"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
07-14-2016, 09:57 PM (This post was last modified: 08-09-2016, 04:57 PM by Grumblesnakes.)
You guys. :| You're making this elimination thing impossible. Good job. I never thought I would be grateful someone forfeited, but Malis, thank you, dear. You made half of my decision for me. Because of the extenuating circumstances, we can hash out details of how exactly Malis got home OOC. Contact me when you have time, and we'll sort it out to both our satisfaction.
Everyone else, thank you so much for participating. The decision was extremely difficult (hardest quest elimination ever, you guys), but Sleaze, the quest ends here for you. Cassi, if you'd like, he can keep that clever little cyanide capsule. Given that you're an owner, I'll leave both the decision of whether you want to do so and whether you're allowed to do so up to you. Grumbles turns to look at Sleaze, one of his beauties, one of his greatest creations. Twice now, Sleaze has submitted himself, willingly or no, to Grumble’s cause. Twice, he has fought to survive at the hands of forces far beyond reason, even if this time those hands were Grumble’s own. As the sky turns black and the end draws near, Grumblesnakes is struck by an inexplicable attack of conscience. You won’t die for me today. He touches Sleaze’s cheek, stealing the battle magic out of him with a gentle caress. With a kiss to the velvet softness of his nose, Sleaze is snapped back to the location from which he was taken. “Go home, love. I’ll take it from here. Thank you for your help.”
The rest of you? It's time to retreat. As the enemy closes in and the attack begins, you flee into the depths of the fortress with Grumbles, trusting to your extensive defenses to at least buy you some time. The hunters that have come for Grumblesnakes are stronger than anything you faced in practice, than anything you could have conceived of, and Grumble has poured so much into the fortifications that his power is running low. Even as you enter the fortress, the outer force field falls beneath the onslaught of magical attacks.
Somehow you make it to his inner sanctum, and he activates the last of the defensive magic with a touch, draining himself dry in the doing of it. Then he reaches out and presses his hand to the flat of your cheek. “You're my last hope, darling,” he murmurs, shaking as he looks back at the door.
“Is it time, then?” comes a slurred voice from a dark corner of the room, and a vaguely familiar face emerges from the shadows. You've seen him around the fortress, though you haven't had cause to interact with him. Master's friend, the one with the strange name—though perhaps strange names are relative, are they not? Stumbleduck has been contributing to the magical fortifications while you slept, taking shifts helping out as best he could, and just like Grumble, he's running on empty.
“They're here, Ducky,” Grumbles confirms, leaning against you for support. “They're here, and I don't know if we've done enough.” Well. He's not wrong. Despite the agonized screams from fairies that encounter your devious traps, it isn't long before the last of them are breaking down the doors and flooding in. You may have no chance of succeeding, but you're all Grumble has left. Half a dozen fairies, all sporting obvious signs of injury and exhaustion, are gunning for your master. And you're his last line of defense.
They aren't as worn out as Grumblesnakes and Stumbleduck, but maybe...maybe it isn't completely hopeless. Still, they charge at you, attacking with what power they have left. Six against one. Here's the problem: now that Grumble's out of power, every hit you take, every attack you fire back, drains you. Kick some fairy ass, but end your post with at least one left alive. This is the final round, so make it as deliciously brutal as you like. You have until 10 PM CST on Saturday to complete the quest, and I will post an epilogue and the results within two days thereafter. Good luck, my pretties.
When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend
"They are here." Master's hand settling against my shoulder and then leaving it almost as quickly. "Come on pet." He says and just as we turn there is a crash of sound and bright lights that flash when they hit the outside of the dome. I cringe, the sound and lights overloading my senses. Turning to look, I watch as they crash into the dome and as they break it. Almost as if it weren't even there to begin with. Some fly into the electric clouds and fall screaming. This makes me smile a little, for while they were definitely the strongest thing I had ever seen in my short life, they were still killable.
I take to the air, flying as high as I dare to get a better look at the ground and watch as they fall into the traps, as they hit the walls and get stuck. I watch for a few brief seconds, daring to take one more before I dive back to the ground and we rush inside. I was in absolutely awe and disbelief. How were we to beat them all when they swarmed the ground like an overturned anthill and make the sky black with their bodies like a locust swarm?
My hope begins to falter, and I think I might die here after all.
I hear the hunting calls of the hounds and the fighting of the dragons as they roar, challenging their opponents. As they shriek when one falls, slain. I can hear the thundering of their wings as they open them and take to the skies. Bloodthirsty and in a rage, I can hear the screams of the dying as they are either eaten or magicked to death. I can hear the same from the hounds. The barking and the growling and the general chaos of the defenses that we have put together.
A hunter, dressed in black with the only thing visible are the almost white blue of his eyes, crashes through one of the windows in front of us. And I step forwards, getting ready to take care of some business, but before I can do anything, the hounds are there. They leap onto the hunter, swarming him in a mass of black shadows. He screams and they fall back out of the window.
