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Commerce Emperor Chapter 16: Poisoned Skies
🕑 Added 2023-07-25 07:21:10 +0000 UTCPrevious Chapter
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With little time to waste, Colmar and I departed on foot towards the city’s cathedral with a squad of guards. I would rather have taken horses or pegasi, but the latter struggled to stay within arm’s reach of my fellow hero.
“I am sorry, Robin,” Colmar apologized. “My presence tends to spook animals.”
Because they sensed his true nature, no doubt. “It’s fine,” I reassured him. “The cathedral is close enough that walking there on foot makes little difference.”
That was why I had selected this area when we divided up the city between ourselves. Roland, as befitting his class as the Knight, immediately went towards the north watchtower. Soraseo traveled to the Witchcrafter Guild—the only spot on Snowdrift’s other bank—while our allies spread out on mounts across the city.
I hope we aren’t too late, I prayed in my heart. Only the north watchtower had been taken over so far, but I had no doubt the Knots were besieging other points as we moved. I hope our marks will protect our minds.
I had come equipped for battle, and the twelve or so soldiers with us had been briefed on what to expect. They were to fall back the moment they smelled any gas or inhaled strange smoke. We couldn’t afford to fight our own forces.
Our troupe arrived within sight of the building when I heard flapping wings above the street. I looked up to see a familiar friend riding atop a pegasus.
“Alaire?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”
“Defending my city,” Alaire replied proudly. Much like I traded my ball costume for a metal breastplate, she had come equipped for battle. Mail always fits her better than a gown. “Therese will take care of the guests.”
Why did I even bother asking? I wondered as we approached the cathedral. Still, good to see her with us.
Though the Arcane Abbey operated multiple churches within Snowdrift’s limits, none matched the cathedral south of the Black Keep in grandiosity. This architectural marvel rose majestically in the midst of a paved plaza, its soaring spires surrounded by statues representing the Four Artifacts the Goddess crafted the world with—and who oversaw her work in her absence. The Arcane Abbey’s lozenge-shaped gilded emblem glittered atop the tallest tower.
However, the area already bore the scars of the Knots’ arrival. Traces of fresh blood darkened the walls near the entrance, shards of stained glass windows lay scattered on the cobblestone ground, and the carved oaken doors had been smashed open.
And there was the Stonetusk in the room: the half a dozen impaled dead priests in the middle of the plaza. Our foes were in the middle of raising a new stake when we arrived. I counted at least four bloodthirsty cultists, men and women in armor wearing metal masks themed after Belgoroth’s lion-like face. They had come equipped for battle too: all of them carried bloodied daggers and swords. A murder of crows already flew in circles in the air above the cathedral, waiting for an opportunity to feed on the staked victims below. These dead priests would be nothing more than appetizers for the slaughter to come.
I briefly wondered how such a small group managed to massacre the Abbey’s staff… until I sensed eyes watching me from above.
Archfrost’s churches avoided using gargoyles—it made it easy for the real monsters to hide in plain sight—yet two creatures had taken up the job on their own. Eight-foot-tall beasts of bulging muscles and silver fur observed us from elevated spots, their crimson eyes glittering in the darkness. The carved skulls of great horned beasts reshaped into helms hid most of their facial features, except for their beastly snout and sharp fangs. Both of them carried two heavy spears infused with the same fiery essence as my own dagger.
Werewolves.
Of all the beastmen races, none were as dreaded as the werewolves, for they could hide among men easily enough. I heard most went undiscovered, since the transformation—academics could never agree whether it was permanent or not—required a high degree of stress or exposure to specific phenomenon to trigger. In fact, some werewolves cunningly exchanged their young with newborn human children, causing families to unknowingly raise their brood in their midst.
This is going to be a hard fight, I thought grimly as I drew my rapier and dagger.
“Robin, the roof,” Colmar warned me.
