II-24: Blood on Snow IV
Somebody kill me.
Greg stood there, panting like a dog, chest heaving and breath coming in ragged gasps that sounded way too loud in the frozen silence of the woods. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like his old gym teacher screamed about proper breathing techniques, but he told that voice to kindly shut the hell up.
The world spun around him like he was trapped in the world's worst theme park ride as his vision pulsed in and out, a half-second too slow, and it all spun in dark blurs. Greg blinked hard, trying to force his vision to cooperate but that did little as the world kept swimming in and out of focus like a cheap camera lens.
Static buzzed in his ears, an electric hum that reminded him of that time he'd stuck a fork in an outlet when he was seven—which, in retrospect, should have been a sign of things to come. His skin felt too tight, too hot, like he was being slow-roasted from the inside out, and every snowflake that dared to land on him met an instant and violent end.
His legs…
Well, those felt like they were filled with wet cement.
The first hour in, he had felt strong.
Invincible, even.
The cold air slapped at his face, but it couldn't cut through the heat blooming under his skin. It was like a game at first—four casts, and the ground blurred beneath him. He pushed off fallen branches, hurdled over rocks, everything flying past in a rush. A grin cracked across his face, teeth chattering more from thrill than chill.
His breath came steady, the ache in his muscles barely registering at all as the adrenaline took hold. The warmth was manageable, like sitting too close to a fire.
His brain whispered warnings, but he ignored them.
Could do this all day,he thought, legs pounding against the frozen earth, lungs pulling in crisp, biting air that never quite cooled him down.
It went unsaid that he needed to do this all day.
Heavy.
Unresponsive.
Numb, except for the stabs of heat still racing up and down them. heat that burned too hot, spreading through his body like it had a personal grudge. The cold winter air should've cut through him, bit at his face and chest, but he was so damn hot it might as well have been someone's lukewarm breath.
His own breath came in short, yet dull pulses, that felt like someone was using his ribcage as a punching bag. The pain had evolved hours ago—he wasn't sure when—transformed from the sharp, immediate agony of fresh wounds into something duller, more persistent. Like his nerves were sending out emergency alerts that faded to a long annoying drone waiting for someone to answer it.
Look at you, you kept it up, Greg. His brain mocked him, a tired, nagging voice that made him want to scream just to shut it up. The night was cold enough to cut through bone, but it didn't matter as he stood there, waiting for his vision to clear.
The air felt thick, too warm where it shouldn't be. His skin glowed an angry red, sweat beading up only to evaporate instantly with a spiteful hissing sizzle, like even his own body was done dealing with this nonsense.
By the second hour, that warmth turned on him, feeding into something hotter, wilder.
Sweat slicked down his back, soaking through fabric that clung to him like a second skin.
His fingers tingled, then dulled, as if they were wrapped tight in gauze. Each cast of Consecrations of Fortitude was a hammer, slamming into the nerves in his midsection, sparking pain that shot up to his shoulders and down to his legs. The forest around him became an endless tunnel of dark trees, roots jutting out like traps.
The boy stumbled once, a sharp misstep that almost cost him, the jolt sending fire racing up his shins. He swore under his breath, pushed harder, the numbing edge creeping in behind the burning. keep going. Don't think, just move.
He tried to take a deep breath, immediately regretted it, and ended up feeling like he'd just tried to swallow broken glass. The taste of copper flooded his mouth, sharp and metallic, making him wonder if he'd somehow managed to bite his tongue during his desperate, stupid, insane run.
No, couldn't be.
He'd have felt it.
…Probably.
His fingers twitched, or at least he thought they did. The numbness spread up his arms in waves, making even the simplest movements feel impossibly hard. Everything from his elbows down felt weirdly disconnected, like those times his arm would fall asleep during class, except a hundred times worse, like someone else's problem.
A problem he didn't have the energy to fix.
He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, hoping it would help clear the dark smudges in his vision.
It didn't.
The world stayed stubbornly blurry, dark shapes swimming through his field of view, broken up by flashes of angry red that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Blood? The thought crept in before he could stop it. No, just the heat, he tried to tell himself, but the lie fell flat even in his own head. He'd seen enough blood lately to know better. The metallic taste in his mouth wasn't helping his case either.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt, every muscle in his face fighting against itself.
Standing still was its own kind of torture, but moving felt even worse.
Staying still hurt.
Moving hurt.
Caught between bad and worse, he stayed frozen in place, listening to the sounds of the forest around him—branches creaking, snow falling, vague sounds of movement and shapes that looked a little like people around him as he tried to bring himself back to Earth.
The third hour chewed at him, relentless.
Steam puffed off him in thick clouds, skin flushed and raw. His arms felt foreign, rubbery, as if his body had stopped answering the way it should. Numbness crawled across his hands, prickling with a painful kind of static.
He couldn't tell if he was clenching his fists or if they were just locked that way. Every cast was a jab to the gut, nerves protesting with deep, biting aches that drummed in time with his heartbeat.
His legs were concrete, but they didn't stop; they couldn't.
Should slow down. Gotta slow down, but he couldn't. Slowing down meant stopping, and stopping meant feeling all of it. He pushed on, ignoring the sharp throb behind his eyes.
Each footfall sent a vibration up to his spine, thudding with a sick, dull weight. Almost there, he lied to himself, the words like gravel in his head.
Time had gotten weird somewhere along the way.
The third hour of running had stretched into the fourth, then the fifth, until hours stopped making sense altogether and he was just following the thick soupy trail in his head like a robot.