Splashes of water from the moat make me smile as I hear them through the broken window as we rush by.
The twittering of the sparrow-cats is like a melody to my ears as I hear the destruction they too are wrecking on the enemy.
I feel like the battle has been raging on outside for hours, days even, but in reality it has been minutes. Maybe thirty of them. And we are still rushing through the fortress, going to that inner sanctum that I had left to Grumble to secure. Well Grumble and his drunk friend. So it wasn't a huge surprise to me when Duck comes waddling from the corner, already drunk and almost incapiciated. Would he be any use? I wonder if there would be some way that I could possibly use him as a decoy to keep Master safe. If I could magick him somehow to look like Master and magick Master into looking like....Ahah...there. "Master I have put a glamour on you. It will be the last line of defense...should I fail." And I duck my head slightly at the thought, unwilling to let that happen.
He would look like a plastic horse in a mound of other broken toys, although I am not sure where this came from and I don't bother to tell Master. "Just don't move." And I glamour Duck to look like Master. This way.....I don't have time to think.
You're my last hope, darling. Master had said and while I could hear their magic hammering away, I felt my doubt melt away. Thick, callous like skin grows along my tender parts, along my belly, the underside of my throat. Very thin pieces of steel wrap themselves around my legs, giving them a little extra protection. This magic is only a small amount and so I don't feel the effects of it yet. But I would soon.
Six of them finally break through and I send a body sized fireball at each of them. Two of them weren't expecting the sudden attack after chasing us through the Fortress. However, the other four were very much alive. I call what was left of the shadow hounds to me, in a loud call that echoes through our sanctum and out into what was left of our beautiful home. It had been a home after all. Something I had grown to care for. The hounds would at least be a distraction, something to keep some of them busy while I take them out one by one...because I would.
I start with all magic, blowing them backwards and then sending spikes barreling through the air after them. I miss, of course, or they deflect them and send a gust back at me. I lower my head and brace myself. I miss one hunter's attack. His fingers curled like claws that rip open my cheek. I grunt in pain, blood already dripping from the hanging flesh. I make a quick move, stomping on his foot and then using my sharp teeth to grab him right on the thick rope of his trapezius muscle. His blood coats my tongue in a metallic taste. I shake my head, my body growing into a large draft horse.
I toss him to the side when a sharp pain in my shoulder makes me look. A hilt of a dagger is sticking out of my body and without a thought I mentally rip it out and send it back into the throat of the assailant.
Down to two left.
I manage to staunch the blood in my shoulder and in my cheek. It burns, but no longer drips. A sudden wave of dizziness overcomes me. Shit. I was going to have to finish this up and make it quick. I was tiring and becoming weaker the more attacks I took and the more magic I used. I tried to attack the next hunter with only physical but the other tried to head for Duck and Master and I couldn't let that happen.
Just as I turn (taking another slice from a rather sharp sword to the front of my shoulder and the clinking of metal tells me my leg will live to see another day), the shadow hounds I had called earlier come barreling through the hole in the door and leap on the hunter. Rather, the two of them do. These hunters are definitely the strongest things I have ever seen in my life.
The other hunter is raising his sword to cut off my head but a thick metal plate stops him even as I do a quick turn to run my hindquarters into him. He stumbles and I aim a hard kick with my big draft horse style hooves right into his chest. He falls and doesn't get up. I turn and look, the hounds have managed to finish off that last one for me. I turn to look back to Grumble and start to smile, but that one Hunter, the first one that I attacked and bite, is rolling to his feet. "Hell." I mutter but I stand, my body weakened by the attacks, by the defenses and the magic I have used today. By the blood that drips as my hold on my magic slips and it releases the tightening of my arteries that I had done to staunch my blood. My wounds burn, but my eyes narrow. I would finish this.
The darkness feels all encompassing, suffocating, even as Fart breathes in and out unhindered. He races to Grumble, taking to wing to speed the process, the enemy has come and heaven help them if they managed to reach his friend before he did. If they did, well, they would have one pissed off pony to deal with. When he does find the stout man he is already ushering Fart forth, calling to him over the booming crash of the failing force field and Fart can barely make out the sound of his voice against it. Another crash ripples over head, the force field visibly following suit, with spheres like a raindrop on water marking each bolt of magic.
The roan stallion rushes to land, almost stumbling to a halt as a grubby hand finds his neck and together he and Grumble delve deep into the depths of the Fortress. Out of his peripheral Fart sees the last sparks, the last cracks of magic that make up the barrier and his muddy eyes go wide.
