Voracity
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Chapter 6: Checkpoint Get
🕑 Added 2026-01-24 06:10:18 +0000 UTCHere's how the boss fight goes: I fling a bolt, the banshee ignores the bolt, and then everything gets very painful very quickly. It shreds my face and tears down my front, slicing through skin and fat and muscle with callous imprecision.
The space beyond the monster is unreadable chaos. Whatever the other warlocks are doing, I don't have the presence of mind to make sense of it. I catch fire and shouts and the glint of steel, but detail is lost in the pounding of my nerves. The banshee flings my mangled, broken body at the nearest wall.
Dashed against stone, I die—and once again, time is rewound.
“You don’t like me. The feeling’s mutual.”
Sapphire and Seventh Crest move into the armory while Clara and Gobbet face each other in the doorway. Adama stands ready to mediate.
It seems I’ve unlocked my first checkpoint. I guess Nyara got bored of watching me clear the trap gauntlet—or didn’t want to give me a chance at redoing first impressions.
My heart is still racing from my latest death. My ears are ringing with phantom pain. If I go back in there as I am now, I’ll just die again; I don’t have the tools to make meaningfully different choices unless I rip out my own life force to summon Momo.
I need allies. Bodies between me and the enemy, companions who will have my back, however you want to spin it. Party members, to play the RPG angle. And if that’s the framing, the right choice is obvious: Gobbet and Adama, who Nyara put first in my path.
“Take a walk, Clara,” I speak up. “Go find a stick to play with.”
She whips her head around to glare at me. “Excuse you?”
I smile thinly. “I want to speak with Gobbet and Adama. You can stand there glaring at us until you get bored, or you can go pick a walking stick to shake at me. I’d prefer the option where you don’t waste my time.”
Adama raises an eyebrow at my comment, but steps in to assist. “Ms. Clara, I do not believe anything productive will come of picking a fight here and now. Please, ignore these agitators and see to your needs. I believe that is an armory in the next room; we will likely all need weapons for the coming trial.” Gobbet, exercising a modicum of restraint, only smiles smugly.
Clara glares at all of us, then stalks away with a muttered, “Don’t think you can get away with talking to me like that forever, necromancer.”
I roll my eyes. That one’s a lost cause, no point in pursuing. Drow’s interesting, though, and the goblin might be useful. Notes for later.
“So,” Gobbet says, leaning against the open doorway, “what’s all this, then?” Her tail curls around her leg and flicks once.
“Right, yeah.” I take a deep breath, lower my voice so it won’t carry into the next room, and say, “Gobbet’s implement is her blood. Adama’s going to pick an amulet. Staff for Clara, knife for Crest, and a wand for Sapphire. The other group of six is a group of five, because their elf killed their goblin, and that’s going to be our mess to clean up in a minute.”
Adama blinks slowly. Gobbet, who had started shuffling her cards while I spoke, doesn’t visibly react. Adama says, “Those are interesting claims. I suppose the truth of your words will be proven or disproven quite quickly, so I shall only ask how you have come to this knowledge.”
I flick one of my cat ears. “I think my cheshire gift is precognition. I had a flash of insight when the door opened—a vision, I guess—and it showed me a few things.”
My greatest strength in this new world is foreknowledge twice over; the time loop can grant me information about immediate future events, but I also have years of experience obsessing over the lore and gameplay of the MMO that this world is based on. That means I can bullshit a plausible explanation for why I know my loop insights without having to make the time travel hard sell.
In the lore, cheshires are the favorite children of the Golden Lady—or whoever filled that role before Nyara stole the spot—and they’re granted unique gifts to reflect her favor. In the game, that was just a minor boon you could apply to one of your stats, but there were lore characters with truly absurd gifts. In one of the singleplayer RPGs preceding the MMO, Clarissa the Klutz was a cheshire party member whose high evasion stat was justified narratively as her tripping and fumbling at exactly the right time to avoid attacks, and there was a novelization that emphasized how goofy it looked for her to bumble through a battlefield completely untouched.
Adama rubs his chin thoughtfully. “My studies did not dwell at length on cheshire gifts, but I am certain such foresight is well within the Lady’s capabilities. Gobbet, was Ms. Cat’s insight on you correct?”