He pointed at the tallest tower. The bronze bell was gone, replaced with a pile of firewood and wood barrels which I assumed were filled with chemicals. Two figures were putting the finishing touches on the infernal contraption: a strange, lanky gentleman nearly as tall as the werewolves and dressed in purple wool; and an alchemist wearing a similar outfit as Colmar, with the exception that their gas mask resembled a leather wolf’s face rather than a bird.
I recognized the former as Chastel from his description, while his accomplice was probably Mother Wolf, the Knot of Wrath’s leader.
We aren’t too late, I thought with relief. Thanks to the curfew, most of the city’s citizens were safely at home. No risk of melee so far.
I didn’t need to say anything. Alaire immediately flew straight at the tower with her sword raised for the kill. The werewolves on the wall let out a screeching howl loud enough to wake the dead, alerting the cultists to our presence while the wolf-masked alchemist turned in Alaire’s direction.
“Onward!” I shouted at the soldiers while leading the charge myself. “Don’t let them light the pyre! For Snowdrift!”
“For Snowdrift!” my men shouted back, their spears and swords raised for battle.
The wolf-masked alchemist turned in Alaire’s direction, their gloved hands surging with the sick yellow light of Belgoroth’s flame. A focused burst of hellfire surged from her cylindrical filter straight at Alaire’s mount. Meanwhile, Chastel nonchalantly tossed a torch onto the pyre and started setting it ablaze.
I charged straight into the melee, guided by my purchased and trained skills and empowered by my mark. A cultist raised a sword to engage me in melee, only for my rapier to gut him. Weapons clashed around me to the tune of beastly roars.
On one hand, we had the Knot’s members outnumbered. They might be well-trained and armed, but they were still humans from what my magical sight could tell. On the other hand, the two werewolves swiftly jumped from atop the cathedral and crashed on the plaza with murder on their minds. One of them managed to land on top of one of my soldiers, its twin spears ripping the man’s armor and flesh alike. He then charged straight at me, backhanding a guard out of its way with enough strength to send him flying.
The werewolf was frighteningly quick for his size, but a beastman was no demon. My opponent was nowhere as fast as Fenrivos and Soraseo’s training helped refine my swordsmanship since then. I sidestepped out of his swings’ way and countered with a thrust of my rapier. I had only recently started practicing essence manipulation under Marika’s tutelage, but she had taught me how to transfer steel essence into my weapon to strengthen it. My blade pierced through the beast’s hand sinews and forced it to drop one of his weapons. The werewolf let out a furious roar as his thick red blood spilled onto the cobblestones.
The other one lunged at Colmar with equal ferocity. The Alchemist dodged a spear thrust to the head with amazing footwork and then slammed the cobblestone ground with his hand. The very ground beneath the werewolf’s feet melted into a pit of mud. The beastman hopped away to avoid being trapped, allowing soldiers to flank it. A spear gored through its flank, though it did little more than anger it. One of the cultists was already down for the count, a sword stuck in his throat. The rest were falling back towards the cathedral’s oaken door under my soldiers’ relentless assault.
It had taken time, but my skill-sharing efforts and Soraseo’s training had paid off. Snowdrift finally possessed a city watch worthy of defending it.
While the battle was going well, I knew our foes only meant to delay us. I managed to find a moment to glance at the sky. Alaire’s pegasus ran circles around the tower, avoiding fiery projectiles from the alchemist without managing to get close. Chastel’s pyre grew in intensity, consuming the gathered barrels and unleashing the terrible poison held within them. A noxious yellow smoke infused with Belgoroth’s murderous essence rose from the tower.
Curses, the night wind already started spreading the gas away from the cathedral. I quickly figured out a drastic solution before it reached our citizens’ homes.
“Colmar!” I shouted at my ally while dancing around my werewolf opponent and deftly deflecting a thrust of its spear with my dagger. “Destroy the tower!”
Most would have balked at such an order, but Colmar knew what was at stake. With the other werewolf too busy bashing our guards’ shieldwall to intercept him, he dashed towards the cathedral’s left side, found the perfect angle for his purpose, and swiftly slammed his hand against the facade. Walls of stone turned to salt and promptly weakened the building’s foundations.