Even behind brick and mortar the sounds are not subdued, each crash solicits the shaking of the walls and faint trickles of powder fill the halls with dust. He blinks his eyes against it, throwing his wing up overhead to block what he can of the loose particles. A make shift shield for his eyes which he now had a better sense of care for. Somehow, and Fart does not know just how, they make it to the inner sanctum. Once inside, Grumbles face pales as he activates yet more magic, shakily placing his palm against Fart’s cheek when he is done. “You’re my last hope, darling”, he murmurs, voice shaking to equal the trembling of his body and Fart never knew the once fairy could look so frail.
He does not give up though, that ugly-faced roan. Instead he sets a steely look on his face, brown eyes flat and alert as they glare at the door. “Is it time, then?”. A slurred voice from the corner causes the turn of his head, a familiar shape emerging from the shadows and Fart rests his eyes on the one with the strange name. Or is it that strange? He too looks like a ghost of himself, a weak and feeble creature and Fart pities him. Pity, Fart knew that emotion well and knew the way his eyes must look as they looked long and hard at the two fragile beings next to him. “They're here, Ducky,” Grumbles confirms, leaning against Fart for support. “They're here, and I don't know if we've done enough.”
It is a time that they listen, huddled there together in that sanctuary, in that room of last resort. The screams are insistent, then they are curdled, a range of sounds both new and old. Fart can hear the roar of the gargoyle dragons as they fight, no doubt blazing through those in their paths with jaws parted wide. He can also hear them as they fall, agonized wails of grating stone and then the tumble of stone against stone as they crash, no doubt defeated. Sometimes Fart counts them, the sound of the defenses as they trigger or fall, his mind ticking off the numbers in silence as two short men quake against him. They are coming for them and he knows, they are coming and it will not be long now.
As if on cue the door shatters. Shards of wood and iron bombard the threesome as Fart throws his wings wide in an attempt to deflect what he can from his friends. He rears then, tucking them back, forelegs pounding at the empty air and a shrill battle cry ringing from his parted mouth. They had come for Grumble but Fart would not simply cow at their attacks, he would not part so easily from his newest and greatest friend. He would protect his Grumble, he would give them hell.
The odds are not in his favor but when had they ever been? The dice had been rolled against Fart from birth and he knew this fact all too well. He had lived with that knowledge for such a long time and what had he ever had to lose before this? Nothing. That made him fight all the harder, that gave him a reason to fight and even if he failed he would thank Grumble for it, he would spend his last dying breath to make it known.
Six fairies enter, all battle worn and displaying signs of exhaustion. They look well on their way to both Grumble and Duck’s condition and this sparks a tiny light of hope in Fart’s mind. However these creatures of magic are just as relentless in their cause, charging the limey horse as a single unit and biting furiously at his roany coat. Our hero falls, crashes to the floor with a ‘thunk’ as they push him backwards and down. Tiny wings flap madly about his body and then he roars against them, rolling to his side and pressing himself up. Red mars his bright coat, a macabre painting of christmas with no cheer to behold with the comparison. He uses his laser vision first, turning his head in an attempt to strike them all down, no such luck- only one falls prey to the iron hot rays. The others scatter, a few dive bombing towards Grumble and Stumbleduck and Fart races to climb to his hooves, dashing forward to block them from their goal. From some he snatches their wings, yanking at the fluttering, gossamer things until the wrench free from fairy backs.
Another falls, cut down mid flight with the sharp edges of Fart’s wings, and the roan himself almost plunges to the floor. He shakes his head, momentarily caught off guard by a feeling of faintness. Almost a swift draining of energy but it is so far slight, and he doesn’t have time to think on or acknowledge it against his pumping adrenaline. Since he is distracted his enemies take advantage of the lapse, biting him in his most tender places. One fairy spares its last bit of magic to blast one of the stallions wings, the appendage slowly begins to deteriorate- a wretchedly painful process. For a moment Fart remembers a bright room and pain- his sweet master’s voice echoes as well, but the memory is delirium and he can not think on it over long. He writhes in fits as he stands in place, wishing to rid himself of the burning and decaying part but it is not something he can run from. Instead ,Fart must endure the slow rot as it seeps its way down through feather and bone and finally crumbles the wing to ash.
That is how three ended.
There are still three more though and nature has a way of ousting the weakest links. Now comes the time when the stallion feels himself weaken, acknowledges that it is not simply the fighting that drains him. Something more is at work here and when he turns his head to the corner where Grumble and Duck cower it is that solemn look that tells him. He too is fading.
It is a feeling he can not compare to most, one he does not have the words for and as those left come at him, he can not seek a calling for it. They clash together, three against one, Fart charging and rearing over and over. When he can he blends into the backdrop, seemingly to disappear from sight and strike them with well placed kicks. They take their time in weakening, these three, and he doesn’t know when he might finally fell them. Another time he uses the poison gas, belching the noxious fumes into an oncoming twisted snarl. As he does so he trembles, shakily standing above the passed out fae. Then Fart does something he has never done before. He rises and smashes into the limp figure, up and down, until the cobble floor is blood stained and his legs sport crimson stockings. It couldn’t even fight back and yet he did not care, his friend needed him to protect him and Fart did so without consideration for his morality.