“Let’s say it is,” she shrugs noncommittally. “I’d rather hear from the cards.” She stops shuffling and draws a card off the top: the Wheel of Fortune. “Mm. Luck and destiny. That seems as good a sign as any. Go on then, tell us what you’re after.”
Interesting. I’m still not sure what’s going on with Gobbet’s cards; she made it clear she can control which cards she draws, but do they still serve some divinatory purpose, or are they just meant to disguise her cold reading skills? Something to unravel later. “Right, so: there’s a banshee on the other side of the next door, and I have a plan to kill it.”
I fill them in on what I know about banshees. I’m translating game knowledge into my best guess at how the monster will function in the realized world of Telvaria, aided ever so slightly by the few seconds I got to see it in action before it murdered me. If I get things wrong, well, I can just loop again and try a different plan next time.
Inside the armory, I go straight for the ring. I could experiment with a different implement, but I have to consider the other side of my loop situation; if I succeed on this attempt, it’ll probably result in a new checkpoint that locks in any decisions I made. Since dying just resets me, the real failure state is living with my mistakes.
“Momo,” I murmur, “how are you feeling? You’ve been quiet.”
The angel laughs softly. “It’s… tricky, trying to communicate like this. I can hear what you hear, see what you see, but if we have a conversation in front of anyone, you’ll look crazy. I’ve been erring on the side of caution.”
“Makes sense. But how are you feeling?”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to go on grand, fantastical adventures and live out all our fantasies about being in Telvaria. I—I’m still hoping we will. She promised. Maybe this start is just the low point, so it’s all up from here. I need it to be, because I can’t bear the thought that I—that I talked you into something awful. Please don’t hate me, Cat. I’m sorry.”
“You’re fine,” I quickly assure her. “Seriously, Momo, don’t beat yourself up. We’re gonna get through this, and things will get better—and if they don’t, we’ll make it get better.”
“Thanks, Cat. I love you.”
“Love you too, Momo.”
That isn’t the exact moment that Feidanor and Xaren burst through the doors, but it’s close enough. Their sudden intrusion interrupts me as I’m moving to take another crack at talking to Sapphire. Gobbet and Adama, warned of this, are quick on the draw.
“Consequences,” Xaren says coldly, sword in hand. “Murder for murder.”
A wall of fire flares up between the drow and the elf. The orc, Ungula, cuts herself off in the middle of clapping and jeers, “Oh, come on! Let them kill each other!”
Feidanor finds the staff he’s looking for and sneers. “So uncivilized. Do you have any idea who I am, drow? Be lucky for the flames, lest you bring ruin on your head for touching a hair on mine!”
Gobbet snaps her fingers and a serpent of flame breaks off from the wall and encircles the elf, holding him in place under threat of burning. She yawns. “I don’t like your voice, elf, so kindly don’t use it. Drow, start talking.”
Already seeing changes. The drow’s response is mostly the same, though: “That man is a murderer. The woman at the door, Ungula, watched him do it.” The difference is in the tone of his voice; still calm, still even, but a little more relaxed with the pyromancer clearly favoring him.
Ungula snorts. “If you’re not gonna fight, leave me out of this.”
“I am not—” Feidanor starts to respond like he did last time, but the serpent tightens around his body and burns him. His indignation gives way instantly to a scream of wild-eyed pain. The flame uncurls a moment later, leaving him shuddering and gasping.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak,” Gobbet says pleasantly. “If you do that again, I’ll melt your vocal cords.”
God, she’s terrifying. What the hell is your deal, Gobbet? Most of the others in the room are looking at her with fresh wariness.
Adama steps up beside the demonblood and bows at the two men. “Hello there, gentlemen. I am Adama, and that was Gobbet. May I have more context on this murder you speak of, and the names of those involved?”
This time, Clara doesn’t interrupt. The drow keeps his glare pointed at the elf. “An injustice has been done,” he says. “I will answer it. I am Xaren veis Tashirel, the murderer before you is Feidanor Gelthurian, and the goblin he murdered was Third Breath. He interrupted the goblin’s reading of the trial to violently sacrifice him, ignoring screams of protest that it would not open the door.”
Gobbet snickers, but doesn’t comment. I raise my voice and say, “Wouldn’t justice be bringing him back to the Covenant for trial and judgment?”
