Long one, oml.

So it looks like I'm down to 1 chapter a week, but length is longer so hopefully maeks up for it a little. I've been getting busier with work and holidays recently. sorry. Also Goblin Army and Politics with Guide and Resistance. Slayer is kinda terrible ngl. (sorry bby)

Armour: Victide Armour (Ranger)

Weapon: Tendon 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)

As a species, goblins had a particularly keen sense of hearing. As sight was to man, so were ears to a goblin. From time immemorial, they have nested in holes, caves and caverns; it wasn't uncommon for members of a tribe to identify each other soley by footsteps or the rhythm of heartbeats. Although they did have eyes, they could see only dimly (hence his heavy spectacles) and preferred to get around via echolocation.

*Rumble... crack...*

So it was no surprise that The Tinkerer could clearly envision everything going on outside of his little tree hollow. He had stowed into his newfound hiding place shortly after 'tripping over himself', 'needing to re-lace his boots' and assuring his companions to 'go on ahead, I'll catch up shortly'. Although the Sky Tree was quite large and beautiful, by no means did The Tinkerer intend to live here. His brilliant mind would not be confined to hermitism. Somehow, he was going to join the other intellectuals of this age. By his brilliance alone, the scholars of The Capitol's library would welcome him... At least, that was what happened in his lofty daydreams.

*snick...snick...shick*

But now was no time for daydreams. He wasn't far from the scene of battle, perhaps half a mile at most. Noises travelled through the air. Noises travelled through the ground. The roots of the tree trembled with the pounding of footsteps; the wind reverberated with the noises of battle. Cries of fury floated over the treetops, merging with the rattle of blades and the twang of taut bowstrings. Explosions of shadowflame magic burst with tremendous violence, uprooting trees and throwing sod high in the air. He could hear the distinctive noise of spiky-ball traps bouncing across the terrain. This was the normal melody of The Goblin Army. When goblins went to war - this was their song.

The Tinkerer hated war and savagery in all its forms, but had lived long enough to learn the rhythms of all sorts of war. Imperial troops sounded like clockwork. They marched in lockstep, their shields and spears clattering against each other as they advanced. Dwarven armies sounded more chaotic. The tone of shortbows made of horn, of warhammers cleaving through helms, of cannons splitting the night, and explosions in the depths. The Resistance? Straight blades, rattling greaves, chain mail and magic.

But...

But what's this?!

What manner of enemy had The Goblin Army come upon?! It was like nothing The Tinkerer had ever encountered. He frowned, shut his eyes and pressed a pointed ear against the smooth interior of The Sky tree, carefully attempting to discern who was attacking his people. Was... was that just a single set of footsteps? They weren't hasty footsteps, not labored but not light either. They resounded through the earth strangely, as if the enemy were languidly treading above The Tinkerer's head (he knew this wasn't the case). There was a melodic thrum as arrows flew from an odd bowstring; they split the air with an ethereal whistling. Every few seconds, there was the cold snick of steel through cartilage, followed by a gurgling death rattle. This wasn't the sound of war.

It was the noise of cold, easy slaughter. A well practiced dance of death.

*snick...shlick...snick...*

Was it a man? Was it a monster? What single person could fight a hundred goblin soldiers in such a lethargic manner!? Braelor? The Hero? Yharim?! Whatever it was, it was demolishing them. He had only slipped away from the army twenty minutes ago but already about half of the goblin troops had been slain, their lifeblood spurting out in gasps as they clutched at their gaping throats. And the monster...knight wasn't slowing down at all! If it was injured, The Tinkerer couldn't tell. Its footsteps were still languid. Its arrows flew with the same melodic hum. The cold steel continued to cut down those who fell afore it.

*snick... snick... snick...*

The Tinkerer often liked to say he hated his people. He liked to consider himself better than his peers, and oftentimes looked down on them for their savagery and dull mindedness. But to hear them wailing? To hear them gasping? To hear them dying?! Could he really just stand by and do nothing?

I need to go...

