Jackal Among Snakes

There was a simple principle in many RPGs, action or otherwise—don’t kill what the summoner summons, just kill the summoner, and then all the problems will go away naturally. Their strategy hinged on that simple principle.

There were obstacles, of course. There always were.

The puppeteered lord and his two mages stayed near the vast heart that was Waqwaq. At once, their party of three conjured wards each and all—B-rank, judging from the golden color alone, and working in tandem to create multiple layers. It served as a great protection against ranged attacks.

Yet Argrave and his companions did not blindly rush forth. The tunnel they had entered from had been sealed by Silvic, and they had time. Instead, they stepped backwards, heading for the edge of the room. Galamon discarded his wind-enchanted greatsword and pulled his bow from his back, nocking an arrow quickly. The three spellcasters of the party prepared spells, and attacked the lord’s honor guard of four knights, unprotected by the wards.

Though the elven vampire still had enchanted arrows made in Jast, he used mundane ones—deliberately so. Argrave, Anneliese, and Durran all used spells of lesser ranks, some even E-rank. It was a simple onslaught of attacks that could not be considered deadly but was nonetheless unignorable.

And the knights did not ignore it. All four rushed towards Argrave and his companions in a side-by-side pursuit, as dogged as the dead could be. While they pursued, their party’s attacks continued as ever, barely denting the well-made armor of their opponents. The gleaming enchanted blades of their opponents grew ever closer…

“Now’s a good time,” Argrave called out levelly, an iron focus on the scene before them.

Silvic placed her uncorrupted arm to the ground, and the roots in the ground spurred to action. Two hands of roots burst into the center of their small formation, then pushed them aside as though opening a curtain. The knights were thrown aside a great distance, entirely disrupted. A clear path led to Waqwaq and its mage guard.

No one needed a command to begin the charge forth. Galamon discarded his bow, kneeling to the ground and dropping it as he rushed forth while pulling free his Ebonice axe from its loop on his belt. He tossed it to Durran, who caught it while setting down his glaive in one smooth motion. With both hands freed, the elven vampire drew the Giantkillers once more, still slightly sparking with electricity from defending against earlier assaults.

Anneliese and Galamon slowed—she charged the Giantkillers with potent lightning magic, firing again and again. Durran and Argrave moved forward. With one hand, Argrave conjured the D-rank [Gore Scalpel], and blood from his wrist formed a knife. With the other hand, conjured [Electric Eels] jumped to the sky.

Durran slammed the Ebonice axe against the first B-rank ward—it cracked heavily, golden chips of light scattering, but did not shatter entirely. Argrave finished it with his Black Blooded [Gore Scalpel], and then the tribal carried onto the next barrier, roaring mightily with each blow. Once the second broke, roots descended from the ceiling, wrapping around the heart-like body of Waqwaq and lifting it up into protection ever-so-slowly.

Once the third ward broke, the puppeteered lord of this fortress drew a rapier at his side, lunging straight for Argrave. He could only fall on his back to dodge. The pair of mages chose to attack Durran. The tribal narrowly dodged a spear of ice, but a ball of fire struck his helmet, casting it off. His hair and much of his face caught aflame, and he fell to the ground screaming.

Argrave willed all of the electric eels he’d conjured to attack Galamon—the elven vampire received them with his Giantkillers and sprinted forth towards the retreating Waqwaq. The puppeteered lord moved to intercept him. The tip of the rapier attempted to impale him with his own charge, but Galamon nimbly dodged and planted his foot on the lord’s shoulder. He used the dead man as a springboard and launched up towards Waqwaq.

Both Giantkillers struck home. All of that potent electricity surged through the foul Corpse Puppeteer, creating a spark so blinding that Argrave felt he’d lost all sight. His ears hurt terribly, and he could hear nothing. Seconds passed, and only then did things begin to fade. His vision was stained white, yet slowly recovered.

The heart-like body of Waqwaq had been burnt so badly that charred flesh and roots alike collapsed down onto Galamon, who clung to the Giantkillers while shielding his eyes. Argrave saw Durran still writhing in agony as the flames spread across his head. Though he could barely feel his limbs, he knew how to move them—he rushed to Durran, removing his duster and smothering the flames.

Argrave looked around, still unable to hear, his vision stained white from the blinding light. The seven puppets they’d been fighting had fallen to the ground, well and truly dead. His gaze jumped from companion to companion, ensuring all were at least alive… and so they were.

Exhausted, Argrave settled his head against the ground. As adrenaline faded, pain set into his bones and his skin earnestly. But he was well used to persisting through pain. Argrave was the first to rise to his feet, still deaf as ever. He pulled his duster off Durran and set to work healing the burns.

It seemed the first day was over.

#####

“I’m the smallest one here, yet I get hit the most. Why is this?” Durran questioned bitterly. The wounds on his face had healed, but much of his hair had been burnt away, leaving him with half a bald patch on his otherwise perfect set of locks.

“Maybe take comfort in the fact that you’re alive, and the burns are healed. Two died,” Argrave reminded him.

The five of them rested separately from the Waxknights. An improvised funeral was being held—Orion held one of the fallen knights in his hands while the corpse was aflame, drifting away piece by piece as ashes lost to the wind. The other Waxknights knelt before Orion, hands clasped together as they knelt in prayer. Their two golden sets of enchanted armor had been set aside in a safe place—armor was always custom-made, and it could fit no one else that did not already have one. It was to be retrieved as they left.

“Three died,” Silvic argued. “My friend, Predniz… consumed. I cannot make sense of it,” Silvic shook her head, voice with a rare display of emotion.

“All of the other wetland spirits are dead,” Argrave told Silvic. “Each and all, consumed by the Plague Jester’s loyal servants, their power inehrited. Barring you, actually.”