Breath finds him in gasps, his chest heaving to rake in air as though he is fighting suffocation. Another fairy is on him, chewing into his side and leaving great gashes from its gnawing, yellowed teeth. He tries to turn the creature against itself, attempts to gain its favor using his mind but he is dangerously close to empty and can not muster the power. He bats this one away, shoving it off with his one good wing, though it returns in a fury, this time biting out one of his eyes. Another pain he knows races through him and he does not muffle the scream that bubbles past his lips. Once he had had his eyes plucked from their sockets though he does not recall when, and again he had lost one to the fury of a raging beast. Fart stumbles side long and by luck catches the responsible fairy against the wall as he does so, smashing into him before he crashes to the floor. With his one good wing he jabs at the broken creature, stabbing it until it no longer screams, until he doesn’t attempt to claw its way towards him against the stone floor- until his blood is not the only blood to stain his face.
He can’t move now though, his heart racing like a rabbit as it struggles to continue pumping. The last fairy breathes a foul breath as it looms over him but he doesn’t have an eye for it. Instead he watches Grumble and Duck twitching in their corner, and he can not muster the strength to go to them, even as he tries and fails to lift his legs. Instead he lays against the hard cobbles, the blood soaked floor feeling remarkably warm against his throbbing head, and it is almost as though he is melting into it. With each breath he fades further and further away, whispering ever so softly, “Grumble...my beauty...Grumble...my greatest...”
There is not a moment to lose, and with haste and with his marred pelt still engulfed in white-hot, sapphire tinted flames, he lowers his thick, massive neck to breathe a heavy stream of flames along the otherwise dried, wilting grasses of the flatland. With a steady canter, he surrounds the simple, deceiving little shack in a growing, roaring fire, which begins to crawl through the thin air and brush gently along the glowing force field, which weakens with each passing moment. Deep within, he knows that it will not hold them at bay for long, and as the heavy, flickering flames begin to simmer across his untouched flesh, he bathes himself in a layer of frost to extinguish the heat. It feels familiar and stirs a longing in his heart that he had desperately attempted to drown out (a part of him knew he may never see his beloved family and iceland again, but he grips onto the throbbing sensation of woe and uses it to fuel the rampant anger that swells within his chest.
The frost soon melts away, leaving him damp and slick, yet cool to the touch - it is now that he presses the flat of his cheek against Grumblesnakes’ shoulder, urging him towards the door as the flames grow closer and closer to where he stands, trembling and uttering terrified phrases beneath bated breath. The heat from the searing flames is scalding, and if it were even an inch closer, it would surely cause destruction to either one of them. The lanky ex-fairy godfather clings closer to the matted locks of hair that lay moist against his marred coat and he presses him through the crooked door, which once more expands around his massive, behemoth form to allow him passage.
Soon, Grumblesnakes seems to shake himself of his frightened reverie and he flees, with a massive, rippling force of muscle cantering after him. His heart pounds against the strict confines of his rib cage, and the blood floods through his veins with the force of adrenaline. Soon, they each reach the end of the long passageway, which glimmers beneath the glowing light of the vibrant, refracting quartz that line the ceiling. His own crimson eyes glimmer with uncertainty, staring at the panting, wary Grumblesnakes, who reaches out gently to stroke his terse cheek. He does not flinch now, but his brow (at least, were he to have a more pronounced one) furrows. ”You’re my last hope, darling,” he murmurs, but Offspring stares defiantly at him.
”It isn’t over yet.”
Then suddenly, a stirring. His searing red eyes peer beyond the gangly man before him, fury festering once more within his chest as he prepares himself to act defensively - but laying sprawled in the very corner of the passage, between a cabinet of personal belongings and a heavy, golden tapestry lay the useless, drunk hunk of worthless fairy that had loomed around the fortress for several days. He studies him with disdain for several moments, but his ear turns to listen to the heavy echo of shrill, tormented screams (undoubtedly as the fairies encounter the obstinate white-hot flames that protect the fortress) followed by a magical battering ram pounding away at the fortified door by those who manage to make it past his defense unscathed. There isn’t much time, he knows.
The feeble, shaking man presses against his firm, taut shoulder for support, and gently, Offspring huffs - his wide nostrils flaring as the sounds continue to echo. He cannot stand still any longer, and he can see the vibrant color of their skin (both Grumblesnakes’ and Stumbleducks’) beginning to fade away to a sickly, dull gray, and he is certain that he is their last and only hope. Memories flicker momentarily, to having his scars tortuously split apart, to his painfully frigid, frozen heart pounding to the point of nearly exploding - and yet, the halter that has since fallen away mottled his memory, diluting the very face and figure behind the relentless torture. He cannot remember the pieces that led him to this very moment, but something within him pushes him to act. He cannot remain idle any longer.
