A swish, a flick, and red cut into white in a careful line.

Lasadh examined his painting, and grunted in satisfaction. Brynn and Ethne could use some relaxation after the stress of the past few weeks — a day resting under the mottled greens of a grand oak, letting the sunset wash over them, sounded perfect.

But first, he'd have to readjust the canvas. The board of thick white was tilted back slightly in a single, smooth motion to avoid splatters on his apron, and the old man shifted his grip on the length of brush he was wielding, willing the colours to change. Red turned to orange, and Lasadh just barely kept his arms steady as he began to paint the slight outline of the sun into the crimson sky.

He heard the door open somewhere far behind him, a visitor to his chambers perhaps. The old man's unsteady hands stopped for just a moment, before he returned to his painting.

The visitor mattered not.

"Sir…? Are you, maybe, feeling up for taking a report?" A voice called out from the distant ends of his private room.

Lasadh continued to paint. Perhaps Ethne would like a fine brooch of jade? It would frame her face rather nicely, if Lasadh positioned it well, but then again, his daughter had never cared much for jewellery… Rather than jade, a simple, unadorned silver piece would do just as well, without bringing her discomfort.

The bristles of his longbrush shifted between a variety of silver-steel colors, allowing for the differences in lighting in his work. Yes, that complemented her rather nicely.

"Am I takin' that as a refusal? Sir, intruders were spotted on the horizon…" The voice called again, a little quieter.

A pair of green apples, one for each. Brynn preferred sour foods, he recalled. But a bright, almost luminous green, or they would not stand out much against the tree's branches.

The doors shut again with a soft click, and Lasadh breathed a sigh of relief. No more interruptions.

A few more touches, a dash of colour here and there, and the latest moment in Brynn and Ethne's lives was complete.

Lasadh lifted the canvas in his gnarled fingers, taking one last look over his work. It had come out just fine, in his opinion — a happy memory that would serve them well as a moment of respite.

Back onto the wooden frame the canvas went, and the old man began the somewhat arduous process of pushing the frame into its spot, next to a hundred or more of the man's other works. Each depicted a young boy and girl in varying stages of their life, walking down a country road, playing in the fields, or lollygagging around their home town. Not so long ago, they had started taking life a little more seriously, which pleased Lasadh. Brynn was now qualified as a knight and working hard, while Ethne managed to earn a place at one of the Floating Archive's colleges.

Hmm… Now there was an idea. A graduation ceremony couldn't hurt, and of course Brynn wouldn't miss out on such a big occasion for his younger sister.

Lasadh pulled a blank canvas from the corner of the room and set to work, humming a little tune.

He was with his children now. There was no need for anything else.

Iokar of the Run-Off Pillar Fort gently shut the doors on their fearless leader's chambers, striding quickly away from the sounds of paintbrush on canvas that echoed around its walls. It would be up to him to handle things again, it seemed. He'd have to move quickly - the Fort's ivory-white corridors were only slightly less labyrinthine than the Labyrinth City itself, and he had wasted too much time already.

'Rundown Pillock Fort' seemed more apt a nickname with every year he spent here, but then again, neither he nor any of the other border guards could truly complain. This was the quietest position one could be assigned to, putting up with some eccentricity from Sir Lasadh was almost expected.

Every so often, one of the Run-Off's swamp-beasts would approach their fort, sniff around the pure white walls, and be swiftly chased off. That level of activity was so normal he would not have even bothered opening the ancient man's doors.

A trio of what looked to be humans, clearly trying to mask their approach by using the Run-Off's treeline, on the other hand… Iokar had never expected to thank the Gravelords for Ceann's tendency to laze about at the ballistae, but the marksman's habit of bird-watching had, for once, paid off.

One of the guards approached him, a young man by the name of Fola. Black cloth, check, steel plates firmly in place, check, steel rings covering the vital areas, check. Iokar was pleased to see that, for all that Fola seemed skittish and unsure from the moment he had met the boy, he could at least follow regulations on their uniforms - unlike some others he could name.

"Sir, Ceann sent me to let you know," Fola said, craning his neck up to look at Iokar, "He's picked out a crew of guards and they're in position. Waiting at the entrance for, any possible breaches?"

…well, nobody here had their positions because of their talent for the oratory arts, that much Iokar knew already. He made a sound of acknowledgement, and Fola fell into step behind him. Ceann was a slacker, through and through, but he could at least be trusted to cover one angle.