He didn't know when he'd started seeing spots, what hour of his run his eyes started to go—black, shifting, crawling at the edges of his vision—but they were definitely there now, spreading like ink drops in water whenever he tried to focus. His head felt like it was wrapped in burning wool, getting tighter with each passing second.
Steam rose from his skin in thick clouds, like someone had dropped him into a hot spring in the middle of winter. But this was no relaxing bath—his skin glowed an angry red, radiating enough heat that every breath felt like swallowing hot coals. The air around him filled with quiet hisses as snowflakes vaporized before they could even touch him, turning to steam inches from his skin.
A distant part of his brain thought that was kind of cool, in a twisted way. Metal.
The thought vanished as quickly as it came, chased away by another wave of pain that shot through his body like lightning. At the very same moment, he felt that pulling sensation as his soul chose that moment to expand.
Then again.
Speaking of his soul, those odd stars inside it were another beast, a monster writhing under his skin. Each channel twisted, burning from the inside out. His nerves lit up like Christmas lights gone wrong, what had started as searing pain gradually fading into a hollow numbness that spread through him like ice, leaving everything feeling distant and empty.
His fingers were dead weights, clumsy at his sides.
Heavy and useless, all ten of them
He flexed them, once, twice, barely felt it. Not good.
The numbness had spread up his arms, turning his hands into clumsy blocks of wood that might as well have belonged to someone else.
Six hours of running flat-out through snow and woods had a way of messing with a person.
So far, so fast, it had its price.
Using magic the whole time… was probably even worse.
He knew that.
Hell, he had expected it even, but knowing didn't make it hurt any less. His muscles burned like they were being peeled apart one fiber at a time. But that pain was nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the white-hot fire crawling up his spine, licking at the base of his skull like someone had poured molten metal into his bones and decided to watch it burn.
He sucked in another breath, immediately regretting it as the freezing air tore at his raw throat. Blood welled up, coating his tongue with copper. "This... sucks," he whispered, the words scraping past his lips like sandpaper.
Understatement of the year.
Water splashed under his feet as the last remnants of his magic faded away, the golden glow of Consecration of Fortitude dimming until it winked out completely. His vision cleared slightly, the world coming back into something almost resembling focus.
Almost.
"M'lord Greg?"
The voice was weak, barely there, but it hit him like a punch to the gut. He turned his head to the right, way too fast for how messed up his body was, his eyes widening as they landed on a familiar face. "...Gwenna?"
She looked like she'd been through hell—tears freezing on her cheeks, body shaking from the cold, scratches and bruises painting her skin in ugly colors. Her dress was torn in places it shouldn't be, stained with mud and worse things. But underneath all that, she was still Gwenna. Those same high cheekbones he remembered, that round nose with its slight upturn, those pretty grey-green eyes framed by long lashes that had made his stomach do backflips the first time he'd seen her.
She nodded frantically, fresh tears spilling down her face only to freeze halfway.
"I—" Greg started, then stopped, his brain finally catching up with what was happening. The killer was here. The killer was after her. The bastard was going to kill her. "Bolton!" The name ripped from his throat in a harsh bark that sent fresh blood flooding his mouth, copper-sharp and burning.
Gwenna's hand shot up, pointing past him, her whole arm trembling.
What? Greg's mind worked through molasses, piecing things together one painful bit at a time as he turned around. A man was getting to his feet, sword gleaming dully in the darkness, three others lurking behind him like shadows. Their breath fogged in the cold air, mixing with the steam still rising from Greg's overheated body.
I think I know which one he is, but... Greg's thoughts stumbled over each other as he frowned to himself. Does it even matter at this point?
"Bolton?" he repeated, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.
The man nodded slowly, raising his sword with deliberate care, a slow ugly smile spreading across his lips like a worm crawling through wet earth. "...that is my name, yes."
"Bolton." Greg hissed the name like it was a curse, something cold and angry writhing in his gut, demanding this man die like the dog he was. His bag slipped from his shoulders, hitting the ground with a wet thud as his hand moved on instinct, pulling out his white sword from the side pocket in one fluid motion. The blade practically leaped into his grip, hungry for blood.
The Bolton threw his head back and cackled, his eyes flashing with a predator's hunger as they fixed on the weapon. "My sword!"
A low growl rumbled from behind Greg as something shifted in his bag, rustling and moving until a furry form tumbled out. He didn't need to look to know Ash had finally escaped the expanded space inside. Whatever. Cub can handle himself.
Right now, he had bigger problems.
Much bigger, considering the murderous bastard standing in front of him with that twisted smile on his face.
"Been lookin' for ye, boy," the Bolton drawled, his pale eyes gleaming with something hungry and wrong. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he spoke, reminding Greg of a snake about to strike. "Took many a moon to follow the whispers, ye see. Tales of a boy with a sword of starmetal, each one leadin' me closer." His lips stretched into something that might have been a smile on anyone else, but on him it looked more like a hungry animal slobbering over food. "And here ye are, comin' right to me like a gift from the gods themselves."
Greg's eyes narrowed, his vision swimming slightly with the effort. The world kept tilting at odd angles, making it hard to focus on the Bolton's face. "...don't care."
Even those two words felt like gargling glass, his throat raw and bleeding. Steam poured from his mouth with each breath, the frigid air doing nothing to cool the inferno raging inside him. The bastard's presence felt thick in the air, a malicious weight that pressed against Greg's skin like oil, making him want to scrub himself clean.
Just like the doll but so much worse.