He was no fighter, this he knew. Surely The Monster Knight would cut him down just like his peers - but strapped heavy to his back was a considerable stash of rocket boots. They were of his own invention, and considering that The Monster Knight seemed to be bound to the earth, would surely help some of the Warriors take down the enemy. With his sharp teeth gritted with determination, the Goblin Tinkerer began crawling out of the Hollow he had taken shelter in - his sharp nails struggling to cling to The Sky Tree's sheer interiors. The rocket boots were incredibly heavy on his back, and his bookish lifestyle had done nothing to help his physique over the years. Still, he persisted, wrapping himself about with those heavy ropes and continuing his single minded crawl.

*boom*

*schick*

(wails)

He froze as the terrible noises seemed to echo, louder and louder against the smooth wood of the hollow. The noise grated on him and melted his heart like wax. Should... should he go after all? He hesitate and once again attempted to count the number of his fellows that remained. The volume of footsteps indicated twenty, perhaps thirty. When he arrived, would there be anyone to give these boots to? At that point, wouldn't it be hopeless? Indeed, if The Monster Knight was anything like The Hero or Braelor, they were as good as dead the moment they stepped into this battlefield.

*snick...snick...snick...*

Twenty, Nineteen, Eighteen... The Tinkerer slowly let himself drag downwards, his nails leaving ugly grooves in the Sky Tree's pristine wood. 'This was never a fight' he reminded himself. This was merely a slaughter... and he... he was far above his b-brethren in every way...

*snick... snick... snick...*

(gurgling)

He closed his eyes as the sounds of death rang around him. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen... The Goblin Army was being cut down, like a man cut wheat. The Monster Knight continued its drowsy walk. The noise of arrows had long ceased. Now was just the noise of begging, wailing and throats being slit.

*snick... snick... snick... *

And The Tinkerer clung, frozen to the wall until the wails became silence.

Until the only sounds he heard was that of tears splattering on the jagged rocks beneath.

The Monster Knight was amazing.

Amazing in a terrifying, horrible sort of way. She was far too scared to raise her head too far out from behind the sofa, but what little she did see was so gruesome it was nearly comical.

There was a large window in the living room. Large, delicate, clear as crystal and utterly transparent... well, was transparent. Now it looked like somebody had splattered Bolognese sauce all over it. Past that messy red curtain was The Monster Knight and a hundred Goblins. She didn't watch too much (although her curiosity would oftentimes get the best of her and she'd turn to peek whenever a particularly loud screech split the air) but what she did see proved to her a hundred times over just what sort of monster The Monster Knight was.

He was a powerful one.

Ruthless as anything. A brutal cold-eyed killer who didn't trifle about, but clearly wasn't struggling against this army of feral goblins. His strange, choreographed movements were sharp, yet flowed like water. He danced slowly about the battlefield, languidly slicing limbs and throats and drawing that bloody bow to fill the air with starlight bolts. He wasn't masterfully dodging every strike that sailed his way, but everything that hit him seemed to phase straight through - and although, at times, evidence of wounds leaked out from beneath armoured plates, his gait and movements weren't effected in the least.

"..."

But even more incredible was the sour faced man who stood in the window and glared at him. He wasn't a particularly tall person, neither did his demeanor exhibit authority - but the way he had cowed The Monster Knight not ten minutes ago assured The Stylist that he was certainly not to be trifled with. The Monster Knight was just that! A Monster! what sort of person must The Guide be if he could berate the entity currently soloing an army outside as if he were a toddler.

Was The Guide also a Monster? He didn't look like one.

He looked entirely human. His habits were likewise very typical of a person. His frame was narrow, but he wasn't scrawny. Was he a farm-boy? The intelligent glimmer in his eyes said otherwise. In any case, The Stylist was locked in the same room as this person, and she'd been given two 'requests' concerning him. First, The Dryad had asked her to bear his children - something she had no intention of doing at all. (How preposterous). In fact, she was even more opposed to the idea now, than she would be had The Dryad not mentioned something so...so... She shook her head and made a face before pressing her palms over her ears just as another guttural death rattle rang out over The Compound.

... The Monster Knight's request...

