Rich finishes his song, and shortly, the remnants after his words are left by the thrumming of his guitar. My food is alright as I've eaten worse, yet the music makes it taste... better. Maybe more digestible? I'm not sure. It's odd. I've never listened to much music in all my life, barring the rare trip with Ma to the nearby town where a musician was on the road.
But this man's words are unique, able to influence me with simple notes. Is this from his Sigil? Or is he merely that good?
When Rich is done, Holt whistles appreciatively with a raised eyebrow.
"You showing off for the kid, Rich?"
Rich, the dark-skinned man with a voice as sable, shakes his head, speaking quietly, opposite his singing tone.
"No."
His reply evokes a hearty laugh from Dinard, the woman almost spitting out her soup.
"Rich! Talk more! All we ever hear are your songs!"
Her words hide a depressive fact that I quickly realize. If Rich only ever talks through his songs, and they are all as sad as that, is the man okay? My thought provokes a deeper examination of the man, and I find that his shoulders are hunched, his back is bent, and his eyes don't leave the ground, even as he thrums light notes on the guitar.
I endeavor to speak up for him, but Holt beats me to it.
"Now, Dinard, you know he's not much of a talker. Let him get out his grief in his own way. Throw your concern toward the kid here."
Dinard does as he says, but not without a scoff and a smidge of backtalk.
"Yeah, yeah, if you say so, oh, honorable Major. Say, kid, Wyatt, I mean, where you from? We folk don't know much on you other than that the old man is training you. Tomas won't let much else slide."
The woman twists to face me from the other side of the campfire, still eating her soup. I fix my seating, shifting from lying on my ass to crossing my legs as I finish eating. Then, I reply to Dinard.
"Tornridge, born and raised. What else you want to know? I don't like hiding anything."
Dinard squints as it's Holt's turn to raise an eyebrow. The woman presses me on my homeland.
"Tornridge, you say? Hard to find people from there nowadays, seeing as we only had it for a handful of decades. What's it like there? Or what was it like? I'm a city girl from Blackreach, Holt was born within these walls, and we are relatively sure Rich is from Gravecross based on his songs."
Yet, her words are not only questions as she also gives me some information about herself and her companions. I return the favor some more. I miss home, from Butter to the Ma I used to know.
"It was... peaceful. Very much so. A lot of trees. A lot of farms. A lot of caves. Ma didn't let me play in the latter much, but sometimes I snuck off anyway. Of course, that all changed last fall."
Holt shakes his head sadly, furthering my story with anecdotes of his own.
"Yeah, kid. That... that sucks. Killian Graves was a hell of a man, but something worse must have gotten him in the Wilds. I remember Tornridges fall. I was actually stationed not far at the time and was overseeing a range of towns outside the border. The shit that came through... ehuk."
The man shivers as he pokes the fire with a stick, moving the embers inside. Quiet then befalls us as no one has words to follow up. That is until Rich, surprisingly, breaks it.
"Where in Tornridge?"
"Hmm?"
I can't help but hum a question back at him as I don't quite hear him. The musician loudens himself after clearing his throat.
"Where in Tornridge are you from?"
His question has Holt and Dinard looking back and forth at each other as they quietly whisper.
Is this man from Tornridge? No, probably not. He must've just been there. I answer him the best I can, for Ma and I didn't really live in a town back then.
"My Ma and I had a ranch a few days out from Elderfield and a week from Cragsink."
Rich nods, running his hand up his guitar while the other holds it aloft. Then, he glances at me, showing me a scar that runs along the bottom of his chin to his collarbone. Damn... that's gnarly.
"My wife was from Elderfield. The week we came to visit her family..."
The man pauses his sentence abruptly, the quiet rumbling into a white-knuckled grip of his guitar. He doesn't need to finish his words, however. We understand what he means despite the half-done declaration.
The sorrow of his songs. That can only come from loss.
I pipe up, trying to pull him away from it.
"Is that why you're here? To get revenge?"