The cathedral’s highest tower immediately began to collapse with a terrible crack. I could not tell whether it crumbled on itself or simply lost its balance—I hadn’t acquired enough architectural skills—but the effect was the same: the spire trembled and dangerously leaned to the left.
Colmar hurriedly fled to safety, while Alaire and her mount retreated. Chastel and his accomplice were briefly taken aback, with the masked alchemist nearly stumbling off the belfry’s edge. Chastel swiftly abandoned the pyre and then grabbed his compatriot in his arms.
“It’s coming down!” one of my soldiers shouted a warning, though he didn’t need to. Everyone, from the guards to the cultists and their werewolf allies, were already running away.
Colmar’s actions hadn’t simply destabilized the central tower; they had weakened the cathedral’s entire structure. The walls collapsed onto the plaza in a landslide of stone and dust. I barely had time to catch a glimpse of Chastel leaping off the tower while carrying his accomplice in his arms.
I managed to rejoin Colmar and our soldiers as a cloud of dust swallowed us all. The cathedral collapsed behind us in a thunderous crash that shook the very earth. The central spire collapsed onto the plaza, narrowly missing the closest houses. I narrowly avoided debris, while Colmar nearly tripped.
By the time we regrouped with our surviving allies at the plaza’s entrance, we could hardly see anything but a pile of rubble surrounded by heavy smoke. I searched for Alaire, and sighed in relief upon noticing her pegasus’ frame above us.
“Casualties?” I questioned the soldiers.
“One dead and two wounded,” one of my guards replied. One of his comrades bled from the flank after taking a werewolf spear to the chest, and another still had a dagger stabbing his shoulder. Colmar immediately grabbed a potion from his bandolier and applied the contents to the wounds. The substance quickly solidified, stopping the bleeding.
My relief was short-lived, however, when I noticed streaks of yellow in the smoke rising from the plaza.
“The gas,” I whispered. The pyre still remained active. While the tower’s collapse meant the gas wouldn’t progress far, it would still cover the plaza and perhaps the nearby streets. “Colmar–”
“If we get close enough, I can turn stone and wood to ice,” my friend replied. “I would appreciate your assistance in it, Robin.”
He needed back-up to protect him. An ally who wouldn’t risk turning against him under the gas’ influence. At this point, our soldiers risked becoming liabilities at best or madmen at worst.
I immediately turned to face the guards. “Soldiers, evacuate the area! Go house to house and lead our citizens to safety! Don’t let them breathe the gas!”
“What about you, m’lord?” the eldest guard asked in return. A howl echoed from within the dust, signaling that at least one of the werewolves made it out of the collapse.
“We’ll take care of the fire,” I replied. Though I expected Colmar to do the heavy work on that front. “The marks should protect us from the gas’ effects.”
Or at least I hoped they would. They shielded our minds from Belgoroth’s wicked essence, but a toxic gas affected the body.
In any case, we had no time to doubt ourselves. Colmar and I walked into the dust and the smoke while our soldiers spread out to secure the perimeter. I smelled a rancid stench followed by the abominable aroma of burning sulfur. I remembered the pits beneath the Gilded Wolf. Both the poison in the air and the Blight growing in the middle of my city sprang from the same fetid spring.
Once I find these cultists, they will regret ever stepping foot in Snowdrift. My skull hurt. My mark burned like the heart of the sun. I coughed smoke. We will dispense with trials and skip straight to the executions. I will rip them to shreds with my bare–
“Robin.” Colmar snapped his fingers before my eyes, as if to wake me up from a dream. It worked. “Focus.”
It’s already affecting me, I realized. I had only been half-right. My mark only shielded me from the gas up to a point. Focus, he said. Focus on Marika’s tips. Cycle, that’s what she told you. Cycle.