The second request was probably a threat. Everything about The Monster Knight seemed to be a threat. He had silently, and somewhat awkwardly communicated that he wished for her to somehow convince The Guide that he had not - in fact - committed murder that one rainy night. He was cashing in on sparing her life, and - she flinched as something heavy smacked into the window with a wet thud - she was almost certain he would 'un-spare' her should she fail in this task.

But The Guide already knows the truth... It's doubtful that my claim will mean anything to him.

There were fewer goblins now, and from the look on The Guide's face, he was he itching to get back outside and continue yelling. She had watched most of their argument, recognizing that The Guide hadn't really been angry until The Monster Knight attempted to lie to him. He seemed to be of relatively gentle demeanor otherwise. He had treated her with a distant respect when he ran to her house and barricaded the door from the invading army... but if she tried to lie to him, and he caught her, then where would she be? Clearly he held authority over this place, and The Guide looked quite ready to attack somebody as-is. If she angered him, would he throw her out? Or perhaps ask The Monster Knight to dispose of her? Or maybe... ugh.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't...

Her time was running out.

The ground was covered in corpses, they were piling up against the side of the building. Some still twitched and groaned. Some looked in with dim eyes and pathetically clawed at the window. The Stylist gritted her teeth and shuddered. Horrible, horrible. These men were monsters, devils. Murdering, slaying, killing barbarians - the lot of them. And if she didn't want to find herself atop that pile, she needed to act shrewdly.

After a moment of panicked deliberation, The Stylist wrung her hands and stood to her feet. She did her best not to look at the bloody mess outside and fixed her eyes on the grumbling man glaring out the window. He looked closed off, even hostile... but The Monster Knight had just ripped a goblin in half and sprayed the lawn in its entrails. She would much rather confront The Guide than he.

She raised her voice over the din.

"Are you angry because he killed a man?"

The Guide blinked in surprise and turned to look at her. He had clearly not expected to hold any sort of conversation with her. Perhaps he had even forgotten she was here.

"Pardon?"

The Stylist sighed and glanced nervously out the window.

"Are you angry that he killed, or are you angry that he lied to you."

The Guide looked mildly offended and furrowed his brow. He responded in a dismissive, annoyed manner.

"Of course I'm angry that he killed! What do you think?!"

There was another long silence as the last few goblins tried to flee. The Monster Knight hunted them like a cat hunted cockroaches. Neither of them could see his face from behind that heavy slatted visor, but his excited movements indicated he found his current task rather enjoyable.

The Guide cleared his throat and glanced away from her to eye the door. The blazing fireplace backlit his face, highlighting the whites of his eyes in a truly eerie manner. Soon enough, all the goblins would be gone and The Guide would be heading out to doom her. Prompted by desperation, she loosened her tongue - voice coming out louder than she had intended.

"I'm... glad to hear that. I have a brother, you know. A little brother. He disappeared weeks ago and I was on an expedition to search for him. He's out there, waiting for me somewhere... I need to stay alive. Tell me, Guide, do you consider my life less valuable than That Old Man's?"

The Guide whirled to look at her. His eyes were narrowed. Even angry, he considered her words carefully and frowned.

"What are you trying to say, lady?"

She continued as evenly as possible, but her voice quickly became breathless as she grew excited.

"I'm saying, that if you don't believe that lie, then my blood is on your hands!"

The Guide's careful face scrunched up and his eyes blazed ever more fiercely. She could tell he immediately had an idea of what she was implying, but his judgement was also tainted with anger. He read her demeanor, and from there seemed to read the thoughts directly out of her mind - but despite knowing everything, he still seemed to be debating whether to further engage her in conversation, or to shut her off and indulge in his rage.

Eventually he spoke again. His curiosity won out. His voice was low.

"The Slayer threatened you?!"

A long silence, then she nodded gravely. Fixing him with the most assertive glare she could manage, she spat out her piece, and much to her horror - it sounded more like an accusation than anything.

"Yes. Yes he did. I bought my life with a lie... if I promised to testify that The Old Man left on his own, I'll be allowed to live. If I don't - then." She drew a line across her throat.

"If you don't want me dead - then believe the lie."