Rich nods in agreement for a split second before shifting it into a shake of the head.
"No. Once, I was. Too much time has gone by. Too many deaths."
Holt heaves out a sigh as he reaches for Rich's shoulder, but the moment he touches the man, a gunshot resounds from a distance in the direction of the wall. The caring man jumps slightly from the sounds, turning to Dinard.
"Time to go. Get your shit, Din'. Nice meeting you, Wyatt, but there is no rest for the weak. C'mon, Rich. Let's get your mind off it."
Rich has his shoulder patted before Holt offers a hand to help him up. The musician takes the hand and is lifted to his feet nearly effortlessly. And once he stands, the man arrangeshis guitar into a case before sliding it onto his back.
I can only give the three of them a weak wave as throngs of soldiers stand from their campfires, reading their weapons alongside Holt, Dinard, and Holt.
The weary men and women gather in the moon's dim light with Holt, a 5th Sigiled, as their point of contact. The exhaustion etched upon their faces tells tales of battles fought and victories won. They stand tall, their worn boots grounded on the dusty earth, preparing for yet another fight.
I want to stand, to help them, to fight with them, but I know that it is the wrong choice. Marshall has shown me that I will mean little in the wars as I am now.
But... just as my demons grow, so will I.
The weariness has taken its toll, and the comrades of those around me rest, many awaiting the break of dawn to join the battle against the Pygmies. I can see that only about two-thirds of the groups eating around campfires stand, the rest off duty. Tonight, it is a war against the demons and those beasts that they have forced into servitude.
With tired hands, they check their weapons, each movement slow and deliberate while those on the wall wait for them. The glint of steel catches my eye, a testament to the misfortunes endured. Their guns, I'm sure once polished and gleaming, now bear the marks of countless clashes. They barely have time to feed and take care of themselves right now, let alone their weapons.
I can feel the weariness in the air, a heaviness that hangs over them like a thick cloud. But their determination remains unyielding, their eyes burning with a flicker of defiance. They may be tired, but their resolve is unwavering. The signs of rebellion from two weeks ago are gone. The faint of heart have left, leaving the insidious forces to break those who have hearts built of stone, just as the walls are. Yet, I know somewhere amongst these people are traitors. It's simply that even with Insight, I can't check them all, and I don't see any apparent indications of Darklight, even with my enhanced vision of chains.
Though, I think I know why that Manipulator, or whatever it is, killed Woody and incited that moment of rebellion. It got rid of many, many soldiers. From at least a thousand, we are down to several hundred. And with me right now are only a two hundred or so, the rest spread out in every which way. And that's not all. It weakened a powerful fighter, Bonfire. His gouts of flame are worth dozens of the other soldiers.
However, whoever did that must not understand Bonfire. They must only know him at a surface level, for within that cheerful and playful countenance rages his namesake. That face? That fire he had after Woody's death? It... I can feel the pain even now.
Bonfire hides his anger behind veils of smoke, mirrors, and clumsiness. I feel a little bad for whatever has to meet his blue radiance, for that heat is not something a 5th Sigiled should have. He almost, almost, incinerated me through both Absolutions, Lily's help, Frozen's aid, and Adumbral's protection, all while being choked out.
Shaking my head, my thoughts return to the soldiers as Holt leads them to the walls toward the southwest side.
Fatigue weighs upon their shoulders as they adjust their gear and tighten their belts. In the cover of darkness, they ready their worn firearms, blades, and ammunition, their hands moving with practiced ease as they from Ether for the coming struggle. Their movements are not affected by marching, either, and the discipline is evident. All these soldiers have fought for much longer than me, except for the 1st or 2nd Sigils. Some might have more time than me, but it is still debatable as many are twice my age.
The night envelopes us, its silence broken only by the sound of their tired breaths. But a quiet determination fills the air, a shared understanding that this fight is not yet over. Their tired bodies may ache, but their spirits remain unbroken. These men...
