It's friday. I made it within the week.
Thank you for all the reviewers once more. I have a bad habit of drawing things out really slowly, and I only hope that the buildup is worth it at the end. Me and Co-Author spend a lot of time hashing out future plot, and we take certain care in different hints we drop along the way.
Once more thanks for reading. I love you
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: Molten Armour
Weapon: Molten Bow (Ichor Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(11/12): Charm of Myths, Ankh Shield, Terraspark Boots, Luxor's Gift, Deific Amulet, Counter Scarf, Crown Jewel, MOAB, Harpy Ring, Aero Stone, Skyline Wings, Warrior Emblem
Health: (400/400)
Attack, defend, spar and poke and prod. Dodge bursts of flames, of blood red beams, swipes of the sword, strikes from rotting stony fists. I'm dragging this battle long, dancing in the air and returning halfhearted strikes to murderous ones. I've fallen into the trance of battle. The only thing in my mind are these three flailing figures, each more wretched than the last. My eyes burn. My heart aches... and my blade snips away.
The re-animated corpses chase after me, hurtling through the air with a wild frenzy. I can feel the blasts of sharp air when the massive blade swipes inches from my nose. I can feel the great pressure of those massive fists trying to crush me. Yet even concerning these, my mind runs amuck. Necromantic golems - perhaps not mindless, but certainly unnatural. An aberration in this world, and an aberration here to kill me. I have no business pitying any of these disgusting wretches!
I've gone mad indeed.
For when I slice off The Swordbearing golem's arm off with the flick of magic - it doesn't recoil in pain. It redoubles its efforts, shielding it's brother and-... his brother?
I frown deeply and fight to shake the thoughts from my mind. Why would I assume these things were siblings? From whence did the thought come from? The distraction is enough that the 'brother' manages to slam a fist into my temple and I'm knocked out of the air, my helmet shattered and my vision flickering. From high above, I meet The Clone's burning red eyes, they burn into me and I... hear her voice.
Two Brothers. Their sister. A small, wretched family who fight and suffer and serve their masters - if only to protect one other from greater pain. Die... please die that we may rest once more...if only for a little.
Telepathy.
I cannot help but utter a choked, painful laugh. There is nothing funny about the situation, but the irony is so blatant, I cannot help but appreciate it.
How miserable. She - this wretched clone - is a weapon.
She is a weapon, the same way I was a weapon. She is disposable, allowed to live so long as she remains useful. Sent to kill and kill and kill, and then locked up when she is not needed. Who is her master? Is he as cruel as Braelor was? Where did she stay? Was it a dark prison like mine? When she outlives her usefulness, perhaps they will cast her naked into The Dungeon to be torn apart by spirits. Perhaps they will simply execute her in front of an audience as I was...
*slash-slash*
I'm still falling - but The Brothers charge at me, streaking down from the clouds like dual meteors intent on destroying the threat I pose to them. I meet them in battle with a great noise, lightning striking against blood magic. Magic dyed scarlet.
The clash leaves them in pieces. They go into freefall - their spirits released from the bindings of necromancy and their makeshift bodies scattering as they rain upon the ravaged town beneath. My left arm was broken in the exchange, but mends itself by the time I slow my descent and turn my face upwards to my adversary. The Clone screams. Her intentions shout in my mind.
Die! Die! No... my brothers... no!
I'm going mad.
A half hysterical scoff plasters across my face. I think I might cry.
This clone... she's like me.
Her fate is mine.
Will I face myself in battle?
Will I cut myself down?
No... how can I? Now that I feel her pain so poignantly. How can I shed tears for myself if I will not lift a finger to save her? My magical power is vast, and I've been almost exclusively trained in destructive techniques (rather shamefully, it's all I'm really interested in) - but surely there are spells that can rebuild a body. Certainly some method to attach muscle to bone, and stitch skin and sinew. Perhaps The Lunatic Cultist knows of such techniques - no, surely he does. He created me from the corpses of two hundred sacrifices. He could surely create a new body for The Clone if I swore my allegiance and begged him hard enough.
*boom!... boom!*
But I am unable to adequately convey my intentions towards The Clone. I must beat her down, lest she simply attack me in a mad frenzy. As is - she is full of justifiable rage, her mechanical eyes burning from behind cupped hands and her mouth stretched far wider than the skin allowed, tearing gashes along the seam of her jawline. All about her, small blobs of flesh warp into existence, milling about her in a small ring. Each is defined by a great scarlet eye that pulses and spews bolts of brimstone magic with shocking accuracy.
*sizzle*
I stretch out my hand and burn the eyes away, dodging brimstone bolts and weaving in and out of the hellish rain. My cloak must be full of holes by now, and I recognize my ...leg is on fire. But I push through the pain. Ever since my time with The Worms, there is no pain that can truly incapacitate me.