"Follow me then, Fola! We'll join the marksmen in the ballista room, and resolve things without a breach, eh?"

He supposed in a way, their leader's unresponsiveness was a blessing. What Sir Lasadh didn't know about, he didn't have to report on in his correspondence.

Five ladders, four stairways and one seemingly infinite spiralling hallway later, Iokar, Fola and the three guards Iokar had picked up and carried off along the way reached the ballista room. Two marksmen were already in there, dressed in a uniform as standard as Fola- oh, no, one of them had a ridiculous green patch tied off around his right arm.

Iokar scoffed. Alas, now was not the time to bring such things up.

First things first. The steel-clad giant set down two of the guards next to the ammunition by the walls.

"Right off, you lads are going to be reloading for us," he said, pointing at the oversized crossbow bolts hanging on racks, "We fire, you bring us replacements. Got it?"

They nodded, their helmets making a light clanking sound. Satisfied, he set the third down next to one of the unmanned ballistae, before taking his gloves off.

"You and me, we're joining these fine men in firing on the approaching threats." Iokar stated, getting his fingers around the other ballista's controls. Even with the gloves off, his hands were just a little too big… but he'd manage.

"And last, Fola!" The huge man barked out, startling the younger soldier who had so far not moved from the entrance, "You're our look-out! The way Ceann said it, the swamp produced something human-looking this time. 's unlikely, but they might just be a distraction. If anything's gone and snuck in already, you shout and warn us! Got it?"

Iokar couldn't see the boy's expression through his helmet, but he imagined it was one of light panic. Still, Fola slowly nodded. Good enough.

Iokar got into position and slowly swivelled the ballista, watching through its sights for movement. It wouldn't be easy to spot anything, even this close to the cliff face. The Run-Off's trees were some combination of wood and stone, and large enough to blot out the sun at their thickest points. The branches crossed and inter-locked in strange patterns that bifurcated and rejoined seemingly at random, and Iokar truthfully found it all a little difficult to look at.

Even so, he watched.

And watched.

And- there!

"I see 'em," Iokar whispered, "Hidden pretty well. Black clothes, black hair, up in the branches - look for a little glint of silver."

Had the swamp's creatures learned to use magic now? If not for the silvery shine of what was clearly a spell-casting catalyst, Iokar wouldn't have seen anything.

Three of them, just like Ceann described, slowly walking across one of the spiralling branches of stone. One covered in what looked like black cloth from head to toe, and carrying the silver staff that allowed them to be spotted.

A second in black clothes and with what Iokar could only assume to be dark hair, their pale face standing out as they-

Iokar tore his eyes away from the sights.

Had that one looked at him?

Another glance, and he breathed. No, their sight was straight ahead. There was nothing to see in the first place - the ballistae's slits were well-concealed.

Finally, one in slightly lighter cloth and much darker skin, along with what Iokar could just barely recognise as dragon scales at this distance. Probably the most durable one, but also the largest threat. If they could take one out before anything happened, it would have to be that one.

Iokar adjusted his ballista's aim. Too far away to go for the head - a body shot would do.

Wait, why had the pale one's arm moved like that-

The crashing of stone. Light suddenly streaming in. A scream - his own? No, couldn't be. Could it?

There was no telling how much time had passed before Iokar woke again.

His whole body was in agony, save for his right leg. Something was stabbed into the lower left side of his torso - angling his head down slightly, Iokar realized it was one of the ballista bolts, and the reason his right leg didn't feel pain.

Being crushed under the room's rubble would do that, he mused, seeing the splotches of red across chunks of ivory.

His was not the only body strewn about the room, however. He could only pray that the marksmen with him had died quickly.

And yet… what had killed them?

As though to answer, Iokar heard the sound of an impossibly light footstep come from where the ballistae should have been.

"I told you I wanted to break in, didn't I? Sneak in, steal what I need, sneak out. What possessed you to do this, Nanami?" A gruff, slightly raspy voice spoke from just outside where walls should have been.

"They spotted us hours ago, Sir Garnt, I'm surprised you didn't realise," a softer voice said, "I did try to give you enough time to find a stealthier way in, but…"

"Sorry for interrupting but, um, Lady Nanami? If they had spotted us already, shouldn't you have, maybe, said something?"

"Hmm…" A pause. "Yes, I should have, shouldn't I?"