Until Marshall breathes his last, they won't leave. I can see it in each of their eyes. Some may be depressed like Rich, others a hopeful jovialness like Holt, and a few with Dinard's assuming callousness. Yet, they all heed the call of gunfire, not waiting or delaying at all.
I stand to my feet, glancing toward the innards of the fortress to go and find Earl, but I pause. I... I need to see the battlefield. The change it has gone through is something I have to see.
And so, I kick my legs forward, moving toward the wall.
****************************
I sprint at the towering walls of the Bent, where the clash between soldiers and demons reverberates through the air. The scene is chaotic, filled with the thunderous roar of cannons, the crackling of Ether and the various skills powering them, and the indomitable, echoing strikes of the Unyielding Wall against the demonic Angels.
As I approach amidst the chaos and the cacophony of battle, I catch a faint melody carried by the wind. It dances through the air, like a whisper of hope cutting through the darkness. Intrigued, I turn my frame to its source. The only person I have heard that makes music here is Rich. Is this him?
He shouldn't be too far, right? They only left a few minutes after me. And so, I slam my feet into the stairs and carry myself to the top. At the top of the walls, through the haze of smoke and the flashes of magic, I see a figure, a man shrouded by the moon perched upon a makeshift stage. With skilled hands, he strums his guitar, his fingers dancing across the strings, conjuring a melody that resonates with the souls of those who listen.
Rich's voice is low, resonating, and with my eyes of chains, I can see the man's Ether swirl around his fingers, lungs, and mouth. Gazing deeper, it appears as though his chains extend to his guitar, the man thrumming not only the strings of the instrument but also his own phantasmal chains.
His voice, unlike before, speaks not of sadness only but also of hope. It gains speed as he goes, the tense voice achieving only alacrity, not pitch.
"I shall stand beside you again.
I have stood in the flames that cremated my brain,
And I didn't once flinch or shake.
So cower at the man I've become!
When I sing from the top of my lungs!
That I won't retreat, I'll stand in your heat, inspire the meek to be firm!
And when I'm gone, my spirit will rise,
In the music I've left, eternally alive.
Fierce and unyielding, relentless and true,
We're two sides of the same coin, me and you.
There's some that's born lucky,
and there's some that's not.
One sudden movement in a world of possibility,
Is all it takes to expose our mortality!
Burn... Burn... Burn... Burn...
Another domino falls,
In a world with those endlessly tall.
Some say we're only human .
That is simply an illusion.
Look ahead into the night.
And see he who fights."
Rich's words are quick, with little reason or rhyme, but I can feel his words inundate my body, filling it with energy and relentlessness. My hands unconsciously tighten as I step beside him and gaze out into the distance, where his eyes end.
Far away, thousands of feet, two humans rage against a quartet of demons. Marshall fights in the front, the head of the bullet as Johnny supports him, Glitching demons, himself, and sometimes even Marshall Travis to aid the old man.
Together, they force back the demons, constantly causing injuries and wounds to their foes. But with their numbers, they can retreat and get healed by another before returning. Unless the two can kill a demon instantly, they will return for another round.
I observe the back and forth in the distance as men and women around me fire rifles, let loose cannons, and drop boiling oil alongside a dozen other tactics to slow the horde. I even catch a glimpse of a flying Skyswain drop Virgil onto an unsuspecting demon that he proceeds to kill while Abraham clears the drop-off point with his Nightmares.
And through it all, Rich plays his music until he finishes whatever song he makes. When his conclusive note plays, the man draws his own pistol from the holster on his hip and joins Holt at the bottom of the wall near the gate, guarding it alongside other Wondrous Sigileds.
He disappears from my vision with a silent nod, and as he leaves to join the war, I can't stop myself.
Ether spirals in my body as figments of Madness form from Lily, and a quiet ask of the Bloody Palm arises.
"Can you pull the bolt back? I'll... find you an artifact from the demons."
A rumble of agreement comes as my flesh twists, turns, contorts, and hauls the string back on my Ballista formed from all three of my figments of Madness. I'll have to thank Lily somehow. Though, all these deaths are probably plenty.