Veering away from the two, he canters to the edge of the passageway and pauses near two massive pillars on each side, casting a glance back to his befuddled master and his drunken companion. The echoes of the heavy pounding on the door echo louder, but he closes his eyes tightly, focusing heavily on the task at hand. Slowly, a glimmering shield of red and yellow once more emerges and crawls along the heavy cobblestone walls, encompassing each and every object and item within the passageway with a heavy blanket of force field fueled protection. It creeps inch by inch, nearing the very end, but he finds himself growing tired from the pure exertion of it all. His heart pounds again in his chest - thud, thud, THUD
At last, the force field cradling the two helpless, terrified fairies within is sealed, and with a weary look, Offspring veers his massive neck to the left, one dark eye peering at the fairies that pour in from the still scorching, burning exterior. Two press past him, thick orbs of white burning from their very palms as they run eagerly and recklessly towards the nearly invisible force field. Knowing the very danger lurking within the magic of the force field, he paces away, circling around in the broad hall as he is struck by a sudden bolt of fire from unknown source, which sears his skin and leaves a long streak of torn flesh. He cries out, voice strained in rage and anguish - but his voice is not the only one to echo in the chamber. The fairies from moments before finally come into contact with the hefty, glittering barrier and the unseen force absorbs their power, surging with a tingle of electricity - promptly engulfing the shrieking figures in thousands of bolts of electricity, searing their flesh and causing the whites of their eyes to melt down along their sallow cheeks beneath the immense heat and electrical current. Soon, they lay against the cold cobblestone floor, blood seeping from their ears as their bodies melds hotly into the ground.
The sight causes a few of the fairies still lunging themselves towards the massive, towering stallion to still, stunned. Those nearing the force field now step back, wary of it, though their eyes now burn with a loathing for a new target. Though growing weaker by the moment, he takes this moment of brief reprieve to engulf his marred, obsidian pelt in white-hot flames again, a familiar engagement that fails to tire him in the same way other magic might have. He grunts loudly at the impact of two bodies against his hot, burning flesh, and their shrieks cause an ache deep within his own soul and mind - a sound he is certain he will never forget. The flames had appeared too suddenly for their pumping legs to cease in time, and now they lay against the cobblestone, crying out and writhing in utter torment as their flesh falls away from their sinewy tissue and bone.
He does not have a moment to waste - a fourth surrounds him from the rear, a heavy orb of purple glowing in his crafty hands, but he does not hesitate. Pressing the heft of his weight onto his two forelegs, he lifts up his hind end and launches his massive, powerful legs towards him. With two heavy fractures to the chest cavity, the fairy is left gasping breathlessly as he tumbles across the painfully hard, solid flood, crumbling into a heap against a distant wall - before a massive explosion rattles the very foundation of the fortress. He turns once more to witness the carnage of his own prowess, only to see rumble and tingling bolts of electricity pulsating from the wreckage.
Five down, one to go.
The flames begin to simmer as exhaustion slowly settles into his weary, tired bones, and he gasps as agonizing pain rips through him. A heavy white shield encapsulates him, forcing a pressure he has never known against his hefty, broad body. It cripples him, forcing him to the hard, cold cobblestone as the weight of it pushes the flames not only against his flesh, but beyond it. A fairy smiles menacingly above him as she begins to manipulate the flames he once held such strength over, but now they begin to penetrate his pores, melting away at the delicate fatty tissue. He is overcome, and is powerless to stop it.
Sweat rises to the surface of his tired flesh, causing a hot steam to rise from the surface. His skin begins to bubble and pus rapidly from the white-hot heat, which draws away any moisture from his tissue and leaves him as a festering wound. His skin shifts over his flinching, trembling muscles as he rests his cheek against the cool stone - the neurons within his mind fire off in a million directions, but a delicate haze washes over him as his nerve endings give way to the excruciating pain. The world begins to fade to black, with nothing but the gentle but vengeful cackle of the young female looming over him echoing over, and over in his mind ..
And then, as quickly as it had all begun, it was over.
It was over. He had failed. He had failed him. He had failed her.
Gently, his heavy eyelids close over tired, red eyes.
I tried, Isle. I tried so hard to get back to you. I love you. I'm .. sorry.
OFFSPRING
the ice king of the tundra
TLDR:
Five dead, one living.
Killed two from an electric force field protecting Grumblesnapes and Stumbledick, two killed from physically attacking him while he was again engulfed in white fire. One killed from being kicked and having their own magic orb explode from the impact. The sixth engulfed Offy in a force field that kept his flames close to his body until it delved beneath his skin, cooking him from the inside and melting away his fatty deposits and flesh. At the end, he blacks out from the pain.