Iokar, soldier of the Labyrinth City, unshackled a hand crossbow from his weapon's belt - a tiny little thing, with the bolt already loaded.

He steadied his shaking, pain-stricken hand, and aimed, right at the pale one's temple.

"AGH-!"

He roared in pain, crossbow thudding onto the ground with the dull sound of wood on bone, as something pressed down on his shoulder, hard. It took him a moment more to register what had happened - the pale one had pinned his arm and shoulder down by stepping on it.

Were the pale one's companions watching? The humiliation was almost too much to bear, and yet Iokar knew better. The pain and humiliation could also be fuel, and he had one last card to play.

He fingered the talisman concealed in his gauntlet, his focus for calling upon the Gravelords' miracles, and began to channel power-

"Somebody should really have taught you to stay down, you know."

-and he couldn't feel his arm anymore.

No, it wasn't that he couldn't feel it, but that he no longer had it.

The leg pinning his shoulder down had simply stepped through it entirely, separating limb from body.

Something punctured his throat, next. Iokar's vision darkened, but he could still tell it was a human hand. Or, should have been. Human hands couldn't do that, could they? He looked up, into the face of his killer.

Human eyes shouldn't look like that, either.

He spat out something wet, and a splatter of blood streaked across the pale one's face. Yet, their, her expression remained as indifferent as it had been since the moment Iokar had seen her.

Ah, this bloodshed…

It's all the same to her, isn't it?

Darkness claimed him.

And soon after, nothingness followed.

They should have known.

Year after year of complacency with nothing to break up the monotony had dulled his edge.

They should have KNOWN.

'Spotting' the approach of an organised group from that far away, had it been planned from the start? Ceann couldn't be sure, still wasn't, and yet… The possibility should have occurred to him well before he heard a crash echo throughout the fort, coming from right where Iokar and the ballistae should be.

Now he was here, watching a pale, black-haired woman lift her bloodied hand from Iokar's throat while her cloaked companion watched. Whatever they had done, the walls and doorway were both gone entirely, and yet the room was somehow still standing.

The rush of feet behind him reminded him that he wasn't alone either, though.

"CHARGE!" Ceann screamed, pointing his curved greatsword at the pale-faced one and then, with the mental flick of a switch, directed half of his ten skeleton troops at the one in the cloak.

Sun-yellowed bone rushed forward, the chattering of teeth the mysterious stranger's only warning as they brandished swords and spears and hammers, and yet without hesitation he took aim with his silvery catalyst and blew four skeletal heads off their skeletal necks in succession, bringing his staff up to block the last's wild sword swing.

Another mental switch, and the remaining five bonemen went for the sorcerer. Ceann chose that moment to show a hand signal discreetly behind his back.

Lam, Coss, Comh, Lach and Rit had all come down with him to guard the entrance, confident in the knowledge that it would be free guard duty — that Iokar would have everything handled up here.

He supposed it was about time the six of them did their jobs.

They circled around the bloodied woman, using the rubble to their advantage to obscure her sightlines. She was clearly distracted, watching her cloaked companion fend off what was now only three of the skeletal footsoldiers.

Ceann was not about to look a gift bonewheel in the mouth - she could be as distracted as she wished.

Now in position, Ceann gave another hand signal and leapt out of his hiding place, his greatsword swinging in an arc at the pale one's neck-

Lam smirked at the signal, darting forward with the swiftness of the wind to plant two shortswords in its heart-

Coss grunted in frustration, swinging his war scythe in a heavy blow aimed at her shoulders-

Comh and Lach approached from opposite angles in the pale one's blindspot, hammers swinging towards its head in a move they had practised a hundred times together-

Rit began his spear thrust, polished to an immaculate sheen of skill through practice with Iokar, and froze.

The pale one they were supposed to take out in an ambush whirled around in a circle, before pointing a finger up to the sky.

And then, less than a moment later, retracted it.

Ceann's head sailed off in an arc, tufts of red hair peeking out from beneath the helmet now that the rest of the armour couldn't conceal them.

Lam's arms fell to the ground, even as his body sailed out the hole in the fortress' walls and into the swamps.

Coss lost his legs, and his body soon followed Lam's.

Comh and Lach fell into two pieces.

Rit stumbled back, his breathing suddenly heavy. The pale one turned to look at him with a curious gaze.

Rit did what he had always done best, and ran.

Past the broken walls, around the corner and into the fortress, where safety lied! Yes, if he could just get to Sir Lasadh- "Ghrk!"