The high-pitched screech of my Ballista is overpowered by the roar of cannons, and I lift my arm up as the bolt falls into place, the extreme force waiting as I finish it all with a Hone, Daydream, and Release. Squinting my eye, I look for a target and quickly find one.
Marshall is closer than he used to be, only about a thousand feet from the wall. And while the everyday demons are unwilling to strike at him, some headstrong creatures like Urayuli are not against it as a 6th Sigiled giant humanoid moves toward him. So, I take aim at the beast.
The bolt should reach from this far and kill it, right? With how fast it moved, there shouldn't be a problem at all. So, I begin to press down on the trigger, but as I do, a force to the side of my head sends my focused brain reeling.
Twisting, I turn the Ballista to my side as Tomas shouts at me over the din of the battle.
"Stop that, dumbass! You're supposed to save that! If the Angels know you have such a skill, how will you kill one in surprise! Go back! Now! You aren't supposed to fight, so you don't fall into your old ways!"
Tomas, leans forward, whispering as quietly as he can so I can still hear before leaping off the wall.
"I know you want to help, but just wait. I'll deal with the Urayuli. It's my job to keep the old man safe, not yours. Let him reshape you entirely before you fight."
And with that, he's gone into the night, and the moment he lunges from the stone bricks, rain begins to fall, clouding the battlefield in droplets of water.
My head falls as I step backward toward the stairs.
"I only want to help..."
My words meet no one but Abraham, the illusionist of sorts sitting on the wall nearby, conjuring his Nightmares to aid his team members from afar. He sighs and hands me a small finger, one with dark blue skin. The flesh of my hand devours it entirely the moment I take it, hiding it from the light of the moon and cannon fire.
"Don't take it to heart, Wyatt. Here's the fuel for the Bloody Palm. I'll come to see you later, and we can practice a bit. How about that?"
I nod and reply before shambling down the steps, trying not to get in the way.
"I'd like that."
Rich finishes his song, and shortly, the remnants after his words are left by the thrumming of his guitar. My food is alright as I've eaten worse, yet the music makes it taste... better. Maybe more digestible? I'm not sure. It's odd. I've never listened to much music in all my life, barring the rare trip with Ma to the nearby town where a musician was on the road.
But this man's words are unique, able to influence me with simple notes. Is this from his Sigil? Or is he merely that good?
When Rich is done, Holt whistles appreciatively with a raised eyebrow.
"You showing off for the kid, Rich?"
Rich, the dark-skinned man with a voice as sable, shakes his head, speaking quietly, opposite his singing tone.
"No."
His reply evokes a hearty laugh from Dinard, the woman almost spitting out her soup.
"Rich! Talk more! All we ever hear are your songs!"
Her words hide a depressive fact that I quickly realize. If Rich only ever talks through his songs, and they are all as sad as that, is the man okay? My thought provokes a deeper examination of the man, and I find that his shoulders are hunched, his back is bent, and his eyes don't leave the ground, even as he thrums light notes on the guitar.
I endeavor to speak up for him, but Holt beats me to it.
"Now, Dinard, you know he's not much of a talker. Let him get out his grief in his own way. Throw your concern toward the kid here."
Dinard does as he says, but not without a scoff and a smidge of backtalk.
"Yeah, yeah, if you say so, oh, honorable Major. Say, kid, Wyatt, I mean, where you from? We folk don't know much on you other than that the old man is training you. Tomas won't let much else slide."
The woman twists to face me from the other side of the campfire, still eating her soup. I fix my seating, shifting from lying on my ass to crossing my legs as I finish eating. Then, I reply to Dinard.
"Tornridge, born and raised. What else you want to know? I don't like hiding anything."
Dinard squints as it's Holt's turn to raise an eyebrow. The woman presses me on my homeland.