The fireplace crackled. The Guide's face twisted into something furious. He didn't seem furious at her, thankfully - but it was nevertheless terrifying. He turned from her and marched towards the door with determination in his gait. Quickly, she ran up behind him and seized his arm before he could reach the doorknob. He barked at her. She hissed at him.

"What are you doing!?"

"What are you doing?! Are you going to go yell at him? What help is that going to be? You can't do anything when he threatens people. You sure weren't any help to that Old Man last night! If you go out there, I'm going to die!"

The Guide pressed his lips together in a thin, hard line as he observed her. She continued - her words starting loud in her ears before tapering to an almost whisper. She tried her best to keep her voice from shaking, but her throat rattled in trepidation.

"Please! Don't you have any compassion!? My life can be saved if you just drop the topic. Last night, that Old Man left in the middle of the night on his own. Okay?"

She nodded out the window, where The Monster Knight had just finished. He was busily collecting all the bodies to dispose of. Although he moved in a very alien manner, there was also an evident spring in his step. The Guide followed her gaze, staying silent as she pleaded with him.

"Because... if you decide to go out there yelling and nagging, then tomorrow night, once everyone goes to sleep - I will also be leaving on my own. I'll traverse the woods until I find where The Old Man is laying, and I'll throw myself down beside him to rot... don't you think so? I've only been awake for a day - and I've already seen more blood here than anywhere else."

"..."

"I've seen him kill so much, and surely you've seen him kill even more! In the spider caves he killed, and when I arrived, he killed, and last night he killed, and now he's killing again. It's not unbelieveable that he will kill me if he says he will - right? Please, Guide, have some pity for my life!"

They were losing.

He could feel it.

It was that itching sense of despair gnawing in his bones. That cold feeling of dread that loomed, transparent, over his empty throne room. Would he once again face defeat? Must he once more bury those he had sent to battle? Would he once again face the shuddered stares of widowed wives, orphans and now-childless parents? Braelor clutched the hilt of his scythe and glowered at his empty hall.

I can't lose again...

Fifty years ago, he 'couldn't lose' because his pride would not allow it. He was young. He was brash. He wanted to win because he wanted to win. Of course, it was for a good purpose. Yharim was a tyrant of the most miserable sort. An unhinged, angry killer - but although he was irredeemably vicious, he was also a blisteringly intelligent battlefield strategist. Slowly, surely, he wore them down. The Resistance was beaten to pieces by one ruthless campaign after the other until he and his surviving troops fled to the mountains to lick their wounds.

I need a Terrarian...

And today, he 'couldn't lose' because of the faith put into him by the thousands of men and women who had come at his call. Yet even so, things were no different. If he gathered all of his allies from across the face of the continent and went to war against The Tyrant - they would most assuredly lose, just as before. Their only hope was a Terrarian - an unkillable, unbeatable soldier. If they had him, they had hope. He was Their Hero. His very nature was an assurance of victory: An immortal fighter with unlimited potential? Not even The Tyrant could stand before a monster like that.

And Yharim knew it.

Which is why as soon as the news reached his ears, he lashed out with all the instruments of war at his disposal. Even The Witch of Massacre had been deployed to demolish The Dwarven Sacred Mountain... but they bore the persecution with a triumphant sort of determination... The Hero was on their side. Their victory was all but assured.

Except that The Hero wasn't on their side.

He had chosen the path of pride of foolishness - and Braelor was now suffering the consequences of putting his faith in that whelp. Had he been hard on The Boy? Certainly. The lives of hundreds of thousands of people rested on his shoulders. There was no time for games, petty arguments nor negotiations. The Hero was the one who would finally strike down The Tyrant... but he had rebelled.

The irony wasn't lost on him. To be punished for rebelling against The Rebellion? It was almost hypocritical... but Braelor understood what The Hero desired. He was young. Everything he saw was new, fresh and wonderful. He didn't want to sit around and follow orders. He wanted to explore; he wanted to play - and The Resistance Commander could not fault The Hero for these desires. Despite his harsh treatment of him, he had little ill will towards the boy.