Something long and leathery wrapped itself around his neck, a dark green glinting off it in the torch light. Its' grip tightened.

Rit looked to the ceiling, where it was coming from, and saw the scaled young 'woman' that Ceann had described earlier while they waited for Iokar to resolve things, claws keeping her attached to the ivory-white material.

You don't get skin tones like that in the underground, he thought through the lack of air.

He couldn't quite place the expression on her face. It looked almost… apologetic, maybe.

The tail's grip tightened again.

A snap, and Rit was no more.

Fola cowered and hid beneath a white-laden table, having long run out of the energy or space to keep running.

Iokar! Ceann…! How could any of this have happened? The fort bordering the Run-offs was supposed to be safe! Quiet! It was…!

Oh Lords, and it wasn't just Iokar or Ceann's squad, was it? Claio and Sola's skeletal gambit, Luch's little crew, one band of guards fell after another, and all he could do was hide. Couldn't even summon up the courage to close one last gap and report to Sir Lasadh.

Fola stilled.

Two sets of footsteps passed through the room.

He should have realised, should have chosen a better hiding spot! Of course these brigands were here for Sir Lasadh!

And yet, he couldn't believe his luck either - after a muffled conversation that Fola couldn't catch (and was, frankly, too frozen with fear to listen to), the sound of footsteps continued its quiet march onwards. Could he really be so lucky? His will to fight was dead and gone, but Fola couldn't help but think that maybe, if he were to try an ambush, it might at least give Sir Lasadh a chance to end this nightmare.

Wait.

The table of bone was lifted off the ground, and Fola found himself looking up into a pair of slitted golden eyes.

There had been two, hadn't there?

Fola closed his eyes and waited for the end.

"This really isn't going how I thought it would…" The scaly girl muttered, and Fola dared to crack open one eye just a smidge, "I, um, don't really know if you can understand me or not, but, just start running, okay? Into the swamps. Wait this out, or, even keep running? If you run into somebody, tell them Aris of Bones sent you."

Fola looked up at her, uncomprehending.

"Look, I'm trying to spare your life here, okay? Just… start running. And remember what I told you." The girl Fola assumed to be Aris of Bones looked down at him with a complicated expression. "I can't let you run to the surface, who knows what they'd do… but if you can keep yourself safe, and shout that out the moment somebody spots you, it might keep you alive, a little bit."

Fola wanted to do a lot of things, like scream. Hadn't she come here with those monsters, killing a path through everyone he'd known? What was this even about? Was she just playing games for her own amusement?

But, he could still recognise an olive branch when it was extended to him.

Slowly, Fola got up, his legs keeping steady but only just. Every inch of him wanted nothing more than to tremble uncontrollably.

He met the dragonkin girl's eyes, and slowly backed out of the room, keeping watch for any sudden movements. She never once broke eye contact.

Finally, he was through the ivory doorway.

Fola of the Run-Off Pillar Fort turned and fled.

The door to his chambers clicked open again.

"Have you come for my head, swampborne travelers?" Lasadh murmured as he put the finishing touches on one last painting. A four-fold cross… yes, that would do quite nicely indeed as a headstone.

For him, or them, he supposed it would remain to be seen. He could hear their footsteps as they stepped ever closer into his domain.

"Is it not enough? All you do is take," the old man continued, his quiet voice gaining strength, "Take and take and TAKE! Will it ever be enough, I ask? I won't allow anything more!"

They were close enough now. Lasadh's brush shifted from grey to a burning crimson, and he swung it in an arc, letting a crescent of bright red tear through the air.

A man in a ratty little black cloak threw himself down in a forward roll, while a girl in a lightly tattered leather tunic leapt up, using his canvases to avoid the crescent.

"Two? Just two? I see Galou's court has gone a bit soft in the head!" Lasadh threw his head back, and laughed.

Was it Galou's court, burying their little secrets? Was it the Gravelords, who had simply grown tired of his pointless little defiances?

Did it matter?

Lasadh dashed forward as the cloaked man stepped up out of his roll, thrusting the brush's spear-bristles at his covered face before the man could even attempt further defense.

A long, green tail lashed out from above, where the girl had been, and he was forced to pull back to deflect its blow to the side with the butt of his brush, then slammed it down at an angle, knocking the man's legs out from under him. Power had begun coalescing at the tip of his staff, and promptly dispersed when Lasadh struck true.

"Three, actually."