The earth trembles beneath the force of the attack, the sky darkly ominous as the force field surrounding them flashes in resistance to each repeated assault. With only a single glance at each other, Grumblesnakes and Shannisoran turn and flee. As they cross the moat, the gray stallion turns briefly to release the covering containing the acidic cloud of mist. His eyes shift quickly to the distant barrier, unable to resist checking on how their defenses fare. As he watches, the shield fails, allowing a flood of fairies to enter. Screams rise from those unfortunate souls who have already tasted the horror of their defenses, but the numbers are so great they simply overwhelm the now seemingly meager obstacles he and Grumblesnakes had installed.
Turning, Shan bursts into a gallop, activating traps as he passes, though they now seem so paltry in comparison to the forces currently banging on their doorstep. Grumblesnakes is growing weary, having spent so much of his energy and magical resources on the defenses that currently hold back the horde of fairies seeking entry into the fortress. Shan pauses only for a moment to allow Grumblesnakes to climb onto his back, but it is enough time for the sounds of their enemies making entry into the keep to reach him.
Bolting forward, Shan flashes through the twisting halls until they finally reach the inner sanctum with the sound of angry creatures echoing far too closely behind them. As the doors slam shut behind them, Grumblesnakes slides off Shan, reaching out to activate the wards. This act drains the very last of his power, leaving him nothing more than a hollow shell of his former self.
As Shan turns to him, the little man who had become such a great friend to him reaches up to lay a hand upon his cheek. He speaks in a soft tone, his words sending a chill along Shan’s spine. If this man does not stand a chance against such creatures, how could he possibly hope to?
The slurred voice that sounds from a darkened corner causes Shan to start. Whipping around, his gaze lands upon a vaguely familiar face emerging from the shadows. He remembers seeing this man occasionally, helping cast spells and fortify their defenses. He appears to be just as drained as Grumblesnakes unfortunately.
Which means it is up to Shannisoran now.
It is a task he is not entirely certain he has strength enough for. But, for Grumblesnakes, he would try.
And, if necessary, he would die.
Moments later the sounds of attack on the room’s defenses echo clearly through the chamber. They had reached them so quickly. The sound of torment is clear, but still they continue, refusing to relinquish their revenge. Shan steps forward, squaring his stance as he prepares for battle.
Seconds later, the door bursts open. Six small creatures (so very similar to Grumblesnakes) enter the room cautiously, glancing around them warily. All six bear obvious signs of injury, all clearly weary from their fight with the fortress’ defenses. Behind them the bodies of several other fairies still burn while several more lie with blood leaking from their faces.
As Shan places himself firmly between Grumblesnakes and his enemies, his hard features settle into unforgiving lines. ”If you want him, you shall have to go through me,” he grits out, his tone as cold as newly driven snow.
The foremost fairy grins at that, amusement and just a hint of cruelty suffusing his features. ”Easily done,” he responds lightly before launching a conjured ball of magical flame at Shan.
With barely a thought, Shan’s skin ripples, turning to the fire-resistant scales of the dragon. He braces himself as the flames roll over skin, heating him to a nearly unbearable point. But the scales do their job, leaving him relatively unscathed. He does notice however, the sudden drain to his power with the use of it.
It seems he would need to be wise in the use of his magic.
So he leaves the scales as they are, instead choosing to add fangs and wicked talons to his ensemble. The diminishing of his power is immediately notable. But with the battle upon them, Shan cannot allow fear to hold sway. Instead he launches for the rather surprised looking fairy, sharpened teeth bared.
His opponent’s hands come up, but not quickly enough. Shan is upon him, teeth seeking (and finding) flesh. The taste of hot, coppery blood fills his mouth as he tears muscle from bone, ending the terrible little creature almost as easily as breathing. His dying squeals are music to his ears, giving him a boost of confidence sorely needed.
The other fairies of course take exception to the slaughter of their brother in arms, using his distraction to launch attacks of their own at him. A burst of radiant white light shoves him sideways, causing him slam into the far wall. His teeth jangling roughly together, Shan growls (a surprising sound coming from such an equine throat), shaking off the pain as he had learned to in Grumblesnakes earlier trials. He sends out a blast of his own, an invisible, concussive force meant to break bones. Two fairies slam against the far wall, shrieking in agony, while the remaining three manage to throw up a barrier in time to deflect Shan’s magic.
The once gray stallion is forced to lock his knees then, hiding the tremble that suddenly threatens as his strength is drained yet more. Pushing forward, Shan steps away from the wall just in time to avoid a large, deadly shaft that suddenly erupts from its surface. He is not so lucky with the second spear, which appears near his feet and bursts up into his shoulder. He grunts in pain as he leaps away, though blood streams freely from the wound.
As more shafts erupt around him, Shan swiftly forces wings to form before he launches upwards towards the ceiling. For a moment, he fears he will not be able to maintain his flight due to his sudden weakness, but fortunately his wings hold and he reaches the ceiling.