... (*rumble*)

But the fact remained that The Hero was brought into this world to do a job. He had been summoned for one purpose, and that purpose was to serve The Resistance. Two hundred lives were sacrificed for his sake, and every day men died in battle with their hope fixed on him. It was a difficult life Braelor had summoned The Hero into... but it was nevertheless a life he had given the commanded to create. If not for Braelor, The Hero would not exist. As his 'creator' Braelor had a native right to command The Hero.

... ah, what a pity.

Braelor shut his eyes and sighed. They needed A Terrarian... they needed one quickly. The news of The Hero's rebellion has spread like wildfire amongst the coalition, and the news had turned into a great deal of accusatory chatter directed at him. Old bonds, forged in mutual hatred of The Tyrant were being shaken. Already, a large section of The Goblin troops had gone missing - perhaps deserted now that their victory was no longer sure. Braelor also suspected other defections among the dwarf officers - as The Supply Chains have been sluggish as of late.

I must keep us all together until the new Terrarian is summoned...

They had handled The Hero Badly. After showing the beginnings of rebellion, Braelor had killed him with the intention of teaching him a lesson - but (According to the Lunatic Cultist) instead of suffering just one death, he had suffered a thousand. This had driven him to the brink of insanity, and he'd become quite mentally damaged by the trauma. Braelor did feel bad about it - but the last thing he wanted was an angry Terrarian fighting against The Resistance. Having The Hero as an enemy would be devastating... and so, while he was still weak, Braelor had sent him on an impossible mission - to hopefully destroy his spirit for good.

Hopefully, The Lunatic Cultist was nearly finished with his summoning preparations. Summoning a Terrarian was supposedly a long and arduous process with a low chance of success. It took many, many tries to create The Hero... Many villages had been consumed by failed summonings, but it was a price Braelor was willing to pay. Intel had already pinpointed a handful of small village to use for the sacrifice, but even after an unlikely success - it would still take time for this 'new' Hero to be battle ready.

And that was time Braelor didn't have. With every passing minute, their front lines were splintering beneath The Empire's overwhelming force. The Resistance was losing men by the hundreds... and all because he had been hasty. He should have taken a page from The Tyrant's book and asked The Cultist to put a curse on The Hero that forced him to obey orders. He should not have given The Hero so much freedom... I will take every precaution with the next Terra-

*Rumble*

Braelor blinked as a tremendous noise shook the earth beneath his feet. The high ceiling creaked and groaned; the floor's smooth cobbled stone undulated like a wave. What was that?! An attack?! Had their location been uncovered? The Cultist's cloaking magic should have kept The Imperial magicians from discovering this place, but it was possible somebody had found them through other means. Moving quickly, Braelor seized his scythe and rushed down the long hall. His footsteps were heavy and sharp against the marble floor as he pounded down from the throne room and burst through the high doors of the main hall. Many pairs of eyes gazed upon him in shock as he barrel through the milling crowd and past the guards at the front gate. He pushed open the heavy steel studded doors to stand outside his castle, his weapon raised for battle.

*Rumble*

Oh...

*creakk*

The sun was bright. The sky was blue. The familiar mountain peaks were sharp and pointed... and the eagles circled the icy spires that reached for the heavens. Someone had found them. It was the last person Braelor had expected to see.

How can this be?! This should be impossible!

The Hero was not supposed to succeed in his task! It was, by all means, a suicide mission. He had been set up to fail. If The Corruption didn't kill The Hero, then surely that cursed prison would! All of his advisors had assured him of this!

...So why was a tremendous icy castle coming to rest outside of The Resistance stronghold?! It was a massive thing, nearly blotting out the sun with its bulk. Had it not been made completely of clear ice, it would have cast The Mountain fortress in its shadow. Instead, it split the sunlight through prisms, casting beautiful patterns across the mountains and the gray stones. Its intricate beauty was eye-watering, and it emitted a clear cyan light from deep within. There was the groaning of ice as the massive structure ground to a halt.

The Archmage...

Braelor lowered his scythe and stared up, his mouth, a thin line inside his ornate helm. A cold magical wind burst out, leaving a layer of ice coating the front of his armour. Braelor knew that castle. He knew to whom it belonged... and felt a chill in his bones.