Xaren’s expression tightens. “I do not place my trust in their justice.” Interesting. Vigilante type? I can work with that.
Sapphire titters about justice and knights. Feidanor swallows a retort, eyes locked on the flame serpent still surrounding him.
Gobbet says, “You can do whatever you want with him after the next trial, but I still see a use in this warm body. You willing to wait a few measly minutes to get your kill, or do you really want to make a scene out of this?”
The drow considers her for a long moment, eyes narrowed, before lowering his sword. “Very well.”
Gobbet banishes her flames. Feidanor grumbles, but the fear is still in his eyes. Melroy and Skalla make their way inside, called by Ungula, and all that proceeds about as it happened before. This time, though, I already have my ring, so I have a few moments to pull someone aside before the last of our group picks up an implement and opens the door.
I probably only have enough time to recruit one more ally. The critical questions here are going to be who I think I can convince and who I think would be worth convincing.
Crest is unimpressive and Clara hates me, so they’re both out. Sapphire is powerful—at least, according to Gobbet—but I have no idea how to talk to her. Feidanor is an obvious no. Melroy and Skalla are relative unknowns. Xaren, on the other hand, seems to be a legit wraith knight, and I know at least some of what motivates him, so… may as well try?
He’s standing off to the side while most of the group clusters around the door. Only Melroy and Skalla still have weapons to pick, and only because they seem more interested in their conversation than actually settling on which staff and which book they’re going to take.
I sidle up beside him and lower my voice. “Whatever’s on the other side of that door, it’s gonna be a fight. I think most of the people in this group are the type to see only to themselves, but you strike me as different. Me and a couple of the others are going to work together to beat the last trial and get us all out of this alive. So, you want in?”
Xaren’s gaze had been locked on Feidanor, but he turns and gives me another measured, considering look. “The demonblood and the human, I presume. Tell me: why did you protect the murderous elf?”
“Gobbet thinks he’ll be useful,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe keeping him alive means he dies instead of one of us in the next chamber. Look, she’s got some weird mystic thing going on and I’m not going to tell her she’s wrong when she can do all that as a fresh warlock. I want her on my side when we get out of this place and the Covenant takes our measure. Don’t you?”
His lip curls. “Politics. I am sick of such games.”
“Too bad,” I tell him bluntly. “The Covenant knows we’re in here, Xaren. They’re going to be looking for which of us are worth cultivating and which need to be culled. If you want to get killed before you can accomplish anything, fine, be my guest. But I don’t see that leading to any kind of justice. Do you?”
It takes him a moment to find an answer. Some of the disdain bleeds out of his expression. “What do you know of justice?” he asks, more curious than accusatory. “You spoke of it before. Do you come from a land where you trust in its judicial authority?”
I laugh. “Oh, hell no. I come from a cesspit of corruption. But we have our ideals, and they’re hard to shake even when you’ve seen the darkest depths of their perversion. I guess I see two kinds of justice: what’s law and what’s right. One is convenient for a functioning society; the other is a lot more personal.”
“And in the case of Feidanor?”
My smile turns vicious. “I hate men like him. I want him to suffer. I don’t know what justice looks like there—reparations, repercussions, rehabilitation—and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care. I want to hurt men like that. I want to hear their dying screams.”
I’ve seen too many men like that. Arrogant, self-righteous, bigoted assholes who will admit to your face that they see some lives—entire categories of people—as worth less than others. The CEOs and the politicians, the television evangelists and podcaster Neo-Nazis. God, what a crappy world I came from. I’ll never miss America for a moment.
Xaren gives me the faintest hint of a smile. “Perhaps it would not be terrible to get to know you… apologies, did I ever get your name?”
“It’s Cat. It, uh, wasn’t quite this appropriate before; the pact made me a cheshire.”
He chuckles quietly. “Very well, Cat. I’ll join you in battle, and your companions. When we’re out of this tomb, we can talk about… politics.”
We join the cluster at the door. Gobbet, I note, is in animated dialogue with Sapphire, while Adama has joined Melroy and Skalla. The old orc finally picked his staff, and Skalla’s narrowed it down to two grimoires she’s comparing. A moment later, she makes her choice, and the last gem on the door lights up.