He does not hesitate as he turns and dives back down, aiming for the unfortunate fairy who had initiated the most recent attack against him. He slams into her, tucking into roll as he tears into her with tooth and claw. In mere moments she is nothing more than a crumpled puddle of blood and bone. He is finding he is becoming more vicious and animalistic with each passing moment, thought and reason giving way to the beast of war that has always resided within him. And he does not even currently have the presence of mind to wonder at the horror of the monster he has become.
For Grumblesnakes, he has become a monster so terrible he would willingly take on any foe, no matter how powerful. And he does not even realize it.
Unexpectedly the temperature in the room begins to drop. As the two remaining fairies team up to take him on, Shan struggles to his feet, ice shattering from his skin as he does so. He can feel the deep, terrible chill settling into his skin, his very bones, as he struggles to draw upon his magic. Finally a fire comes, but it is terribly slow and sluggish, a whisper of flame against a too powerful enemy.
Shan concentrates the heat, forcing it towards the two remaining imps, willing it to do something. Anything. But the wall of ice that suddenly sprouts between them is too powerful, too cold. And Shan… he does not have the strength.
So he uses the only tool left to him: his body. He launches forward, favoring his injured shoulder as he slams into that wall of ice. It shatters around him, the shards slicing unexpectedly into his skin, causing blood to trickle and freeze upon scales chilled by an unnatural winter. Fortunately his momentum carries him forward, even if his strength does not.
He uses the surprise of his attack to snatch at one of his remaining two enemies. His claws drag at her, forcing her with him as he stumbles forward, massive frame crushing her smaller one as he lands upon her in a bone jarring tumble. To be sure of her death however, he tears at her throat with blood-stained fangs.
And then there is only one left. One final enemy for him to contend with.
He is exhausted, but so is his opponent. Slowly, painfully, Shan lurches to his feet. Turning, he faces the last little man. No certainty of victory lies within his breast, only a pitiful fatigue that threatens to overcome even his intense determination. And, not for the first time, he wonders if he actually has what it takes to win this fight.
The door thuds shut behind man and beast. When the bar falls into place just after, Vidar feels a part of him becoming similarly secured. Like dried clay, he settles into his sculptor’s vision. Because the enemy is at their door, and he does not quake with fear. Because even though he knows that he will soon be drenched in pain and blood and violence, he does not cower under the imminent downfall. He is prepared – matured. All of the torture has made him stronger. All of Grumbles’ praise and prodding have made him into a man that is capable (perhaps not of anything, but something. Enough to protect his captor-savior; enough to be proud of his efforts in the face of death).
I will not falter, he tells himself, even as he hears the storm clouds solidifying outside the fortress, becoming a mass of directed rage and magic. I will not fail, he chants, watching the warning lights go off like rockets through the narrow window alongside the door. Grumbles spares the brewing war only a moment’s look from the sill. Vidar can see the lines of tension pulling his mouth into an unconscious frown. He wonders, for the first time, why an army of fairy-folk is hell-bent on bringing down one, singular crooked man. A man who has surely done terrible things in his time (the mercury gas swirls in his mind’s eye; he can smell the brine of burning fish and the sulfur of the preceding lightning) but has also contributed in some ways (he barely remembers the boy he used to be before Grumbles made him a man, before the power filled his veins and the gentle words nourished his soul). He is a giver, the stallion thinks, a maker. A healer.
Bones are stronger after being broken.
It is only when Grumbles turns away that he does as well. He will not leave his captor-savior unprotected with the wolves breaking down their doors. They retreat to the innermost parts of the fortress with the sounds of unrest growing fainter behind them with each step. Vidar keeps one ear trained forward on Grumbles and the other swivels back to the doorway. Even as the stone columns of the safest rooms rise ahead of the pair, he can hear the loud crashes following them, stalking them. Like predators. But they are quick. They know where to hide, where to make their last stand. Like prey. They know exactly where they will die if they are caught.
But they can’t let that happen. Vidar won’t let it happen.
Grumbles stops only when he runs out of doorways to pass through. And in fact, the last doorway is more mirror than door. The reflections of horse and man meet the real horse and man at the juncture, but their images are flipped upside down. A sense of urgency fills Vidar then, and he makes a move forward as if to barge through the relatively simple barrier but stops when Grumbles puts a hand out. “Watch, he says instead, and Vidar is surprised at the absence of stress in his tone. He watches, and the mirror melts away with the touch of one crooked finger. Everything in Vidar tells him not to go into the dark space just beyond. The man, sensing his hesitation, tugs on the halter. They step through. A shiver passes down the blue roan’s spine.
“Easy, see? And the horse does. He sees that they emerge into a small, dank cavern with dripping walls and low light. Underground, he muses, feeling a cool shiver against his legs from one pitch-black corner of the room. He sees that they are all right, even though his senses had informed him he wouldn’t be. “Won’t be so easy on the others, trust me.” He sees, too, that they are not alone. Grumbles’ friend peels himself away from a shadowed wall, appearing in the dimness like his own flickering light. Vidar can sense the exhaustion creeping over both faeries. He mostly cares about the welfare of one, however, and tenses to help support Grumbles when he leans on him. “They’re here, he says, but they already know. “I don’t know if we’ve done enough.I don’t know if we’ve done enough. I don’t know if we’ve done enough.