He felt a sudden, powerful blow to his side, one that sent him crashing through the rows of canvases all around his chambers.

The old painter attempted to push himself back up, but his left arm just wouldn't respond quite right. It was also bent firmly out of place. Lasadh hissed in pain, then looked back.

"Oh, you survived," a pale-faced young lady in curious black clothing noted, looking at him blankly. Had she snuck in? That was impossible, there was nothing he was unaware of in his chambers.

And yet, here she was.

"Ahh…" Lasadh breathed out, letting the pain wash over him and then out, "Brynn, Ethne, lend your dear father a hand, would you?"

A swish, a flick, and a line of red cut into the air, unleashing his children.

There was almost no warning for the intruders, as a barrage of painted Soul Arrows burst out from his dearest Ethne's portrait, and she stepped out. Long, blond hair, dark green eyes, clad in a deep blue cloak over a simple white dress, with a pointed navy hat to cap things off.

She looked every bit the wizard she had wanted to be. Lasadh chuckled — he'd be beating her would-be suitors off with a stick soon enough!

Despite the suddenness of the attack, however, the cloaked man managed to call upon his own soul just in time to counter Ethne's barrage with one of his own. Lasadh couldn't help but continue to laugh, for the foolish sorcerer missed the sharpened length of wood sailing through the air and towards his head.

Alas, it was not to be - though the sorcerer missed it, his scaled friend did not, and her tail lashed out once again, catching the spear mid-flight. Lasadh tutted.

And yet, his son still stepped into the fray, looking as handsome as ever in his knightly uniform - one without an emblem, for Brynn was finally his own man, a masterless knight. Dark green eyes twinkled with anger beneath cleanly-cut brown hair, staring a hole right into the pale-faced one's head.

His daughter held out a hand, colour splashing onto his palm as Lasadh allowed himself to be pulled up. Brynn circled around the intruders' little group, and the old painter couldn't help but chuckle once more.

"Now, then. I believe three on three makes things a tad fairer?"

It was in those brief, few moments, where their respective trios sized each other up, that the battle was nearly cut to a close.

With neither a warning nor the build-up that should've accompanied such an attack, the pale woman carved a line through the air with her hand, and Lasadh felt death come for him.

His children dived to the sides, using the canvases scattered across his chambers for cover as the air warped and twisted to accommodate for the distortion tearing through it. The paintings themselves were sent flying into the air and scattered across the room, but remained undamaged - protected as they were by Lasadh's own rules.

Lasadh had little time to feel relief over this, however.

He took a step back, and the distortion was already halfway to him.

A second step, and it was upon him.

A third, and it was so close he could feel the air push into his face, forcing him to close his eyes.

And then, the world rippled as he stepped through the painting behind him, and his chambers were replaced by the ravines at Galou's edges - or rather, his painted world's renditions of them.

The old artist permitted himself just one moment to breathe, to recover from his brush with death.

One moment and no more. Brynn and Ethne were still out there, fighting.

The bristles of his brush transformed from crimson to a gentle cerulean. Lasadh engraved a bridge into the world, connecting the cliff's bottoms to a sleepy little mountain-side village, and leapt down, letting the fall build momentum for him.

He reached the painting's edge, and pushed past it, launching out of a painting at terminal velocity, his brush pointed firmly at the young dragonkin's unguarded back, who was now entangled in a frantic melee with Brynn. Bristles hardened to prepare for a deathblow that would come too fast for anyone to react.

And yet, somebody did react. A pair of pallid fingers circled around and brushed his weapon gently to the side, sailing harmlessly past the startled dragonkin's ear. The black-clad pugilist continued her motion in an attempt to pluck Lasadh from the air, but Brynn took advantage of the dragonkin's surprise to go for an arching, upwards cut that would doubtless leave her bisected, forcing the pugilist to instead reach forward and pull the tanned woman out of the way and throw her over the canvases.

"Lady Nanami, whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy-?"

Lasadh's brush turned black and he painted himself a slippery ramp of ink mid-air, letting momentum do the rest to send him back into open air.

"Hah, now that's my boy!" The brush turned crimson, and swiped through the air. "Brynn here, he passed top of his class in guardsman training you know!"