"Ye know me," the Bolton continued, starting to circle Greg with slow, measured steps. His boots crunched in the snow, never more than ten or twelve feet away. The predatory grace in his movements made Greg's stomach turn. "Yet I don't truly know ye. What's yer name, boy? Seems only proper-like, don't it? Should know the name of the lad who I've been hunting down these past moons."
Greg stared at him for a long moment, watching the bastard's face twitch with barely contained glee. The man was enjoying this, getting off on the whole thing like some sick game. "...Killer," he finally answered, the word rough and painful. "Last name Killer. First name Bolton."
The Bolton paused mid-step, blinking rapidly like he'd been slapped. "Ah, so ye fancy yerself a jester then?" His voice hardened, losing some of its false refinement. "Think yer clever, do ye? Think ye can mock me, boy?" His hand tightened on his sword hilt until the leather wrapping creaked.
Greg sighed, the sound more like a wheeze.
The snow around him was still melting in a wide circle, turning to steam at the spots nearest his feet. His whole body was a;ready an overheated furnace, Signs refusing to even spark to life as the stars in his soul screamed at him, and the bastard's games weren't helping. "Can we just do this already?"
"If yer so eager to die!" The movement was sudden, a dark blur against the white snow.
The bastard's first strike came low and mean, aiming to hamstring Greg in one go. Greg barely got his sword up in time, the metals meeting with a sharp clash that echoed through the quiet forest. The impact sent shockwaves up Greg's already weak arms, making his already screaming muscles howl in protest.
"Not lookin' so sharp now, are we?" the Bolton taunted, his refined accent slipping further as excitement crept into his voice. "Where's that famous speed I heard tell of? The strength that sent grown men flyin'? Or maybe them tales were just that—tales told by drunken peasants who wouldn't know a real fighter if he gutted 'em where they stood."
"Shut..." Greg tried to get his body to cooperate, but everything felt wrong, slow, like moving through thick mud. "Up!"
He dragged his right foot back through the snow, leaving a messy trail as he redirected the bastard's blade away from his body. His sword arm trembled visibly with the effort, muscles threatening to give out entirely.
The Bolton didn't waste a second, flowing from one attack into another like water. His thrust came straight for Greg's gut, the blade catching what little light there was as it sought flesh. Greg managed another clumsy parry, but it cost him. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his overtaxed body, his breaths coming in ragged steaming gasps.
The third strike came at Greg's shoulder just as hard and fast, the Bolton's blade whistling through the freezing air. Greg's arms felt like lead weights as he forced them up, his sword catching the blow at the last possible second. The clash of metal rang through the clearing like a church bell, sending waves of pain shooting through his already burning muscles. Great, just what I needed. More pain.
"Gettin' slower by the moment, aren't ye?" the Bolton taunted, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He shifted his weight, boots crunching in the snow as he tested Greg's guard. "Ye know, it's been quite the chase these past moons. Never had prey keep up the hunt for so long."
Greg's vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing like evil the bastard's voice echoed in his ears, like he was hearing it through water. Focus. Stay focused or you're dead.
"Tell me, boy," the Bolton continued, circling like a shark that smelled blood. "What makes a pretty little lordling like yerself chase after me? Is it the glory? The fame?" His smile widened, showing too many teeth. "Or perhaps it's somethin' more... personal?"
Before Greg could bite back a response, movement flickered at the edge of his vision. A man with long, greasy hair darted in from the left, a whip uncurling from his hands like a striking snake. The whistle of the weapon cutting through air almost got lost under the thunder of Greg's heartbeat and his ragged breathing, but some instinct—or maybe just pure desperation—kicked in.
Move. Move. MOVE.
His body responded on autopilot, spinning away from the Bolton's blade and into a wide arc that sent his sword singing through the night air.
The whip's crack never came.
Instead, there was a wet thunk and a spray of blood that froze mid-air, turning into red crystals before it could even touch the snow. The man's head hit the ground first, followed by his body a heartbeat later, both impacts muffled by the fresh powder.
"Well now," the Bolton drawled, shock at one of his men's death morphing into something else as his sick grin widened. "Seems ye still got some fight in ye after all."
Greg stumbled, the world tilting dangerously as his chest heaved for air. His body was running even hotter now, like someone had replaced his blood with molten metal. Steam rose from his skin in thick clouds, mixing with the fog created by the temperature difference between his overheated body and the freezing air.
Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass.
His sword felt like it was trying to slip from his grip, blood and condensation making the handle slick. The numbness creeping through him definitely wasn't helping. This is bad. This is really, really bad.
"What's wrong, boy?" The Bolton's voice cut through the haze of pain, dripping with false concern. "Ye look a mite unsteady there. Mayhaps ye'd like to rest? I promise to make it quick—well, quick-ish." He chuckled, the sound dark and wet. "Though I can't say the same for yer little friend over there."
Greg forced himself to stay upright, even as his legs threatened to fold under him like wet paper. His heart slammed against his ribs in a rhythm that felt way too fast and way too irregular to be healthy. Each beat sent fresh waves of dizziness washing over him, making the world swim in and out of focus. The cold air burned in his lungs, a sharp contrast to the inferno raging through the rest of his body.
Fuck me running. His stance was barely more than a wobbly impression of ready, his sword arm shaking so bad he probably couldn't have hit water if he fell in a lake. Bright blue eyes narrowed against the pain throbbing through his skull as he tried to track the Bolton's movements, catching the way those cold eyes lit up at every sign of weakness. Around them, the disturbed snow was already starting to freeze over the dark patches of blood, turning the ground into a twisted painting of white and red.