According to Marika, essence manipulation was all about transfer. In and out. I cycled the power in my body, shedding off the poison like sweat and trying to guide it elsewhere. I was no exorcist, so I had little choice other than guide the gas’ properties to objects in contact with my body. I selected my dagger. Its blade heated up, its edge growing yellow. I would need Marika to exorcise it by the night’s end. This essence transfer helped clear my mind and ease the pain in my skull, but it demanded constant concentration.
“I suppose you don’t have a spare filter?” I asked Colmar while covering my mouth with my arm to cover a scoff.
“None that could keep this pestilence out,” Colmar replied. He didn’t appear affected by the gas. Then again, he did not breathe. “Those two are still alive.”
I thought he meant the werewolves from earlier, until I saw shadows in the yellow smoke: a tall figure carrying another in their arms.
“You must be Sir Robin.” If Chastel was in any way frightened or spooked, he didn’t show it. If anything, his tone was eerily pleasant and nonchalant as he gently dropped the alchemist onto the ground. “Forgive me for questioning your dedication, but what kind of Lord Protector destroys his own city’s monuments?”
“The kind that values the life of its citizens over piles of stones,” I replied while raising my weapons for battle. I heard a howl in the background, my eyes darting to the side and catching a glimpse of a shadow. “Colmar…”
“I know,” he replied, his back against mine. “They’re trying to outflank us.”
“Your noble efforts are wasted on this rabble,” the enemy alchemist said. “Have you too come to be swept away by my smog too?”
I immediately recognized her voice, even through the gas mask. “Florence,” I said, my hands tightening their grip on my weapons. She had never left the city. “Or should I call you Mother Wolf?”
“Both will fit,” Florence replied, confirming my suspicions. Chastel looming behind her like a pet waiting for a command.
“Florence, why?” Colmar asked. To my astonishment, he sounded more saddened and confused by her treachery than enraged by her crimes. “You are an apothecary who has sworn the Seacup’s oath. ‘To cherish and protect life in all its forms.’ What do you hope to accomplish with this hideous weapon?”
“There is a truth that you have yet to understand, Colmar.” Belgoroth’s Berserk Flame burned and swirled around Florence’s hands. “Some lives aren’t worth saving.”
She threw a fireball at us.
Colmar and I were forced to dodge in two different directions, me to the right and him to the left. Florence’s blast of raging fire erupted upon the spot we used to stand on, melting cobblestone in an instant.
A great shadow lunged at me from the smoke a second afterward. I barely had time to raise my rapier in time to stab a clawed hand aiming to tear out my head. The werewolf I had disarmed earlier had come back with vengeance on his mind and swiftly tackled me to the ground with all his weight.
“Is it true that Miss Marika lives with you now?” Chastel asked me with a tone that could pass for one of concern. He appeared supremely unaffected by the chaos around him. “I was so glad to learn she had found someone. Her last marriage didn’t turn out too well, if you know what I mean…”
“She deserves better…” I grunted as I moved my head to the right to avoid the werewolf’s jaws. “Than what she got!”
“Please, no need for uncouth words. What is it that humans say when they wed?” Chastel’s smile morphed into two rows of sharp, feline fangs. A red cloud swirled out of his flesh and let him shed his human guise. “Till death do us part?”
The creature Chastel transformed into resembled a feline from afar. The head was that of a sinister purple cat, albeit the size of a tiger and with far too many fangs. The creature’s grotesque nature began from the shoulders down; the fur split into a kingly cloak. Once it split open in the middle, it unveiled a grisly, wriggling mass hiding underneath.
Arms.
Dozens of sickly white arms squirmed under the grisly mantle, their nails so sharp as to become claws the length of knives. I saw no hint of body or legs to support the demon’s weight. Chastel floated in the air through its own power, his cloak brushing against the ground without a sound.
“Come closer, my friend,” Chastel whispered as he floated in my direction, his feline lips stretching into a ghastly grin. “Let's shake hands like gentlemen.”