The crescent of crimson that was his mainstay washed through the air and towards the pair, before being swiftly followed by a dozen more, and another half-dozen aimed further in at where the sorcerer had been engaging his dear Ethne in a duel of magic, before the dragonkin's airborne journey ended directly between them. Lasadh did not get to see the result of those six, the recoil of his crescent waves sending him closer to his destination, but he was displeased to note this 'Lady Nanami' counter each of his blood-red arcs with her bare hands.

Still, it had bought Brynn time to slip back into the maze of paintings, which had really been the main goal.

Lasadh watched the woman swipe another hand through the air just a moment too late, the world shifting into a cavern of dark crystal the moment the old man made contact with a painting.

He dropped into the dark, adjusting his footing to slide down the length of dark purple rock, slowly but surely picking up the speed he had lost in his escape. Lasadh jumped right before the crystal ran out under his feet, leaping onto another glowing length of rock he could see jutting out at an angle from the cavern's walls, and continued his slide.

Just a little more speed… The cavern grew narrower, and Lasadh grinned, ducking down beneath the overhang and letting himself slide past the crystal's edges, and into the real cavern.

An endless expanse of purple-black, so large that he could not even see the bottom. Crystals emerged into the distance, stabbing into the air at odd angles. Lasadh had only ever seen what laid within the Floating Archive's mountain range once, but it had stuck with him.

Now, he allowed himself to fall, deeper and deeper until he reached the world's edge once more, tearing back into reality to stab the cloaked sorcerer in his bloodied back while his ghostly blue blade was still locked with Brynn's. Lasadh was pleased - at least one of his crescents had struck true.

The sorcerer had been anticipating him, however, and a hail of tiny blue projectiles were fired from the back of his staff and towards the wizened old man, forcing Lasadh to swipe them from the air in a streak of black ink, costing him precious momentum - but not enough for the sorcerer to save himself.

Bristles hardened once more, and Lasadh's strike curved through the air and towards the other man's neck.

A pale hand gripped his brush, and Lasadh found himself flipping through the air before he crashed into the ground, hard. The impact rang through his body, and his broken arm made itself well and truly known.

Lasadh screamed.

"Got you," the pugilist said mildly.

Lasadh rolled to the side, just barely avoiding a fist spearing through where his chest had been. His right arm throbbed with agony.

Pushing himself up with the butt of his brush, Lasadh lashed out with a spinning kick that the pugilist harmlessly stepped under, fist rushing towards his face, before she leapt up.

Lasadh finished his spin, and the painted arrows he'd concealed behind himself launched forward - where he'd hoped she would be, trading a blow for a blow.

Lasadh watched her float in the air briefly, before her arm once more swiped through the air.

Bristles shifted rapidly between red, orange and yellow, and Lasadh pulled a miniature sun into existence.

The heat was unbearable this close, and yet Lasadh knew it was nothing compared to the real thing. Still, he was rewarded with a widening of the eyes as 'Lady Nanami' saw the painted star be pulled by the movement of his brush, before he sent it flying towards her.

She was moving in the air unassisted somehow, dodging the false star's first approach as she kicked off the air, but the sun's pursuit wasn't so easily broken. It whirled around and followed her, and she continued to hurriedly dodge in mid-air, not letting it get too close lest she catch fire by sheer proximity.

That would hopefully keep her busy for a while, or even kill her. Lasadh took stock of the fighting happening a little further away.

Ethne was currently fighting the dragonkin, who was in a frenzy trying to keep their battle firmly in close-range where his darling daughter couldn't work any of her more potent sorcery. Brynn's battle with the sorcerer was almost a reverse - the sorcerer was firmly keeping him close, lest Brynn try to break off and stab the scale-clad woman in the back. It was a curious stalemate, and one that Lasadh intended to break.

He went to move forward, and stumbled to the floor, his breathing heavy.

Calling things from his Painted World was no easy feat. A star, however false, was still a star, and Lasadh had taken his fair share of injuries in this fight.

He had stretched himself too thin. Simply wading into the melee and rescuing his children was beyond him.

Lasadh slowly, carefully, got back on his feet, using the brush as a support the whole way, and staggered towards the nearest canvas.

A surprise attack would do the job just as well. Better, even - the dragonkin was the weakest link. All he had to do was land one good blow while the sorcerer and pugilist were otherwise occupied, and he and his children could overwhelm the sorcerer, then take care of that pale-faced woman.

His apron brushed against the ground. A blast rang out loudly in the distance and the smell of burning permeated his senses - the false sun had found its target. Lasadh smiled, and, arm moving as though it was encased in lead, reached one shaking hand forward.