The Bolton's face twisted into something wild and hungry as he suddenly launched forward, moving like a starving wolf that had just spotted an injured deer. His first strike came fast and sharp, a feint aimed right at Greg's head that made the blond's heart skip several beats. Greg's body reacted before his brain could catch up, jerking away from the attack with all the grace of a drunk trying to dance.
"Come now, boy," the Bolton sneered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Ye've got to give me more than that." His voice dripped with mock disappointment. "Tales of a warrior who could split a man in half with one stroke. Yet here ye are, shakin' like a red leaf."
The bastard's next blow came low and mean, his blade whistling through the air as it swept toward Greg's knees. Greg stumbled sideways, boots sliding on the icy ground hidden beneath the fresh snow. Too close. Way too close.
"Perhaps I should've brought less men," the Bolton taunted, pressing forward with another strike. "Made it more sportin'-like."
Shit! Greg's heart pounded so hard he could barely hear anything else, the sound drowning out everything but the Bolton's constant stream of taunts.
"That all ye've got?" The Bolton's accent slipped as excitement crept into his voice. "Heard tell of ye sendin' grown men flyin' with a single blow. Where's that strength now?"
Shut up! Greg knew exactly what the bastard meant.
He'd gotten used to being stronger than everyone else in the three weeks since the Last River, gotten comfortable with his newfound power. Now, with his body failing him, that advantage was slipping away like water through his fingers.
The Bolton pressed forward relentlessly, taking advantage of every tiny hesitation in Greg's defense. A hidden root caught Greg's foot mid-step, nearly sending him sprawling face-first into the snow. The bastard's blade sliced through the air where Greg's neck had been a split second before, close enough that Greg swore he felt the wind from it brush his skin.
"Almost had ye there," the Bolton chuckled, the sound wet and wrong. "Like skinnin' a rabbit—got to be precise with that first cut."
Greg's counter was pure desperation, his body moving on autopilot while his brain struggled to keep up. Their blades met with a crash that sent pain shooting up his arms like lightning, reminding him just how close he was to completely burning out.
A diagonal slash cut through the freezing air toward Greg's chest, forcing him to raise his sword in a clumsy parry. The clash of steel rang through the quiet forest like a bell tolling for the dead. Each impact sent fresh waves of agony through Greg's arms, his grip on the sword handle getting worse as sweat made everything slick despite the cold. His footwork, which usually felt as natural as breathing, had deteriorated into something that would make a drunk look coordinated.
"Gettin' tired, are we?" the Bolton's voice oozed false sympathy. "Don't worry, lad. Won't be much longer now."
The bastard's next attack came in a horizontal arc aimed at Greg's stomach, the kind of cut meant to spill guts onto the snow. Greg moved like he was underwater, barely getting his blade up in time to block. The impact of their swords sent a shower of ice crystals into the air between them, sparkling like diamond dust in the dim light.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, FUCK ME RUNNING!
The bastard followed through without missing a beat, his sword darting forward like a striking snake aimed straight for Greg's throat. Pure desperation gave Greg just enough speed to twist away, but not quite far enough. The blade sliced through his tunic like it was made of paper, cutting deep into his left arm. Blood sprayed in an arc, splattering across Greg's chest and the pristine snow beneath. The blond's eyes went wide as pain and shock hit him like a truck, forcing him to stumble backward. Steam billowed around him in thick clouds as his overheated body fought against the freezing air, turning the space between them into a miniature fog bank.
"Oh, that's a pretty sight," the Bolton purred, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "Like paintin' with a brush, wouldn't ye say? The red looks so lovely against the white."
Through eyes that refused to focus properly, Greg watched the killer advance. The bastard moved with a predator's grace, his left foot sliding through the snow without a sound. His sword came up smooth and steady in a perfect guard position, the tip never wavering as it pointed at Greg's throat. How the hell does he make it look so easy?
"Somethin' wrong with yer eyes there, boy?" The Bolton's voice dripped with false concern. "Ye keep blinkin' like a owl in daylight. Mayhaps ye need a closer look?" He took another deliberate step forward. "I could help ye with that. Always found people see much clearer once their eyelids are... removed."
Can't let him see how bad it is. Greg tried to focus, but the world kept shifting and blurring around him. The trees behind the Bolton seemed to dance and sway in the falling snow, making his stomach lurch. His legs felt wrong, disconnected, like they belonged to someone else entirely. Every movement sent fresh waves of dizziness washing over him.
"What's wrong, boy?" The rapist's voice was light and playful, like they were sharing some private joke. "Ye look a mite peaky! Perhaps ye need to lie down? I know this wonderful spot, nice and quiet-like. Ask any of the girls I've taken there—oh wait, ye can't!" He broke into wet, gurgling laughter.
Greg attempted to keep his sword steady, failing miserably. The tip wavered in the air like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. His left arm hung uselessly at his side—he could barely feel it anymore beyond a dull, throbbing ache.
His opponent surged forward suddenly, taking three quick steps that made the snow crunch loudly under his boots. He's doing it on purpose, Greg realized, trying to throw me off. The bastard's blade wove through the air in elaborate patterns, testing Greg's ability to track it. Even with his messed-up vision, Greg could see the confident grace in every movement, the casual skill that spoke of years of practice.