Realizing the danger ahead, I managed to stab the werewolf trying to eat my face on the side of the head. My weapon let out a yellow flash as it gored through the side of the creature’s head. The werewolf let out a growl, his body spasming as it gave its final breath. Unfortunately, it meant I was now trapped under a colossal beast who had gone utterly limp. I struggled to push him back while Chastel floated closer at a nonchalant pace.
Meanwhile, Colmar had his hands full with Florence, literally. He attempted to turn the ground beneath her feet to mud as he did with the other werewolf, and to his credit it nearly caused his foe to slip. Florence responded by touching the slippery soil with her own hands and infusing it with essence. The sheer amount of power radiating from her told me she probably carried a dukedom's worth of runestones under her apothecary uniform. The mud turned more solid and gained an iron texture; the act was a pale imitation of the Alchemist's power, but it allowed her to stand on steady ground.
What is he doing? I clenched my teeth in annoyance at Colmar's caution. He should have turned the ground to acid rather than mud! "Colmar, you're allowed to use lethal force! Don't hold back!"
I couldn't tell whether he heard me or not, but at least he seemed to realize he would need to step up his game. He once again touched the ground and turned cobblestone into some form of colorful, dusty chemical that obscured him from sight. Florence's flames hit nothing but air.
Meanwhile, I managed to throw the werewolf's corpse off me. I barely had time to roll to the side to avoid Chastel's hands. His claws left finger-deep lacerations in the stone. I leaped back to my feet and lunged at his throat with my rapier.
He caught it in midair.
Three of his hands gripped my weapon's length in-between their fingers. I felt an immense pressure traveling through my sword. I tried to free it, to no avail; neither my arms nor my mark would let me match Chastel's inhuman strength.
"How kind of you," Chastel observed the rapier with middle interest. "What an elegant toothpick."
Chastel shattered my weapon's length with a flick of his hands.
The pieces hadn't fallen to the ground before I threw the hilt at his face. Chastel deflected the projectile with a backhand and continued to float closer.
"Attacking me will cost you your life," I bluffed while trying to put distance between us. I hoped he would hesitate and consider whether my power could actually take away his life if he dared strike me; that it would create an opening.
Chastel didn’t even flinch. "No, no, no." Half a dozen of his many hands wagged their fingers at me. "No cheating."
He knew, the bastard. He understood my power well enough to know my bluff wouldn’t work.
Chastel’s hands lunged at me like snakes, the arms supporting them bending in twisted and unnatural ways. I sidestepped around, using Soraseo’s footwork to dodge his attempts at clawing me to death. With only a dagger remaining, engaging the demon in close combat was suicide.
I had never felt the shortcomings of my class more acutely than now. I was only as strong as the skills I purchased, and I took those from humans. Standing atop the pyramid called mankind meant little when confronted with inhuman monsters such as Chastel. He was just as dangerous as Fenrivos, if not more so, but this time Soraseo was too busy dealing with her own objective to rescue me.
My salvation came from the sky.
I heard flapping wings and felt smoke being blasted away from me. A winged rider descended from above. Alaire fell upon Chastel like a falcon with a spear for a talon, aiming for the head. The malicious feline demon’s ears turned slightly upon hearing her coming. His body quickly turned translucent and quickly vanished from sight. Alaire’s spear hit only dust and emptiness.
It wasn’t teleportation. It couldn’t be teleportation. The Wanderer alone possessed that power. It had to be some form of camouflage. Dreadwolves—one of the world's most feared monsters—could turn invisible at night.
Meaning Chastel still lurked around. I just couldn’t see him. Not even my magical sight could catch a whiff of his essence.
Another problem presented itself: Alaire had her pegasus turn around and switch targets. Colmar had emerged from the dust to engage Florence in melee, trying to touch the other apothecary while she kept him at bay with flames. Alaire decided to exploit the opportunity and flank Florence from above.
“Alaire, get away!” I shouted at her. “The gas–”
“Shut up!” she snarled back at me angrily. “I’m not standing idle while these monsters besiege my city!”
I almost replied the situation would only worsen if the berserk gas infected her… until I realized it was already too late. Alaire’s pegasus was frothing at the mouth, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Her rider looked better: she was only glaring at Florence with murderous anger.
