarian to be so mentally fragile. Indeed, to suddenly see hallucinations? To develop obsessive behavior? He was no better than a mere man. The Hero was damaged goods. Broken upon delivery, and useless to his purchasers. The Cultist would ask Braelor to kill him once more, and allow him to languish in The Crimson until kingdom come. He seemed to be seeing worms everywhere anyways. It would probably make no difference to him.

*knock-knock*

The Cultist startled and turned towards the door - only to see a sealed envelope slide into the room via the ornate mail-slot embedded in the mahogany. Strange. Who was delivering mail at this hour? His feet sank into the plush carpet as he walked over and picked the envelope up from the ground. It had been addressed to him. The Seal was Braelor's.

Oh Lords, what now...

Rather demurred, The Lunatic Cultist took a seat one one of the countless armchairs and conjured a light by which to read Braelor's letter. The Hero had lifted his eyes from his book to stare at him - slit pupils burning like coals in the firelight. Perhaps he knew his life hung in the balance? Perhaps he was just seeing worms again? The Cultist didn't care either way. He broke off the seal and squinted through his porcelain bird mask to decipher the scrawled handwriting.

...

...

"Ah-"

He smirked and, with the snap of his fingers, teleported the letter across the room into The Hero's lap. He let his voice curdle into something approaching cruelty as watched The Damaged Goods read his own death sentence.

"Well, Hero... It's technically not impossible. But regardless, I recommend you put your affairs in order. Prepare the best you can. You leave in three days."

Guide: ... Hm, The Slayer isn't smart enough to work this out. I'm glad he's dumb.

Slayer: :,-)

Soooo uhhh. :0 sorry for some spelling in advance. Did this on my phone again so hehe. Also The Slayer learned how to duplicate animals lmao. Join discord we have so much art. Of you're interested in the chars appearence's Join in.