Need cover. Space to think. Greg shuffled backward toward the treeline, his feet dragging through the snow instead of lifting properly. Two months ago, he would have died of embarrassment at how sloppy his footwork had become. Now he was just glad he could still move at all. The snow around his feet was starting to look like some twisted artist's canvas, speckled with red drops from his nose and maybe his eyes too.
The frozen ground wasn't doing him any favors. Each step was a gamble between staying upright and falling on his face. The snow wasn't deep—maybe three or four inches—but it hid patches of treacherous ice underneath like nature's own little trap.
"Look at yer footprints," the bastard called out, gesturing with his sword like a teacher giving a lesson. "They tell such a lovely story. See how they wobble? How they drag?" His pale eyes gleamed with predatory interest, happy and hungry and eager all at once. "Ye can barely walk even with yer fancy magicks. Did ye really think ye could fight me like this?"
Keep it together. Just a little longer. But even as the thought crossed his mind, Greg knew he was lying to himself. His arms shook with every heartbeat, muscles screaming in protest. His knees felt like they might give out any second.
Somewhere in the darkness, a girl screamed. Gwenna. Greg's heart clenched painfully in his chest. He'd lost track of her in the chaos. A deep growl thundered through the clearing, much louder than usual, almost reverberating like a lion's roar. Ash?
Greg tried to steady his sword as another slash came whistling through the air, his arms shaking with the effort.
Failed again, just like everything else tonight.
Blood dripped steadily from his nose now, falling like crimson rain onto the white snow all around them. His screwed-up vision made the falling snowflakes look like one single curtain, their trails blurring together and making it even harder to track the Bolton's blade as he stumbled backward.
"Such pretty patterns ye're makin'," the bastard called out, gesturing at the blood-speckled snow. "Like one of them fancy Southron paintings. Though I prefer my art a bit more... personal-like." His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he spoke, that weird happy smile still plastered across his face. Like this was all just some twisted game to him.
Like Greg was just another toy he'd found to break.
Maybe he's right. The thought hit Greg like a sledgehammer to the chest. He'd pushed way too hard, burned through too much magic trying to catch up to this psycho. Now he could barely keep standing, let alone fight. And the Bolton...
The bastard looked fresh as a daisy. Relaxed, even. Like he'd just stepped out for a pleasant evening stroll through the snow instead of hunting people for sport. Not a hair out of place, not even breathing hard. How is that fair?
"Ye dyin' on me there, lad?" The Bolton's voice dripped with false sympathy as the bastard took another deliberate step forward, boots crunching through the snow. "No shame in it."
Two men suddenly burst from the shadows behind the Bolton, charging straight at Greg. His heart nearly stopped as he tried to stumble backward, but before he could move, a small shape shot past his feet, heading straight toward the attackers.
Blue eyes went wide with panic. "Ash, n-!"
The words died in Greg's throat as his bear cub's body changed, twisting and morphing in ways that definitely weren't in any nature documentary he'd ever seen. Ash's body twisted and shifted, patches of dark scales sprouting surrounded by fur, and a pair of leathery wings exploded from his midsection as he launched into the air.
What the actual hell? Greg's messed-up eyes weren't playing tricks this time. His bear was straight-up flying now. And breathing fire, which okay, he'd seen that trick before, but wings?
That was new.
Fire rained down on the Bolton's men like nature's own artillery strike. One took the blast full in the chest, stumbling backward with a scream that cut through the night air. His flesh sizzled inside his leathers like meat on a grill. The second man didn't stick around to see what happened next—he dropped his sword and ran, his own screams fading into the darkness.
The bastard's pale eyes went wide for a split second, another burst of surprise flickering across his face. Then that creepy smile was back, like watching a bear suddenly sprout wings was just another fun surprise. "Now that's somethin'!"
He exploded forward with a thrust that came in low and fast, angled up toward Greg's gut. Both of the bastard's hands wrapped around his sword's grip as he threw his whole body into it. Fuck! Greg barely got his blade down in time, catching the thrust with the strong part of his sword. The impact rattled through his exhausted arms like an earthquake, nearly tearing the weapon from his trembling fingers.
"Good!" The bastard's voice filled with sick joy, his accent slipping in his excitement. "Ye can still fight! Makes it so much sweeter when they struggle right to the end!"
He yanked his blade back and whipped it around in a horizontal slash aimed at Greg's ribs. The sword moved so fast it was just a blur in Greg's screwed-up vision. Steel screeched against steel as the blades met and the force of it sent him staggering backward like a drunk.
His right foot hit a patch of ice hidden under the snow, and Greg's whole body rotated awkwardly as he tried to stay upright.
Everything tilted sideways as Greg's balance failed him. Fuck! Get it together! But his eyes refused to focus, the world swimming in and out like a bad TV signal.
The bastard saw the opening and pounced like a cat on a wounded mouse. Another diagonal slash whipped in at Greg's exposed side, the blade singing through the freezing air. Can't block it.
Pure instinct took over, making Greg step into the attack instead of away—a move that would have made the captain of Frostfall's guard proud if he'd done it on purpose.
He caught the bastard's blade near the hilt where it had less power. It was sloppy and desperate, but it worked. The momentum carried his attacker past him in a rush of dark cloth and cursed steel.
"Clever mouse!" the Bolton called out, his voice thick with excitement.
A huge black dog burst from the trees like a demon from hell, charging straight at Ash with foam flying from its jaws. The bear dove to meet it, breathing another stream of fire as wicked claws extended from his paws like switchblades. The two animals crashed together in a ball of fur, flames, and snapping teeth that sent snow flying in all directions.