I remembered Colmar’s warning well: first heightened aggression, then progression towards berserk rage. Alaire had hit the first stage. Mayhaps she mistook her chemically-induced bloodlust for righteous anger at seeing monsters despoil her city. She retained enough self-control to believe herself in control of her actions.
And it cost her. Florence summoned a wall of flame between herself and Colmar, then swiftly turned around to shoot a burst of flame at Alaire. My friend tried to rein in her pegasus, but the maddened beast did not listen. The burst of fire hit her right wing and caused her to crash among the rubbles while Alaire rolled off her mount into the dust.
“Alaire!” I cursed and tried to rush to her rescue, only to hear roars coming from the smoke. I barely had time to dodge a sword aiming straight for my chest.
Two of the surviving cultists emerged from the gas to ambush me, snarling and roaring. They swung their weapons with wild abandon. One almost beheaded his own compatriot while trying to cut me down.
Florence hadn’t bothered to protect her own troops from her gas.
“Colmar, treat Alaire’s wounds!” I shouted at my fellow hero as he rushed around Florence’s wall of fire. Unfortunately, Florence herself was making a dash at Alaire. “Colmar!”
I deflected the cultists’ blows with my dagger, the sheer power behind the strikes sending me reeling. The gas empowered my foes with inhuman strength and an absolute lack of restraint. Still, my heroic mark and skills allowed me to keep up. I dodged a wild swing, stepped closer, and sliced the cultist’s throat. The blow was lethal, his blood erupting from his neck in a red burst, but the body still kept swinging at me.
I stepped to the right and watched it collapse in a puddle of its own blood, still trashing around like a beheaded chicken. The other cultist was at my throat before his compatriot even hit the ground. I could have gutted him enough—his madness caused him to abandon all forms of self-preservation—if my attention wasn’t split in multiple directions.
Where’s Chastel? I thought, my eyes darting left and right while I tried to avoid the cultist’s strikes. My head hurt too from trying to shake off the gas’ essence. Alaire was back on her feet while her pegasus agonized, using her spear as a crutch. I can’t see him anywhere. He could strike anytime–
To my horror, Florence reached Alaire before Colmar… and to my utter astonishment, she did not attack.
“Lady Alaire.” Incredibly, Florence extended a hand to the wounded countess. “Are you alright?”
Alaire swung her spear at the masked apothecary, missing and nearly collapsing under her own weight.
“You have some nerve to show your face here, Florence!” Alaire spat with bloodshot eyes. She had recognized the apothecary’s voice. “How dare you return after murdering my grandfather!”
Florence did not retaliate. She simply took a step away from Alaire. “You should thank me for it,” she said calmly. “Your father certainly did.”
It said something about her words’ weight that it caused Alaire to freeze in place, the fury in her mind temporarily overwhelmed by surprise.
“Who do you think requested the count to be slain, Alaire?” Florence asked while looking over her shoulder. She was now trapped between Alaire and Colmar. “I would have killed him quicker, but your sire wanted his demise to be drawn-out and painful. For your mother’s sake.”
The rage in Alaire’s eyes returned. “Don’t you dare mention her–”
“Do you think madness is innate, Lady Alaire?” Florence didn’t let her answer. “Many things can cause insanity. A defect of the brain. Possession. Disease…” The berserk gas’ yellow hue reflected on Florence’s glass goggles. “Poison.”
“You lie.” Alaire charged onward with mad rage. “Liar!”
Her arms froze in mid-motion… like her legs and everything else. An invisible force lifted her above ground, twisting her arm until she dropped her spear.
“Alaire!” Colmar and I shouted at the same time. We both rushed to her rescue and faced obstacles in our way: Florence for him, and the last cultist for me.
Focusing entirely on my foe now that I didn’t have to fear Chastel’s backstabbing, I deftly dodged a wild swing and stabbed my foe through the skull. To my astonishment, my fiery dagger ignited whatever ball of ignorance and falsehood nested within the cultist’s head. I had poured so much corrupted essence within the blade that it burst out on its own in a hand-sized blaze of yellow fire.