*crunch*
Now, I'm in her face, my blade flashing in the blackness of this unnatural night. The Clone cries with every strike of my razor's edge. With every one of her stitched on 'siblings' I peel away and destroy, she wails as if she were being burned. It's not the cry of pain - no, pain is familiar to her - but of halting despair. She cried the way children cried over their slain parents. How I cried over The Archmage. Ten or twenty weeping faces, clumsily wipe their tears with gnarled trembling hands - their number diminishing with every attack I hurl at it.
Finally, she stutters and falls.
And I chase her down, my wings tight against my back as I drop in freefall after her - my heart set steadfast on being a hero.
A Hero to myself.
Flying made him sick.
Since young, he had many fantasies about flying through the clouds - whirling joyfully through the open sky and riding the waves of the wind, but, only now that he'd done it did The Guide realize it was a truly awful experience.
Because it was cold in the stratosphere. Cold and wet. He had been shameless in asking The Monster Knight for articles of clothing so he might survive this journey (a pair of goggles, gloves, a puffy eskimo jacket), but even shielded from the elements and strapped to his pilot's back via a long strand of rope The Guide was miserable. The turbulence of the winds was pitching and violent and caused them to often find places to land so The Guide could hunch over and vomit up his stomach contents.
So, when they finally dropped in a serene glen near The Capitol City's main gate, The Guide had rolled off The Monster Knight's back - plopped facefirst into the grass. He made a fool of himself there, crying and sobbing and clinging to the ground like he would a lover. The Knight - doubtless silently amused - sat down beside him, his dark blue cloak splayed out behind, and his neck craned as he stared through his slatted visor at the great walls of The Capitol City.
Oh gods...
His stomach lurched as he slowly climbed up to his elbows and breathed deeply of the familiar air. High above, the sun was shining gently upon them. The wispy clouds decorating the deep blue sky and The Great Twin Moons floating amongst the clouds, slowly twisting and turning as the mechanical pupils scoured the land for threats and criminals. It was a miracle neither of them had seen them flying in a moment ago, but soon enough The Eyes would pick up on their presence if The Monster Knight continued to walk around dressed as he was. After all, The Guide - despite being a proud member of The Capitol's upper echelon - knew there was no tolerance for bringing potential threats into The King's city. With urgency, he seized The Monster Knight by the arm and demanded he strip off his armour and change into something inconspicuous.
And, of course - with everything going so smoothly thus far - The Monster Knight had to choose something to be difficult about. For one so often bathed in the blood of others, he was cripplingly vain.
"I prefer my armour."
"Knight, you will get us both killed- Take it off."
"..."
The Knight simply ignored him and stood to his feet, careful to brush a few strands of grass from his impeccable cloak and taking a quick moment to - without looking, mind you - fix the plume atop his head. He nodded towards the heavily guarded main gate and looked expectantly down upon The Guide, as if insisting he'd be let into The City just for looking polished.
The Guide couldn't help but feel a swell of incredulity. The situation was ridiculous to the point of amusement, and if he weren't the one who might lose his head if The Castle Guard saw the knight in full battle regalia as a threat - he'd even consider it peak comedy. But as it stood, despite the baffling stupidity of it all, The Monster Knight's fashion sense might truly get them killed.
Such situations required a bit of... finesse.
The Guide screwed up his eyes and twisted his nose, making his face the very picture of disgust. He spoke as if he were talking to a literal trash heap.
"Knight, listen, if you walk into The Capitol looked so downright filthy, we'll be killed on sight for sure. The City is a very clean place. It has no tolerance for this-" The Guide emphasized the word by gestured disdainfully at The Knight's nigh sparkling armour. "Sort of foulness."
"...?!"
And suddenly, the unflappable Knight was flapping like an entire henhouse. Indeed, The Guide didn't ever think he'd seen The Monster Knight quite so panicked before as he pulled off his helmet to scour every inch with narrowed eyes. Eventually, he found a tiny scratch, and destroyed The Helmet, only to replace it with a new one. He was about to put it on when The Guide interjected, rather gleefully inflicting all the stresses The Knight had burdened him with over the past few days right back upon him.
"That's no good, Knight! How can you wear that! Surely you can't be thinking to be putting something so vile on your head?! Just leave it off. If you insist on looking so dreadful, I have a darkened room where you can sit, looking downright horrid, for as long as you like. Just not here, in front of people, okay?"
"It's... not filthy!"
The Knight's normally monotonous voice went slightly higher than normal as he stared between his (clearly) beloved helmet and The Guide's expression of disgust. A long moment passed, then - reluctantly - The Knight stashed the helmet away entirely. He looked rather upset, but he was still wearing the rest of his armour. The Guide rolled his eyes and kept pushing.
"The rest of it must go, Knight. I cannot be seen with you otherwise. I will be mocked forever on your account."
"..."
"Yes, The gauntlets too! You can wear leather gloves if you like, but no gauntlets."
"..."
"Fine. Those boots are permissible. Let go."
Monster Knight: Does this dress make my butt look big?
Guide: Why are you wearing The Stylist's dress?!
The Guide is a powerful gaslighter lmao.
MK is gonna get even more germophobic.