Silvic lowered her head, crown of stag-like roots moving with it.

“I don’t understand his strength,” Galamon commented in frustration as he watched Orion.

“Join the club,” Argrave returned, still cleaning dried blood out of his ears. His hearing had returned. Anneliese had to heal his ruptured eardrums, though.

“He is only human. I know this to be true,” Galamon crossed his arms, shaking his head.

Argrave looked up at Galamon, then sat against a tree root. “He’s blessed by gods. His strength isn’t his own.”

“My strength is not my own, yet I am still vastly weaker than him,” Galamon pointed to his chest, referring to both the enchanted crown embedded in his helmet and the vampiric beast in his blood.

Argrave looked to the ground. “That’ll change, if things go my way.”

Galamon looked to him. “You have yet more items to give?”

Argrave rubbed his hands together. “In time, the boundaries between this realm and… and other realms… will weaken.”

“Meaning?” Galamon pressed.

“Gerechtigkeit is judging gods, going by your culture’s name for him,” Argrave pointed to him. “But the gods get their own defense, even if it isn’t an active form. Once the boundaries weaken… Orion won’t be the only one to be blessed by gods. Already, I have my thing, Orion has his blessings…”

Galamon stepped over to stand above Argrave. “You mean to say…”

“Yeah. That’s the plan for you and Durran, when the time comes. Got plans for me and Anneliese, too.”

Galamon stepped away, lost in thought, then turned back. “I will champion none besides Veid,” he declared.

“I know,” Argrave nodded.

“I’m not as picky,” Durran contributed. “As long as nothing is expected of me, of course. Don’t fancy playing toady to some tyrannical god just so I can toss aside large rocks with ease.”

Argrave stretched his legs. “Put it out of your mind. This is all far away. It’s why I never brought it up.”

Anneliese said nothing as she stared at Orion’s improvised funeral—he had already told her of this long ago.

“We did well today,” Argrave rose to his feet. “Things went near as well as they could have. Nevertheless… considering Magnus’ death, and the near active sabotage going on around us… it’d be good to stay alert. Silvic, everyone—when the time comes for sleep, let’s stick closely together, and with our company in sight,” he concluded, gaze turning to Orion.

Everyone tiredly agreed. Only one day had passed, yet already these wetlands wore away their spirit.

#####

The day had not yet concluded. Argrave sat a fair distance from Silvic, leaning against Anneliese as he gazed upon the matrix for [Bloodfeud Bow] even still. Galamon tended to his armor, which sorely needed maintenance after their trek through the wetlands.

Silvic’s displays of power today were not without cost. The waxpox had spread across more of her body, consuming parts of her wooden neck and nearing her face. It had begun to encroach upon the uncorrupted side, too.

He sat near Silvic mostly to ward away Orion. Yet as he read, he heard footsteps. Durran and Orion walked through the square of the castle, Orion fervently explaining something to the tribal, who seemed miserable beyond compare, an effect that was only increased by the sad-looking bald patch from his recent burns.

“…I will repeat the names back to you tomorrow, and I expect you to respond in kind,” Orion said. “This is but the foundations—how will you memorize scriptures if you cannot remember the names of the gods?”

“Okay,” agreed Durran, hollow and dead. Argrave made a mental note to do something nice for the tribal very soon.

Orion patted Durran’s back, sending him towards Argrave like a child sent off to school. Argrave watched the towering prince warily as he walked towards them.

“Brother,” Orion began, tone cold. “I had questions.”

Argrave closed the book and gestured for Orion to ask without words.

His gray eyes jumped to Silvic for half a second. Then, he asked, “A Corse Puppeteer, a Plague Jester—no mere coincidence, is it?”

Argrave furrowed his brows. “It isn’t, but… I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You know the truth of things, then? I would hear it,” Orion insisted, coming to sit cross-legged before Argrave.

Argrave adjusted his legs, and then set the book for [Bloodfeud Bow] aside. “Alright… well, sure. Sure. Let me think for a moment.”

Argrave tapped his chin as he thought of how to frame the story.

“The conquest of the wetlands didn’t end once these fortresses were made,” Argrave began, gesturing to the walls around them. “The swamp folk refused to be subjects, refused to abandon their customs and faiths, and refused to integrate into Vasquer society. And so… the newly anointed lords of this area undertook a second conquest. A conquest of spirit.”

Argrave rubbed his hands together, thinking more. “The lords butchered the swamp folk by the hundreds, making violent examples of all troublemakers. Community leaders… community leaders received a different fate. Shamans to the wetland spirits were mostly killed. Some, though… they were taken in as amusements to the Archduke of this land.”

“Waqwaq, for instance, was forced to play out puppet shows of the conquest of the wetlands, reliving things time and time again,” Argrave looked to the tree that still stood tall, where the Corpse Puppeteer had once lived.

“There were plenty of others,” Argrave continued, looking back to Orion. “A jongleur, a bard, a mummer, a troubadour… we won’t fight them all, of course. Just enough to get to the ringleader. The jester.”

Orion nodded, then locked his gaze upon Argrave. “Is there no room… for other options?”

Argrave raised a brow. For ordinary people, that might mean ‘diplomacy.’ For Orion, it surely meant, “Getting them to convert?” When Orion nodded, he continued, “That option… it was lost long ago. Violence begets violence. The moment you veer from persuasion and debate to open attack, neither side will return until the other is defeated.” Argrave pursed his lips in hesitation, then said, “There’s a lesson in that, Orion.”

Orion stared at the ground, gray eyes distant. Then, he looked to Argrave, saying simply, “Rest well, brother. Lady Anneliese. Durran. Galamon.” His gaze fell to Silvic. “And… and you, Silvic,” he said, though the words sounded forced.

Argrave watched Orion leave, perplexed.