As before, the doors are opened and we step past the slumping corpses. The chamber is inspected, observations are made, and Ungula triggers the trap. This time, half of us are more tactical in how we spread out.
Melroy and Skalla—on Gobbet’s instruction—cluster to the left of the entrance and are guarded by Xaren. I join Sapphire and Adama just to the right of the doors, while Gobbet stays in the center, alone. The others scatter, with Feidanor going for the stairs.
The banshee manifests, the corpses in the room stirring to life, and it screams its hate and anguish, the noise scraping against my soul.
In Heroes of Telvaria, banshees were a recurring enemy type. They usually showed up as bosses or minibosses, and they had a fairly consistent set of mechanics.
Their signature mechanic, rather expectedly, was their scream. The banshee’s wail was what you'd call a soft enrage timer; it pulsed periodic damage that got worse and worse as the fight went longer until it was hitting for more damage than any player had health. Since our group of baby warlocks doesn't seem to have any healers, that puts pretty tight time pressure on this fight.
The banshee's minions are an easier problem to deal with. In the game, they were the kind of mob that die when you hit them with crowd control effects—stuns, dispels, etc. That seems a little too abstract and game-y to apply to the realized world of Telvaria, but it gave me a hunch that plays out before my eyes: the motes of shadow animating the corpses can be banished with ease by a practitioner like Adama—a summoner who, not being stupid, must have trained in simple abjurations before actually binding any demons. Melroy, on the other side, manages to accomplish much the same through his own methods.
Xaren and Sapphire are here for the banshee herself. When it flicker-teleports to one of our groups, it’s forced back by Xaren’s blade or Sapphire’s shadows. They don’t land any good hits on it, but they keep it from mauling those of us without defenses.
It’s still terrifyingly close. The banshee appears in front of me, claws lashing out, and a veil of darkness rises to protect me with less than a second to spare. Husks stumble toward me and crumble onto my legs to be kicked off. Adama keeps his cool, but he’s clearly tense. Sapphire laughs, having the time of her life. On the other side, Skalla hides behind Melroy’s leg and screeches in fear whenever anything comes near.
We’re playing defense. It’s a stalemate, which we’d lose to the wail, so I do something incredibly reckless the next time it tries to attack my group: I fling a bolt of entropy at its throat.
Chaos pulses from my heart and travels down my outstretched hand, curling around the golden ring on my index finger before bursting from my fingers as a bolt of crackling murk, bruise-purple and deep green. It strikes the neck of the banshee as it opens its mouth for another scream. Luck—the Lady herself—smiles on me; the scream is silenced, the banshee averting its attack to clutch at its withered throat. The drow corpse thrashes and spasms as a sickly glow begins to build in its open mouth.
Banshees had a fun quirk in Heroes of Telvaria: their soft enrage could be turned into a hard enrage by hitting them with a silence effect. For a brief window, the banshee would enter a state of vulnerability where it stopped wailing and took extra damage. At that window’s end, if it was still alive, it wiped the party with an instant kill death wail.
Gobbet incinerates it before it gets a chance to unleash its final scream. With the banshee finally still, the demonblood has a clear shot, and she rains hellfire down upon the monster. A tornado of flame swirls around the banshee, its silhouette barely visible within the raging inferno—and then less visible, and less, as the horror is burned to ash.
The remaining corpses drop double-dead. I get to catch my breath and still my racing heart for only a moment before things immediately pick up again: Feidanor, having been shoving his way desperately through the husks, scrabbles up the stairs leading out of the tomb. Xaren chases, sprinting across the chamber to stop Feidanor from escaping. The rest of us follow.
I step out into sand, moonlight, and pointed guns. Behind us, the black stone pyramid from which we emerged. Beyond us, a ring of men and women in sleek armor and heavy cloaks, carrying twisted, spiky firearms that glow with hellish light. Behind them, near the crumbling edge of the world, a demonic train hisses steam.
The soldiers part their line for a drow woman in a red cloak, hands clasped behind her back, who steps forward and greets us with a smile.
“Hello, novitiates. Welcome to the Covenant of Thorns. I do hope we can have a pleasant, civilized conversation about your future.”
Comments
Jayem
Ah yes. We all know that pleasant and civilised conversations are best initiated at gunpoint. Unfortunately this might make killing the racist a little harder.