"Tornridge, you say? Hard to find people from there nowadays, seeing as we only had it for a handful of decades. What's it like there? Or what was it like? I'm a city girl from Blackreach, Holt was born within these walls, and we are relatively sure Rich is from Gravecross based on his songs."
Yet, her words are not only questions as she also gives me some information about herself and her companions. I return the favor some more. I miss home, from Butter to the Ma I used to know.
"It was... peaceful. Very much so. A lot of trees. A lot of farms. A lot of caves. Ma didn't let me play in the latter much, but sometimes I snuck off anyway. Of course, that all changed last fall."
Holt shakes his head sadly, furthering my story with anecdotes of his own.
"Yeah, kid. That... that sucks. Killian Graves was a hell of a man, but something worse must have gotten him in the Wilds. I remember Tornridges fall. I was actually stationed not far at the time and was overseeing a range of towns outside the border. The shit that came through... ehuk."
The man shivers as he pokes the fire with a stick, moving the embers inside. Quiet then befalls us as no one has words to follow up. That is until Rich, surprisingly, breaks it.
"Where in Tornridge?"
"Hmm?"
I can't help but hum a question back at him as I don't quite hear him. The musician loudens himself after clearing his throat.
"Where in Tornridge are you from?"
His question has Holt and Dinard looking back and forth at each other as they quietly whisper.
Is this man from Tornridge? No, probably not. He must've just been there. I answer him the best I can, for Ma and I didn't really live in a town back then.
"My Ma and I had a ranch a few days out from Elderfield and a week from Cragsink."
Rich nods, running his hand up his guitar while the other holds it aloft. Then, he glances at me, showing me a scar that runs along the bottom of his chin to his collarbone. Damn... that's gnarly.
"My wife was from Elderfield. The week we came to visit her family..."
The man pauses his sentence abruptly, the quiet rumbling into a white-knuckled grip of his guitar. He doesn't need to finish his words, however. We understand what he means despite the half-done declaration.
The sorrow of his songs. That can only come from loss.
I pipe up, trying to pull him away from it.
"Is that why you're here? To get revenge?"
Rich nods in agreement for a split second before shifting it into a shake of the head.
"No. Once, I was. Too much time has gone by. Too many deaths."
Holt heaves out a sigh as he reaches for Rich's shoulder, but the moment he touches the man, a gunshot resounds from a distance in the direction of the wall. The caring man jumps slightly from the sounds, turning to Dinard.
"Time to go. Get your shit, Din'. Nice meeting you, Wyatt, but there is no rest for the weak. C'mon, Rich. Let's get your mind off it."
Rich has his shoulder patted before Holt offers a hand to help him up. The musician takes the hand and is lifted to his feet nearly effortlessly. And once he stands, the man arrangeshis guitar into a case before sliding it onto his back.
I can only give the three of them a weak wave as throngs of soldiers stand from their campfires, reading their weapons alongside Holt, Dinard, and Holt.
The weary men and women gather in the moon's dim light with Holt, a 5th Sigiled, as their point of contact. The exhaustion etched upon their faces tells tales of battles fought and victories won. They stand tall, their worn boots grounded on the dusty earth, preparing for yet another fight.
I want to stand, to help them, to fight with them, but I know that it is the wrong choice. Marshall has shown me that I will mean little in the wars as I am now.
But... just as my demons grow, so will I.
The weariness has taken its toll, and the comrades of those around me rest, many awaiting the break of dawn to join the battle against the Pygmies. I can see that only about two-thirds of the groups eating around campfires stand, the rest off duty. Tonight, it is a war against the demons and those beasts that they have forced into servitude.
With tired hands, they check their weapons, each movement slow and deliberate while those on the wall wait for them. The glint of steel catches my eye, a testament to the misfortunes endured. Their guns, I'm sure once polished and gleaming, now bear the marks of countless clashes. They barely have time to feed and take care of themselves right now, let alone their weapons.