He pushed.

But when Lasadh dived into the painted mountains, he felt a strange and unfamiliar resistance to his entrance, one that vanished almost as quickly as it came.

He turned around.

"Hello," the pale-faced lady greeted, smiling faintly as smoke wafted gently from her sleeves. She had-! She had gripped a part of his apron and let herself be pulled in! Was she mad?

Lasadh stabbed with his brush towards her and she let go, taking a soundless step back to avoid its point. She truly was mad!

"Hah! I can just leave you here now, Miss Pugilist!" The warrior had trapped herself, and now all he had to do was step past the painting's edge before she could grab him once more.

"Maybe, maybe. But I've thought about it," she said, tapping the edge of her chin in consideration, "And for how durable your paintings are outside, you still have to affect them somehow to actually paint, don't you? I'm thinking, they probably aren't so durable inside here."

Lasadh blanched. As though to prove her point, her arm swiped through the air, and a chunk of the mountain disappeared.

It hadn't been destroyed. Lasadh simply couldn't look at that space anymore - his brain skipped across what should have been piles upon piles of snowfall, and straight to the rocky bottom.

"Would you care to find out what happens when your painting disappears with you inside it?" She said, her smile taking on a malicious air - or perhaps it had been there all along.

"You wouldn't dare… You wouldn't take that risk, not with you in here as well." Lasadh ground out. Not here-! Not this memory!

Her smile widened.

"Wouldn't I, though?"

She showed him three fingers. A countdown? No, surely not.

The ring finger went down.

She wouldn't- She couldn't-

The middle finger followed.

He had to do something.

"If you swear to not touch the paintings," Lasadh hurriedly spoke, "I'll… I'll stop using them to move around."

The countdown stopped. He could tell the offer had thrown her for a loop. If he could make a break for it now…

Before he could even begin dashing for the painted world's edges, she was already beside him, gripping his apron once more. His injuries were catching up to him - he hadn't even seen her move, that time.

"You had better keep to your end of the deal, painter," his opponent remarked pleasantly, "Or I shan't give you a countdown, next time."

Lasadh breathed, and pushed them towards the world's edge.

They appeared as suddenly as they had disappeared in his own fort's walls, Brynn and Ethne already in the middle of their attacks against the interloper. Lasadh had made his last jump count.

The sound of cloth and flesh tearing met his ears, and the painter hissed in pain. Though his children's attacks forced the woman to disengage, she still managed to get one last slash in, blood trailing behind her retreat.

And yet, over-extending like that proved to be their downfall.

Dearest Ethne, his darling daughter, fell forward, her mouth forming the soundless "O" of surprise, and she collapsed, seeping into the floorboards. The dragonkin who'd been bouncing around his precious canvases stared at her outstretched fist, still stained and splattered by the remnants of Ethne's body.

Lasadh wanted to scream, but Brynn got there first, his mouth opening in a wordless roar of rage.

And an accursed circle of fire, something Lasadh never wanted to witness again, flared to life on Brynn's chest.

Lasadh watched his beloved son move faster than ever before, blade aimed at the dragonkin's throat as she frantically stepped back, an arrow of blue light just barely stopping his assault as it punched through his head and cause his body to join his sister's as a stain on the floor-

-Only for a second Brynn to burst out of the painting directly behind the scale-clad girl, stabbing the length of his spear through her shoulder, that flaming circle glowing even brighter. She screamed, and a blade of blue light punched through the second Brynn's heart. The sorcerer had entered melee range-

-And received a cut across his back for his troubles, as Brynn emerged once more, this time from a mountainside village, leaping through the air and into a fourth painting before the sorcerer could react.

Lasadh watched his son overwhelm the two intruders with his deaths, forcing the cloaked man to choose between protecting himself and his scaled partner and gladly taking deathblows in exchange, whittling the sorcerer down such that he could not even mount a defence.

And yet, the old painter could only wail.

"THEY'LL SEE! THEY'LL SEE!"

That circle! That circle again! Not again, not again-!

He had to do something to stop it, and yet his body wouldn't move.

Or, not wouldn't. His body wouldn't stop him from moving to help his child again.

He felt no pain - how strange, when there was a bloodied hand puncturing his chest.

"Brynn, was it?" A soft, familiar voice called out from behind Lasadh, "If you take another step towards them, your dear father over here will die much quicker than he has to."

Brynn… hesitated. His weaponry splashed onto the floor.