Greg found himself backed against a massive oak, its bark rough and cold even through his clothes. His world had shrunk down to a tiny arc of space, maybe ten feet wide at most.
The bastard's blade became a blur of motion, and Greg's eyes widened as the steel seemed to glow as it trailed a faint bloody aura behind it—I'm seeing things. Three cuts came in quick: high, middle, low, each one deadly, each one glowing a pale red.
Greg's parries were barely more than twitches, arms moving on pure muscle memory. The first slash whistled past his shoulder close enough to cut hair.
The second nearly took him in the hip, and he had to hop awkwardly like a drunk flamingo to avoid the third cut at his knees.
"Look at ye go!" The bastard laughed, pale eyes literally burning with an unnatural white fire now. "Even half-dead, ye're still dancin'!"
His breath came in ragged gasps that barely brought in enough air. Can't keep this up. His arms shook with each thundering heartbeat, muscles cramping and twitching as the edges of his vision flickered and darkened.
A scream cut through the night—a girl's voice, filled with terror and pain. Gwenna. Something hot and angry flared in Greg's chest, burning away a tiny bit of the bone-deep exhaustion. She was still alive.
Still fighting.
"Oh, does the little mouse care about my new toy?" The bastard's grin widened impossibly, those pale eyes glowing like ghost lights as he spoke. "Such a sweet thing she is. Don't worry yerself none." His voice dropped to a mock whisper that made Greg's skin crawl. "Once I'm done playin' with ye, I'll take extra special care of her. Make sure she lasts a good long while."
Greg's grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles cracked. His arms still shook like leaves in a storm. His vision was still more static than clear picture. Everything still hurt like one massive bruise. But that hot thing in his chest kept burning, giving him just enough strength to keep his blade up between them.
Not yet. Can't fall yet.
The bastard's sword came down like a thunderbolt, all his weight behind it. Greg barely got his blade up in time, catching the strike above his head with a clash that rang through the clearing. His arms screamed in protest, muscles threatening to give out completely. Steel ground against steel as the Bolton bastard pushed down, trying to force Greg's guard open with pure strength.
"Almost done now," the bastard whispered, leaning in close enough that Greg could smell his rancid breath. His pale eyes burned with sick joy, like a kid watching ants burn under a magnifying glass. "I can see yer arms shakin'. Won't be long now."
He wasn't wrong. Not in the slightest. Fuckin' bastard.
Greg's whole body trembled with exhaustion.
Greg's back pressed hard against the oak tree, rough bark digging through his sweat-soaked shirt like tiny needles. The crossed blades inched lower and lower as his trembling arms started to give out completely. Every muscle screamed in protest, but there was nothing left to give.
"Almost there," the Bolton whispered, his breath hot and rancid in Greg's face. "Beautiful, ain't it?"
The bastard shifted his grip with practiced ease, starting to slide his edge down Greg's sword in a move that spoke of years of practice. His free hand moved to his own blade, getting ready to thrust once Greg's guard broke. Can't hold it.
Greg's right knee started to buckle beneath him, threatening to dump him face-first into the snow. His vision swam worse than ever, dark spots dancing at the edges.
The tree. Use the tree.
Greg let his right shoulder slam back against the trunk. The rough bark hurt like hell, but it gave him something solid to brace against. He angled his blade down slightly, letting gravity help hold the bastard's sword back instead of fighting it with pure strength.
With a laugh that sounded more animal than human, the Bolton killer suddenly yanked his blade free. The release of pressure almost sent Greg sprawling, his balance shot to hell. Three cuts came in lightning-fast succession: one whistling at his neck, another slashing at his sword arm, a third whipping up at his side. Each strike flowed into the next like water, smooth and practiced and deadly.
"With Damon gone, ye'll dance for me!" the bastard crowed. "Dance, boy!"
Greg couldn't counter. Could barely defend himself at this point.
He knocked the first cut away with his sword tip, the motion more luck than skill. Jerked his shoulder back to avoid the second, the slash cutting through empty air where his arm would have been. Somehow got his pommel up to deflect the third, though he couldn't have explained how.
The bastard kicked a spray of snow toward Greg's feet and lunged forward, sword stabbing at his stomach like a striking snake. Greg shifted his weight back, his blade moving just enough to turn the thrust aside. His right foot pivoted in the snow, using the tree trunk for balance as he leaned left, trying to keep his footing on the icy ground.
"Wonderful! Bloody fuckin' amazing, this was!" The bastard's voice was breathless with excitement, his attempt at a refined accent completely gone now.
Greg's legs buckled.
The ground lurched under him, stomach tightening as black spots swarmed his vision, pressing in at the edges. No, no, not… not like…
He stumbled back into the tree, the bark scraping through his tunic and into raw skin. The impact jolted him upright, though, just barely keeping him from crumpling to the snow.
Greg tried to steady his grip, but his fingers felt like wet noodles wrapped around the hilt of his blade. Too weak to lift it. Too weak to— Vomit spluttered from his lips, acrid and bitter as it trailed down his front. Can't block. Too strong. He'll cut right through my…my guard.
His back pressed harder against the tree as he tried to steady himself. A root dug into his left heel, throwing his balance off even more. Ramsay lunged, blade catching what little light there was as it descended...
Now.
Greg didn't try to block.
Didn't try to dodge as yhe sword plunged into his stomach, cold steel slicing through flesh and muscle and whatever was left holding him together.
His breath hitched, every nerve in his body screaming at once. The pain was sharp and endless, radiating outward in waves, turning his knees to water.