I can feel the weariness in the air, a heaviness that hangs over them like a thick cloud. But their determination remains unyielding, their eyes burning with a flicker of defiance. They may be tired, but their resolve is unwavering. The signs of rebellion from two weeks ago are gone. The faint of heart have left, leaving the insidious forces to break those who have hearts built of stone, just as the walls are. Yet, I know somewhere amongst these people are traitors. It's simply that even with Insight, I can't check them all, and I don't see any apparent indications of Darklight, even with my enhanced vision of chains.
Though, I think I know why that Manipulator, or whatever it is, killed Woody and incited that moment of rebellion. It got rid of many, many soldiers. From at least a thousand, we are down to several hundred. And with me right now are only a two hundred or so, the rest spread out in every which way. And that's not all. It weakened a powerful fighter, Bonfire. His gouts of flame are worth dozens of the other soldiers.
However, whoever did that must not understand Bonfire. They must only know him at a surface level, for within that cheerful and playful countenance rages his namesake. That face? That fire he had after Woody's death? It... I can feel the pain even now.
Bonfire hides his anger behind veils of smoke, mirrors, and clumsiness. I feel a little bad for whatever has to meet his blue radiance, for that heat is not something a 5th Sigiled should have. He almost, almost, incinerated me through both Absolutions, Lily's help, Frozen's aid, and Adumbral's protection, all while being choked out.
Shaking my head, my thoughts return to the soldiers as Holt leads them to the walls toward the southwest side.
Fatigue weighs upon their shoulders as they adjust their gear and tighten their belts. In the cover of darkness, they ready their worn firearms, blades, and ammunition, their hands moving with practiced ease as they from Ether for the coming struggle. Their movements are not affected by marching, either, and the discipline is evident. All these soldiers have fought for much longer than me, except for the 1st or 2nd Sigils. Some might have more time than me, but it is still debatable as many are twice my age.
The night envelopes us, its silence broken only by the sound of their tired breaths. But a quiet determination fills the air, a shared understanding that this fight is not yet over. Their tired bodies may ache, but their spirits remain unbroken. These men...
Until Marshall breathes his last, they won't leave. I can see it in each of their eyes. Some may be depressed like Rich, others a hopeful jovialness like Holt, and a few with Dinard's assuming callousness. Yet, they all heed the call of gunfire, not waiting or delaying at all.
I stand to my feet, glancing toward the innards of the fortress to go and find Earl, but I pause. I... I need to see the battlefield. The change it has gone through is something I have to see.
And so, I kick my legs forward, moving toward the wall.
****************************
I sprint at the towering walls of the Bent, where the clash between soldiers and demons reverberates through the air. The scene is chaotic, filled with the thunderous roar of cannons, the crackling of Ether and the various skills powering them, and the indomitable, echoing strikes of the Unyielding Wall against the demonic Angels.
As I approach amidst the chaos and the cacophony of battle, I catch a faint melody carried by the wind. It dances through the air, like a whisper of hope cutting through the darkness. Intrigued, I turn my frame to its source. The only person I have heard that makes music here is Rich. Is this him?
He shouldn't be too far, right? They only left a few minutes after me. And so, I slam my feet into the stairs and carry myself to the top. At the top of the walls, through the haze of smoke and the flashes of magic, I see a figure, a man shrouded by the moon perched upon a makeshift stage. With skilled hands, he strums his guitar, his fingers dancing across the strings, conjuring a melody that resonates with the souls of those who listen.
Rich's voice is low, resonating, and with my eyes of chains, I can see the man's Ether swirl around his fingers, lungs, and mouth. Gazing deeper, it appears as though his chains extend to his guitar, the man thrumming not only the strings of the instrument but also his own phantasmal chains.
His voice, unlike before, speaks not of sadness only but also of hope. It gains speed as he goes, the tense voice achieving only alacrity, not pitch.
"I shall stand beside you again.
I have stood in the flames that cremated my brain,
And I didn't once flinch or shake.
So cower at the man I've become!
When I sing from the top of my lungs!
That I won't retreat, I'll stand in your heat, inspire the meek to be firm!