BOOM.
We.Me. Vidar berates himself, because he had been the Guardian. He had been the first and last line of defense, and now? Now, the horde is after them because he’d been too stupid to protect them. Too stupid to think of cleverer traps and too stupid to save the one man who had made something of him. Who had broken and squeezed and torn him to pieces to rebuild him better. Who had believed in him.
The sounds grow outside of the mirror-door. Stumbleduck smiles weakly when the pained sound of one attacker reaches them. Vidar had nearly forgotten about one defense, the lit-torches that sometimes shot out unnecessarily long arcs of blue-green flames at passerby. Right now, he’s only glad that they’d waited to strike until he and Grumbles had moved away from the corridor. The trio watches their last hope, that shimmering doorway that had made Vidar nearly sick with the need to go anywhere but past it. They watch as it shakes with the power of multiple attackers forcing their way. They see when it falls, when their safe space becomes anything but.
But, the fairies are not in any fit shape to attack at first. The stallion sees the faintest grin touch the corners of Grumble’s lips and knows he has given his last ounce of strength for this. The winged people are upside down, just as their reflections had been before one crooked finger had allowed them passage. Fear scrunches the men and women’s faces as they try to right themselves. They walk on air, jumping and hitting their heads on the cave floor to no avail. The Guardian will not waste this chance, but even as he moves forward (growing his ox horns as he does), the first fairy has managed to repair gravity. He is disoriented, though, and Vidar plows through him with one curling horn.
The other five seem to sense the urgency of their situation, and before he can do anymore damage on the lot, they fight their way back to straightness. Somewhere behind him, Vidar can hear his captor-savior draw in a breath. But he cannot look back. Not now, in the thick of battle. Five against one is not terribly good odds (and he is not terribly good at goodbyes). Instead of goodbye, he blinks and he is wearing his snakeskin pattern. He hopes it gives the twisted little man the smallest bit of light in the gloom.
The others are on him quick. He knows he will die, but he fights back, anyway. Out of the corner of his eye he sees one borrow some of their torch flames. It sends balls of purple-red fire at his left side, swirling, bright missiles that reveal the entirety of the cave. He tries to throw up a protective shield of water, but he is not fast enough to stop one from charring his shoulder. The skin splits instantly and he cries out. Seeing red himself, Vidar leaps to the hovering man and rips his throat out with his elongated canines. He wears a part of Fenrir, thinks he’ll carry him forevermore. For the next few minutes, that is.
Two fairies – a yellow-haired man and a black-haired woman - pull at fallen boulders in the cave, their strength bolstered by magic. He sees that they mean to crush him, to pound him into the deep earth like he had once wanted to do to Grumbles. He can’t have that. The stallion flexes his power as easily as a muscle, accelerating the growth of one stalactite and one stalagmite. One races from the ceiling and pierces the man; one shoots from the floor and impales the woman. Blood spills from each of them. He turns away.
In this time, yet another fairy has moved beside him, holding something… Something familiar. POP. The balloon bursts in his face, and the grey smoke settles in his nostrils. He feels himself begin to shake, the tremors like small earthquakes dislodging him from his goal. His mind blurs, feels fuzzy. Grumbles. Duckstumble. Stumble – he does, nearly falls. The fairy grows in his eyes, gets bigger, closer. It carries a small dagger. Places the wobbly weapon at Vidar’s neck. He feels his skin peeling away but it is funny, that. Like it should hurt but all he can think of is how cold the dagger feels pressing against his throat. How warm it feels, just after. Like the jungle and the sweat that had beaded along his skin after a long run. Sweat. Salt. Life.
The stallion pushes the fog from his mind, making a physical and mental vacuum to protect himself from further gaseous advances. The blood is there, thick and falling from his throat. But the dagger is there, too, its work not yet complete. Vidar rears and lashes out at the fairy with his front hooves. He is satisfied with the resulting dull thud and crumpled body. Instinct keeps him alive rather than magic, his own flesh and fight-or-flight keeps him in the game of life.
Another fairy dives at him from the shadows. The wet floor splashes against his legs as the creature runs at him. It makes his decision easy, effective. He calls the lightning to him a final time, delights in the way the human’s hair stands on end before it all comes crashing down.
One is left, looking bedraggled but determined. He feels much the same, blood falls down his throat and chest, his veins pulsing and failing him at the same time. His skin is sloughed in places from mercury poisoning and a singular, sizzling fireball. But his mind is clear. Five bodies lay scattered around the cave, none of them his allies. He finally knows, even if he will take the knowledge to the grave, his final lesson. I am the predator.