But he didn't fall. Wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction.
Ramsay leaned in, breath rancid and hot against Greg's face. "Oh, aye. Ye're a strong one. Ye won't die easy, I can see it. Might take yer tongue first, eh? Or yer cock. Keep ye as a pet."
Greg's hand shot out, grabbing Ramsay's arm—the one still holding the sword lodged in his gut—and smiled in his face, vomit and blood making his grin even more ghastly than the murdering Bolton's.
"Nah."
He yanked Ramsay forward, the blade shifting inside him, tearing more with every inch.
His vision blurred with pain, but he didn't let go. His free hand came up, a desperate, animal swing with all the strength he could muster as he was now, knuckles smashing into the bastard's jaw with a dull thud.
The Bolton staggered, his grip on the sword slipping just enough for Greg to wrench it free himself.
And then Greg drove them both down, blood pouring l.
They hit the ground in a tangled heap, the snow crunching beneath them. Greg landed on top, the impact knocking the wind out of Ramsay's lungs.
"Not. Today."
His fists came down like hammers, heavy and wild and unrelenting.
The first punch shattered Ramsay's nose open, the crunch of cartilage sharp in Greg's ears, spraying blood back onto him.
The second split his wouth wide open, even more red flying into the air
Ramsay twisted under him, screaming, arms flailing, legs kicking, but Greg pressed his weight down as his knees dug into the bastard's ribs, pinning him with a noise that sounded like something cracking.
His hands shook, every muscle in his body threatening to give out as the wound in his stomach poured blood, sticky and hot against Ramsay's chest. "You don't… get to… win."
Each word came with a punch. "Not… today."
His fist smashed into Ramsay's cheek—"Not… ever."—then his temple—"Ever… again!"
Tthen his jaw.
The bastard's face and chest caved in bit by bit, blood and bone and pulp spilling across the snow as Ramsay's hands clawed at his arms and face, weak and frantic.
Another punch.
And another.
His arms felt like lead, his vision swimming with tears and blood and exhaustion, but he kept going.
Because stopping meant losing. and losing wasn't an option.
"Never!"
The word tore out of greg's throat as he reared back. his forehead came down like a hammer, smashing into Ramsay's face with a sickening crunch.
Ramsay's body jerked beneath him, but Greg didn't let up.
"Never!"
Another headbutt.
And another.
His skull slammed into Ramsay's, the sound of bone cracking and flesh tearing filling the night air. Greg's vision swam, his head pounding like a drum, but he kept going, each blow more frantic than the last.
"Never!"
The bastard's skull gave under the force of his blows, the wet, crunching sound turning his stomach.
Greg's blood dripped onto what was left of Ramsay's face, mixing with the mess of gore and snow beneath them.
He stopped eventually, not from lack of will, but a simple lack of strength. He blinked as he realized something.
Ramsay wasn't moving anymore.
Wasn't fighting back.
Wasn't anything.
Hadn't been for a while now.
Greg slumped forward, his forehead pressing against the ruined pulp of Ramsay's head. his breath came in ragged gasps, every inch of him trembling as he breathed into the mess of what used to be Ramsay's mouth
He pulled himself upwards and off Ramsay to sit back on his knees, his blood-soaked hands limp at his sides. Finally.
He grasped for his own sword and plunged it into the ground as he pulled himself to his feet, using his blade as a cane. His legs wobbled, his vision swimming again, but he stayed upright.
A keening wail sounded out, a weakened animal whimper reachinghis ears in the night as the battle of beasts neared its end. Weak as he was, he whipped around.
The massive black dog—thing's the size of a freaking horse—thrashed wildly in the snow as Ash's teeth locked around its throat like a steel trap. Dark blood sprayed across the pristine white ground in wide arcs, steaming where it landed. The bear cub's new wings beat frantically, leathery membranes crackling with each stroke as they kept him anchored while the monster tried desperately to throw him off.
The dog's eyes blazed blood-red in the darkness, like something straight out of a horror movie. Its massive teeth snapped at empty air again and again, trying and failing to reach Ash. Each bite missed by mere inches as the bear twisted and rolled with surprising grace, his wickedly sharp claws raking deep furrows in the beast's sides. Steam rose in thick clouds from where Ash's flames had already scorched its midnight-black fur, the smell of burned hair and flesh thick in the air.
With a wet, meaty sound that made Greg's stomach turn, Ash ripped away a huge chunk of the dog's throat. The monster's legs gave out like someone had cut its strings, sending both animals crashing into the blood-stained snow. Dark blood poured from the ragged wound in pulses, so dark it looked almost black under the weak moonlight. The beast's burning red eyes started to dim, like coals dying in a fire.
Ash reared back on his hind legs, those impossible wings spreading wide. His mouth opened wider than any normal bear's should, stretching until it looked more like a snake unhinging its jaw as orange fire built up in the little not-bear's throat. The flames came out like a river of liquid sunlight, washing over the dying monster in a wave of orange and electric blue. The heat hit Greg like a physical wall even from ten feet away, instantly melting the snow around the combatants.
The massive corpse went up like it was soaked in gasoline, burning with an intensity that seemed wrong, unnatural. Black smoke spiraled up into the falling snow, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning flesh. The beasts—skin and all—seemed to melt away like wax, revealing bones underneath that crumbled to black, red-veined ash in the flames.
Greg stumbled away from the tree on shaky legs that felt more like overcooked noodles than actual limbs. Wait... wait, was that dog a monster the whole time?