*thud*

An crystalline drawbridge fell open with a loud bang. It hit the ground with a noise reminiscent of ice cubes clinking together. The silhouette of a regal old man appeared, his voice was predictably displeased. The ice caps rumbled as he descended the drawbridge. He seemed to care little of the small audience of Resistance members that had come to greet him - and glared as he verbally lashed at The Resistance Commander.

"Titan Braelor. I see you're still up to your old tricks again, you little whippersnapper! Has honor died?! This new generation is truly pathetic."

"Greetings, Archmage."

The old man scoffed and glared at him, his sweeping eyebrows and impressive moustache twisting to convey his disgust. The growing crowd twittered. Braelor gripped his scythe and fought to keep his composure. The Hero was not supposed to succeed. None of this was supposed to happen.

"Greetings? Ah, but it seems you didn't want to have to greet me at all! Isn't that why you sent that poor whelp to free me? The brat was half dead by the time he opened my prison! You're a cruel man, Braelor - extending false hope like that. No better than Yharim himself, I'd say!"

The Titan commander clenched his teeth as he bore the insult. At one time, The Archmage had been a powerful ally of theirs. However, when The Resistance's methods became more... unconventional, The Archmage became more of a roadblock than an asset. When Yharim sealed him away, The Resistance found themselves free to operate by a more brutal morality.

And it seemed The Archmage knew this. He stood afore Braelor with his eyes blazing in a cold fury. Obviously he was upset with what The Resistance had done, but The Archmage was an idealist. His methods were entirely unrealistic. One could not beat a wicked enemy with virtue. Goodness and honor would not bring down The Tyrant.

And so, Braelor holstered his scythe and sighed. He looked down to coolly meet The Archmage's gaze. Behind him, the small crowd of Resistance members pointed and gaped, rather excited with the arrival of someone they considered a powerful ally... and as much as Braelor hated to admit it, these days, he needed all the allies he could get. He would bear any of The Archmage's stinging insults in order to secure his help. After all, despite his anger, he had come to The Resistance stronghold. He was here to help one way or the other. If The Archmage wished to butt heads with Braelor, so be it. He was no longer doing this for his own pride. It was all about optics. It was one thing for a month old Terrarian to argue with him. It was another for a thousand year old sorcerer to.

He composed himself.

"You look well, Archmage... and The Hero?"

A long moment of silence.

The air went tense and strange as The Archmage's voice turned from nagging into something far more serious. His face grew solemn and wrathful as he spat the word.

"He's Dead, Braelor. Just like you wanted."

Braelor blinked.

Dead?

Really? Had he died of his injuries after defeating Cryogen?! How did The Archmage know they had set The Hero up for failure? Was it an empty accusation or had The Cultist had made the mistake of letting The Hero keep that letter, despite, instructions to keep it out of public hands? In any case, The Resistance Commander knew he had erred. He had underestimated The Hero... and now, he needed to deal with the concequences.

There was another long, tense silence. It was as if every ear was slowly processing what had just been said. Everyone had heard it, everyone was confused. Finally, a small voice cried brokenheartedly from the crowd of Resistance fighters.

"...what? Our Hero's dead?"

...

...

The Archmage glared at him. He produced The Hero's bloodied helm and tossed it to in full view of the rapidly growing crowd. It clanked on the rough hewn stones until it rolled to a stop at Braelor's feet. Everyone stared at it.

A wail rose from the throng.

Anger, despair, betrayal. Questions and accusation. Shouting, yelling, weeping, crying. The Resistance mourned... for Their Hero was dead. Their hope and their victory had been snatched from their grasps... and who had done this? Yharim? No, not an enemy - but a friend. Not a friend, but the man they had put their faith in. Braelor. Their Commander. Their leader...

He had betrayed them.

And he knew his days as 'The Commander' were numbered.

Slayer: We should try things my way.

Guide: Your way involves killing everyone

S: Yes, we should try.

G:...

Rip Braelor lmao. I wonder what GUide is gonna do *wags eyebrows* Anyways goblin army done, wanna head to crimson soonish. see what happen :) love and kisses to all and happy holiday. Hope you ahd a great thanksgiving, and looking forward to christmas & new year.