azazele
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Arc 8-97
🕑 Added 2025-09-25 01:14:54 +0000 UTCThere aren’t many places to hide in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, I can take the form of a dust hawk. I was briefly concerned that they might try to shoot me down for a meal, but no one took notice as I flew circles over the Traditionalists’ camp. I watch their boring day to day, as the sun sets. I take notice as a group of them congregate in one of the more decent buildings made of stone. I’m still circling when the rebels launch their attack.
Is it wrong to think that the alchemical fires swallowing the shoddy shelters are kind of beautiful? High enough to avoid the smoke and screaming, the dancing lights overshadow the horror. I wouldn’t mind flying over the camp until they burned out. Or calling for Bell; she could raise a nice hill to have a picnic on.
[Lou.] Geneva’s voice enters my head. [Do you see the two men floating above the battleground?]
Mm.
[The older man is Jacoby. He is the best bet for both controlling the faction and locating the Authority.]
And the easiest to control?
[Yes. He is the weakest physically and his magic specialization is communication. As you can see.]
Once she points it out, I notice the Traditionalists are significantly more organized than their opponents. The rebels have far superior numbers, but they are dispatched easily and there are no weaknesses for them to exploit. If not for their bombs, it’d be a massacre.
Any other important targets?
[I would recommend taking Grayskin. He will be more problematic to control but it may be important to come to an agreement with another of their leaders. Jacoby might not live to enforce it for long.]
What rotten luck. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling, orchestrating this mess. Here he was, an elder who had already paid his dues to life and country. He should be posted in a comfortable charge, watching over his young neighbors fondly or yelling at children making a ruckus. Not fighting for his life and future.
Still, my pity is fleeting. Whatever his age or deeds, he was complicit in kidnapping my family. There weren’t exactly dragons guarding my flower and the snow bunny. Any dissenters among the hunters could have easily taken action on their own. I keep that in mind as I watch the old man dive after his comrade, catching him before he can hit the ground. I doubt a bird face can adequately show my surprise as the darkness shifts and a shape leaps out of it, the metal of a blade glinting as it's held at the old man’s neck.
[That is the rebel leader, Sin.]
Still a terrible name, no matter how many times I hear it.
I circle around the man’s back before diving. At the last moment, I shift, becoming far larger. Far noticeable. The rebel realizes something is wrong and meets its blade with force. With admirable speed, water crystallizes into a small pick that he swings backward; quite ruthless to go for the kill without seeing my face. It shatters against my neck, droplets of water tickling as they run down my bare chest.
The rebel’s eyes narrow as he spots me. “Ah, the young Lady—”
I backhand him and he crumples, the blade slipping from his hand. Jacoby takes a deep breath, but my hand is around his neck before he can exhale; my body pushing my not-so-fun excretions through my fingertips. His frail body can’t mount even the slightest resistance, but I catch him as his legs give out, hauling him onto my shoulder. The rebel I grab by the back of his pants, tucking him under my arm. I steal away with my prizes; I imagine I make quite a horrific sight, a vague feminine shadow stealing away two men under the light of alchemical fire. Then again, I’m sure that’s someone’s fantasy.
Geneva meets me at the edge of the camp and I pass over my burdens. “Grayskin?”
“He’s in the thick of the fighting. I suggest waiting until things settle down. If—”
“If I can grab him without witnesses, they’ll assume the rebels took them. And without Sin there to lead the rebels, they’ll be a mess. That’s what you were going to say right?”
She smiles prettily. “You’re becoming devious, my summoner.”
“I spend enough time around devious creatures. Go on, find a nice place to stash them and keep them quiet. Show me what this Grayskin looks like.”
The image of a square-jawed man with calm expression and hard eyes enters my mind, as clear and crisp as if he were standing right in front of me and posing under perfect lighting. I hold onto it as I take to the air, once more soaring over the chaos. Things have degenerated; the Traditionalists have noticed that their leader is no longer talking to them. Their coordination lapses in the face of their anger as they throw themselves at their enemies. They leave themselves vulnerable, as they tear into the remaining rebels, taking more casualties. The rebels…well, they were already a mess so there isn’t much change there. It’s difficult seeing anything clearly in the chaos and I have to circle the camp nearly a dozen times before I see him.
He catches my attention as he charges through one of the shelters, the blue light of the fires making his sneer something malevolent as he crashes into the backline of a group of rebels. The earth churns as he rushes at them, knocking them off their feet, leaving them helpless as his large axe descends, nearly bisecting anyone unfortunate enough to come under the blade. Their resistance is useless; every spell and weapon bounces off the metal coating his skin. He is a figure of legend, unstoppable and brutally efficient.
Until a rebel yells some horrible things about his mother and a donkey before throwing a bomb right into his face.
I wince as the warrior that seemed unstoppable moments before is thrown off his feet, skipping like a stone as he crashes through feeble shelters before resting in the dirt, unmoving. I don’t hesitate to capitalize on the chance, swooping down on his prone form. The metal is sloughing away from his skin, like dirt under a powerful stream, as I transform. My finger finds his throat, hoping for a pulse. Saints preserve him, I find one, but it’s weak; it feels like he could slip away at any moment.
As carefully as I can afford to be, which is not very, I hoist him in my arms and sprint off with my latest prize, leaving the fighting behind. Both sides are going to be in shambles after this. I wonder what the survivors will think. Will the Traditionalists finally abandon their pride and duty after losing everything, again? Will the rebels, significantly reduced and lacking their suicidal leader, finally give up their ridiculous idea of taking the city for themselves?
Perhaps more importantly, what will the CFQ do with the stragglers that will crawl to the camp begging for forgiveness and salvation? I suppose that will be their first test and the first step to determine the future of the guilds.
I find Geneva squatting in the wrecked living room of an abandoned home, a sight that is becoming rarer these days. The two leaders are laid out on the ground, their wrists and ankles bound by dirty cloth.
I carefully lay the large form of Grayskin beside them. She doesn’t wait for me to say he needs healing; her hands glow with the green of physical mana as she pulls him back from the brink of death.
“Not too much. No need for him to be too energetic when we question him.”
“Of course.”
“Those two are going to wake up soon.”
“Sin could use a dose of your sleep assistance,” she replies with a chuckle. “Healing the bleeding in his brain will result in his awakening shortly.”
“I barely tapped him,” I grumble as I apply my wet finger to his face, giving him twice the dose I gave the old man. “You could have done this.”
“With magic. You can do it as easily as breathing.”
She has a point.
“There.” She stands up from Grayskin; he’s still a bloody mess but his breathing has evened out. “He’ll live, and travel will not upset his condition if we do not jostle him needlessly.”
“Alright. Which ones do you want?”
She bends to scoop the old man into her arms. “You are not good at being gentle, my summoner, and he is the most fragile.”
“You just can’t wait to go digging for his secrets.”
“I can have more than one motivation.”