He nearly face-planted trying to grab his bag, letting the leather pack hang carelessly from one hand. Ash padded over to him, blood-soaked muzzle and leather dragon wings making him look like something that had escaped from a D&D manual. Still can't believe that happened. My bear has actual dragon wings. What even is my life anymore?
As Greg watched through increasingly unfocused eyes, those same wings simply folded back up into Ash's fur like they were never there, disappearing without a trace. Greg blinked... slowly, his tired brain trying to process what he'd just seen. At that exact moment, he felt his soul balloon out again, like it was reaching for something just beyond his grasp. I can't... I don't care anymore. Too weird. Way too weird.
Movement caught his wandering attention. Gwenna emerged from between the trees like a ghost, clutching a bloody dagger in white-knuckled hands. Her once-fine skirts were soaked in crimson—way too much blood to be just her own. A deep cut ran down her arm, still oozing slowly.
"You came," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. "You actually came."
Greg tried to answer, to say something cool or reassuring, but all he could manage was a simple nod. His throat felt like he'd been gargling sand.
Gwenna rushed forward suddenly, throwing her arms around him with enough force to nearly knock him over. Her whole body shook with heavy sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside. Greg awkwardly patted her head, trying his best to stay upright as the world performed lazy circles around him, suddenly aware that any pain he felt was oddly distant all of a sudden.
When he finally managed to speak, his voice came out as rough as bark.
"Let's get you home."
The walk back felt like it took approximately forever and a day. Every step was like trying to run in a swimming pool filled with molasses. Greg leaned heavily on Gwenna's shoulder as they trudged through the endless snow, probably crushing her but too exhausted to do anything about it. Ash padded alongside them, those crazy wings now completely gone like they'd never existed in the first place. Gonna have to figure that out later. If there is a later.
His vision played tricks on him, fading in and out like a bad TV signal. Sometimes the world snapped into crystal clarity, other times it dissolved into gray blurs and dancing black spots. The still-falling snow didn't help matters—each flake left ghostly trails in his messed-up eyes, making everything look like he was trying to see through frosted glass.
After what felt like several small eternities, the gates of Frostfall finally appeared through the swirling snow like a mirage. As relief spread across his face in a tired smile, Greg's legs picked that exact moment to completely give out. His knees hit the frozen ground hard as his white sword sank point-first into the earth in front of him.
Get up. Almost there. He grabbed the sword's grip with trembling hands, trying to pull himself up only to falter as he felt his soul expand outward once again, something physical plopping onto his head with a sound bizarrely like a... chicken?
He didn't know anymore. Didn't care.
His arms refused to cooperate, muscles completely shot. The blade just sank deeper into the packed ground, another inch or two.
"Milord Greg!" Gwenna's voice seemed to come from somewhere very far away, like she was shouting down a long tunnel.
Greg tried to answer, to tell her he was fine, but the world decided to tilt sideways instead. The last dregs of his strength drained away like water through a sieve as darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. The snow rushed up to meet him as everything went black.
Northern Wind - 400 GP
System Override - 250 GP
People's Vengeance - 150 GP
10k Words - 100 GP
Enmity with a Lord - 150 GP
Roll: Deku Treehouse [Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker] {Domain} (400 GP) - I have no idea how you even found one of these, but you have a mid-sized Deku Sapling that's grown in such a way as to be a treehouse. Just, treehouse. I don't even. Anyways, it's a living wellspring of magical power, and will probably create its own version of the Korok at some point in the future, so try to take good care of it.
Roll: Ring [The Sorcerer's Apprentice] {Source} (300 GP) - In a little box you have an animal statue of sorts – maybe a cricket, or a snake or something, but by giving it to someone, it will come to life and fasten to their finger or somewhere else as jewelry and become their focus. This makes them into a sorcerer, granting the various benefits like enhanced intelligence, although you may want to pick someone who was smart in the first place anyway. You can selectively hold off this function, so you can show it to someone without it automatically triggering.
Roll: Struggling Swordsman [RWBY: Age of the Gods] {Control } (100 GP) - There is something about this man that seems as if he had been forsaken. Perhaps the only man who is unable to use magic in these times, he has been struggling all his life. That being said he has persevered time and time again and with a Sword that is so large it is more like a heap of iron and a curious armor he is one of the deadliest warriors around. Maybe he can use a companion?
Roll: The Age of Jumper [Fate/Grand Order] {Domain} (600 GP) - When the King of Magic died, he took the Age of Gods with him. He was the final marker for that great Age and all the wonders and terrors within it. Imagine what the world would be like if that King came back and brought his Age with him? Well, you'll be able to see both now, though the latter is more your choice. You have a unique ability that allows you to exert influence over the Age or Era of a setting. You can halt progress out of this Era or speed it up to bring it to a swift end or even slowly bring it back into the world around you. Any defined period of time, whether it be the Age of Gods or the Roaring twenties, can be affected in this way. The stronger you are, the swifter these changes can be done but they shouldn't take more than a year unless the changes you are making are truly outlandish. It should be noted that if you are bringing an end to an Age, you have no control over what Age may appear in its place.
Roll: Trickster Chick [Final Fantasy XII] {Control} (200 GP) - It's a tiny Chocobo chick, pure white in color. It'll take a while for it to grow bigger, but it's more than happy right now to just follow you around. Nothing seems to target it, and the happy squawks it lets out on sight of any living being seems to have a calming effect on wild monsters. If it grows up without incident perhaps it'll be like the Trickster of yore...
Grimoire Points: 200