Lasadh's breathing quickened, and he pulled himself off the honorless woman's hand. She did not stop him, nor made any move to prevent the blood gushing out of his chest.

"You've… already killed me. Why… bother?" Lasadh murmured out, each word a struggle. Brynn seemed torn between renewing his assault with just his bare hands, or doing something to help. Ultimately, loyalty won out - his painted boy dragged Lasadh's arm across his own shoulders, pulling him up and trying to staunch the bleeding with his own hands.

Paint mixed with blood ineffectually, but Lasadh appreciated the thought.

"I assumed you'd prefer to die with your children. And, hm," the pugilist paused to think, "If you have any last requests, I wouldn't mind granting them. Within reason, of course."

There were a few things Lasadh wanted. The pugilist to fall upon her own blade was, of course, at the top of the list.

But if she were being truly honest, it was his responsibility to use these last requests wisely.

"Why… are you here?" The old man managed to choke out. Blood welled up in his throat.

"For information," the gruff voice of the cloaked sorcerer came from behind, and Lasadh craned his head to see him holding a roll of white cloth in one hand and apply some strange green paste to the dragonkin's wounds with the other. She looked unsteady, unfocused. Lasadh wasn't surprised.

"We hoped to make a more discreet entry, but by Nanami's words, your guards proved more observant than expected. We want the information your fort carries," the cloaked man continued, "To find, and kill, the Gravelords."

Hah. How ironic. He would ask what made them think they could slay a god, and yet, who was he to question pointless defiance?

Onto the second matter, then.

"Burn their bodies before you leave," he indicated with a shaky nod towards his chamber's entrance, "Those you've killed. Coming back as Undead… I don't want to see what would happen to them. And…"

Lasadh paused. Could he really? Would he?

O Gravelords, I will spit in your eye one last time.

"Brynn… will take you to the messenger bats. He will… show you, whatever letter you wish. And," the old man turned his gaze upon his son, "write a letter of assurance. All is well. All is in order."

The same letter Lasadh had written for the past century. His Lords would notice nothing, because there was nothing to notice.

All eyes were on him, now.

"...why?" The cloaked sorcerer finally asked.

"Is an old man… not allowed some secrets? Consider it my last request." The painter murmured, his voice growing weak.

The pugilist gave him a nod of acknowledgement, just as the dragonkin looked at him strangely. He could not read the cloaked man's expression beneath his hood, but his body was hunched, defensive.

Let him keep his suspicions. Lasadh had already played his last card.

Brynn gently set him down against a canvas and led the three intruders away. Lasadh let himself close his eyes, just a little. He would stay alive, fulfil his last defiance. He just needed a little rest.

The sound of burning flesh awoke him some time later. They had listened. Despite himself, Lasadh felt pleased.

He had not led the fort very well in all his time here, but he had at least ensured those under his command did not have to go through the Gravelords' tender mercies.

Brynn wandered back into the room. Lasadh smiled weakly at the barely visible blob of yellow and silver.

He allowed himself to be lifted up, and embraced his son as best as his failing arm allowed.

They were moving, he noted distantly. Brynn pushed them up against, and into, a canvas.

A sea of green, beneath a blood red sky, greeted him. Something round and bright dropped from that sea and onto the ground before them.

Brynn returned his embrace. Lasadh felt a second pair of arms join them from behind, but alas, his vision was now too faded to see the visage of his darling daughter.

They laid him down beneath an oak tree he could no longer see, but Lasadh smiled all the same.

Ah…

I won't be the last to go, this time.

Lingering Long-Brush

A length of oak wood, adorned with bristles of iron. Can also be used as a spear.

It is said that Lasadh the Deserter lost thrice. His loyalty, he lost in Galou. His will to fight, he lost in the Deadlands. And his heart, he lost to the Labyrinth.

Weapon Art: Spiteful Artistry

Calls forth images of a young man and woman. Additional button presses will cause them to attack enemies.

Also interacts with certain paintings.

A/N: Sometimes, life comes at you hard. Sometimes you get heart palpitations in the middle of a 12-hour shift and it really takes you out for a few days.

At this point I'm worried that my 'deadlines' are just there to pressure me into writing more once I miss them.

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed reading this - it's a little different from the previous ones, but I quite enjoyed writing it. As per usual, any comments or criticisms are welcome.

Next Chapter: Daffodils 3•2, on the 9th of February.

Toodles~