And when I'm gone, my spirit will rise,
In the music I've left, eternally alive.
Fierce and unyielding, relentless and true,
We're two sides of the same coin, me and you.
There's some that's born lucky,
and there's some that's not.
One sudden movement in a world of possibility,
Is all it takes to expose our mortality!
Burn... Burn... Burn... Burn...
Another domino falls,
In a world with those endlessly tall.
Some say we're only human .
That is simply an illusion.
Look ahead into the night.
And see he who fights."
Rich's words are quick, with little reason or rhyme, but I can feel his words inundate my body, filling it with energy and relentlessness. My hands unconsciously tighten as I step beside him and gaze out into the distance, where his eyes end.
Far away, thousands of feet, two humans rage against a quartet of demons. Marshall fights in the front, the head of the bullet as Johnny supports him, Glitching demons, himself, and sometimes even Marshall Travis to aid the old man.
Together, they force back the demons, constantly causing injuries and wounds to their foes. But with their numbers, they can retreat and get healed by another before returning. Unless the two can kill a demon instantly, they will return for another round.
I observe the back and forth in the distance as men and women around me fire rifles, let loose cannons, and drop boiling oil alongside a dozen other tactics to slow the horde. I even catch a glimpse of a flying Skyswain drop Virgil onto an unsuspecting demon that he proceeds to kill while Abraham clears the drop-off point with his Nightmares.
And through it all, Rich plays his music until he finishes whatever song he makes. When his conclusive note plays, the man draws his own pistol from the holster on his hip and joins Holt at the bottom of the wall near the gate, guarding it alongside other Wondrous Sigileds.
He disappears from my vision with a silent nod, and as he leaves to join the war, I can't stop myself.
Ether spirals in my body as figments of Madness form from Lily, and a quiet ask of the Bloody Palm arises.
"Can you pull the bolt back? I'll... find you an artifact from the demons."
A rumble of agreement comes as my flesh twists, turns, contorts, and hauls the string back on my Ballista formed from all three of my figments of Madness. I'll have to thank Lily somehow. Though, all these deaths are probably plenty.
The high-pitched screech of my Ballista is overpowered by the roar of cannons, and I lift my arm up as the bolt falls into place, the extreme force waiting as I finish it all with a Hone, Daydream, and Release. Squinting my eye, I look for a target and quickly find one.
Marshall is closer than he used to be, only about a thousand feet from the wall. And while the everyday demons are unwilling to strike at him, some headstrong creatures like Urayuli are not against it as a 6th Sigiled giant humanoid moves toward him. So, I take aim at the beast.
The bolt should reach from this far and kill it, right? With how fast it moved, there shouldn't be a problem at all. So, I begin to press down on the trigger, but as I do, a force to the side of my head sends my focused brain reeling.
Twisting, I turn the Ballista to my side as Tomas shouts at me over the din of the battle.
"Stop that, dumbass! You're supposed to save that! If the Angels know you have such a skill, how will you kill one in surprise! Go back! Now! You aren't supposed to fight, so you don't fall into your old ways!"
Tomas, leans forward, whispering as quietly as he can so I can still hear before leaping off the wall.
"I know you want to help, but just wait. I'll deal with the Urayuli. It's my job to keep the old man safe, not yours. Let him reshape you entirely before you fight."
And with that, he's gone into the night, and the moment he lunges from the stone bricks, rain begins to fall, clouding the battlefield in droplets of water.
My head falls as I step backward toward the stairs.
"I only want to help..."
My words meet no one but Abraham, the illusionist of sorts sitting on the wall nearby, conjuring his Nightmares to aid his team members from afar. He sighs and hands me a small finger, one with dark blue skin. The flesh of my hand devours it entirely the moment I take it, hiding it from the light of the moon and cannon fire.
"Don't take it to heart, Wyatt. Here's the fuel for the Bloody Palm. I'll come to see you later, and we can practice a bit. How about that?"
I nod and reply before shambling down the steps, trying not to get in the way.
"I'd like that."