On one hand, it killed the man on the spot so thoroughly his body went limp in an instant. On the other hand, my dagger’s edge was cracking at the seams. It was only a matter of time before the corrupted essence within caused it to explode.
By the time I pushed the cultist’s corpse away, Colmar had reached Alaire… and suffered the same fate.
An invisible nose tightened around Colmar’s throat, the grip so strong as to bend leather and metal alike. My friend hastily tried to grab at the force choking him with both his hands. He briefly succeeded, then went limp.
Colmar’s head swiftly rolled off his shoulder.
There was no shower of blood, no warning, no sound. Only a gas mask falling into the dust, followed by a headless corpse.
“Look at that, Milady.” Chastel’s terrible visage gained enough colors to become halfway visible through the smoke. His claws still had some of Colmar’s leather suit hanging from them. “A beheaded chicken.”
I had my own suspicions about Colmar’s true nature. If I was correct, he would ‘survive’ the blow. It might temporarily incapacitate him, enough that he would require assistance for a while, but he would recover.
But if I was wrong… if I was wrong…
I couldn’t afford to be wrong!
II leaped over the cultist’s remains, and though my heartbeat quickened tenfold, I managed to keep enough off a cool head not to lower my guard. Years of street fights taught me that much.
It let me sense the spear thrown at me.
I lowered my head, the steel brushing against my hair. The other werewolf—the one my guards had wounded in the chest—quickly moved to bar my way. He had lost his weapons and blood poured out of his gashing wound, but his eyes remained alert and frightfully focused.
“You are not going anywhere near Mother,” the werewolf said. His voice was all the more startling in that it sounded utterly normal, neither cavernously deep nor awe-inspiring. “Fraud hero.”
He dashed forward, claws and fangs out.
I tried to dodge and get past him to rush at Chastel. I only managed the first part. The beast anticipated my movements and kept me on the back foot. His mind remained sharp and devoid of the madness that infected his allies.
Either the gas did not affect beastmen—unlikely since it turned a pegasus rabid—or Florence only saw fit to give these two an antidote and leave her human cultists to suffer. It didn’t take me long to realize the implications: she cared more about her beastmen followers than the human ones. The codename Mother Wolf suddenly started making a twisted kind of sense.
She’s a werewolf herself, I realized. The kind that can hide among humans.
All the pieces fell into place. I couldn’t fathom what she would have to gain from destabilizing Archfrost, but now it made a great deal of sense: she wanted to see it collapse so her kindred could move in.
“Do not harm her, Jean,” Florence said, calmly but firmly. If she felt anything when staring at Colmar’s beheaded remains, I couldn’t see it behind her mask. “Her father wants her alive.”
“Saddening,” Chastel replied before suddenly twisting both of his captive’s arms.
A terrible noise echoed across the burning plaza, followed by Alaire’s scream of pain. I clenched my teeth while dodging a lethal backhand. Keep your focus, I told myself. Don’t let yourself be distracted.
I did not keep my own advice. I blinked upon noticing another shadow sneaking up on us. She kept a hood over her head, but I recognized her body language.
“It is unwise,” the werewolf taunted me, unaware of the danger coming at him from behind. My savior had come with a cloak caked in dust, to hide her smell. “To lower your defenses–”
A hand brushed against his back and he collapsed dead.
That was no hyperbole. All life left the werewolf’s body in an instant. His breath stopped abruptly, his knees collapsed, and his mighty pulse came to an abrupt end. His hollow eyes still glared at me even in the afterlife.
His killer stepped over the corpse without a hint of pity.
Mersie never showed mercy.
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Comments
Void Herald
They kinda look alike in their full gears ;)
Hussar L
Colmar makes me want to play as that plague doctor from Darkest Dungeon
Void Herald
Corrected, thank you ;)
Orm
Alair immediately flew -> Alaire
