***********
Earl Garner
As the spider-like puppets close in, panic surges through me like a tidal wave. My heart races in my chest, its frantic rhythm echoing in my ears. I can feel the cold sweat breaking out on my forehead, trickling down my spine like icy fingers. My fingertips shiver and shake as I can't even position them near my bag. The Storm on my back is untouched even as it slams against the wall behind me.
Their spider-like appearance is overwhelming, their porcelain legs resembling the creepy crawlies I've always dreaded in the worst way possible. The white limbs that contort and twist in every which way freeze my mind. I want to move, to run, to escape this nightmarish chamber I was forced into after following to find wherever Wyatt went, but my limbs refuse to obey.
I'm paralyzed, trapped in the grip of sheer terror. It's irrational. It's stupid. It's idiotic. It doesn't make any sense. But not all things do. Spiders and anything that closely resembles them have always shattered my resolve. I don't even know why. They...
The marionettes dangle from the ceiling, their movements synchronized and uncanny. They sway like macabre dancers, their strings weaving an intricate web around Wyatt and me. Each puppet spider seems to taunt me, its porcelain limbs tapping against the floor like a sinister percussion as they finally near us.
Wyatt's shouts pierce through the fog of my panic, but they are distant, barely registering. I watch in horror as he strikes one aside with the arm I made him. But then a dozen more charge at him, creepily moving across the many seats and aisles toward us.
He bursts forward with such speed the wooden floor below us cracks, throwing splinters into the air. I can't even look at him as he fights for his life.
But even as he fights with all his might, it's clear that he's being overwhelmed by the sheer number of puppet spiders. The room becomes a maelstrom of chaos, a nightmare from which there is no escape.
My companion's every movement is a blur, his strikes landing brutally. Puppets are sent sprawling, their limbs cracking and shattering on impact. Most survive the breakage, however, and he has to reapply the same pressure a half dozen times to finally put down a single marionette.
As he wages war, keeping the horde away from me, my teeth chatter, bouncing off each other. I try to get a grip as he shouts at me again, but the many limbs call my gaze, stopping anything from passing through my mind.
But despite his immense strength and determination, the sheer number of marionettes begins to overwhelm him. They swarm around him like a relentless tide, their porcelain limbs striking with the collective strength of a dozen men. And to his credit, Wyatt can take a beating better than any I know.
He is taken down several times, but he stands again with a roar, breaking even more of the puppets in his rage. Yet there are too many. Far, far too many. When he shatters one, five take its place.
I watch in agony as he fights valiantly, his face a mask of determination, but it's evident that he's struggling to maintain the upper hand. The room echoes with the sound of cracking porcelain and the eerie clatter of puppet limbs. I cup my ears, trying to block out the noise while I do my best to focus my vision.
Tears blur my eyes, and my very pupils shake as I grapple with the internal storm of panic. Every fiber of my being screams at me to move, to help, to do something. Yet, I'm trapped in this mental handcuff, unable to break free from the suffocating grip of fear.
Wyatt fights, and fights, and fights, continuously beaten down. Dozens of corpses of these odd puppets lie on the ground, forcing the man to climb over them to kill the others while the remaining Mannequins hover from their wires, climb the walls, or adeptly slide over their fallen.
The invention of the Pygmies has been taken to an extreme by Eli Weiss. Many powerful Pygmies can only control one or a few Mannequins for combat, yet Weiss has nearly a hundred without him anywhere in sight.
Time passes deafeningly as I endeavor to block out the noises, to find even a single moment to gather my courage. But the incessant clacking and cracking, along with the moving of the wires, holds me frozen.
That is until a crash beside me nearly topples me over. My pupils slide over gradually until I see Wyatt exhausted, with his head slammed into the wall behind us. The stone wall is dented but relatively unfazed by the massive force just now distributed to it.
More clacking resounds as it gets even louder while Wyatt rubs his head, attempting to refocus his gaze. But as the noises get louder, I realize that his irises are shaking. His head got rocked. He isn't thinking straight. He can't fight like he has been.
I'm not thinking straight, either. Dammit! I pride myself on my mind, and it is so easily broken by such a little trick! Well, little for anyone other than me. Weiss had to have done this on purpose. But how would he know I'm afraid of spiders and anything with a similar number of limbs?
This damn old man. He knows way too much. Those trees tell him more than he ought to know.
I can literally feel my brain shift into a moving function as I am no longer looking at the spidery puppets. The noises are eerie and tremble my grip while greasing my palms, but at least I can think.
Weiss is buying time. That is the only reason he'd put me here with Wyatt. If I were to be alone, I'd simply die. But why not put me here with anyone else? Edward and Virgil would keep me alive. Lennon might not, but those two surely would.
There has to be a more profound reasoning. Everything he does has one. And as much as I hate to admit it, those Ails given to me likely serve a similar objective. They must have a hidden goal or backdoor.
So why would Wyatt, specifically, be here with me? Think dammit! It has to be the key!
The noises become even more deafening as I shout at myself and hit my thigh to help me focus. The pain hurts and nearly deviates my thoughts as I'm not at all like Wyatt, but I manage to concentrate nonetheless. I'm definitely not doing it again, though.
Wyatt and me...
What do we hold in a combination that no other duo does?
Age? That's our first similarity. We're only a year or so apart in age. That doesn't make any sense, though. Why would Weiss care for our age? He doesn't. That isn't it.
Hmmmmmmmm.
Fear. That's it. Maybe Eli Weiss isn't trying to kill us. He's simply buying time. And the way to do it is to put a fearless man with one terrified by the thing you throw at him. The fearless one will throw himself recklessly without considering a way out as he must defend the fearful.
But it must go deeper than that. This is the Underground Tree. If he doesn't want to kill us and is buying time, then what does he want? What is that time for?
The Prime.
That warning.
Vincent Harvey is on his way.
And if he is, then so are his adversaries. Blackreach is soon to be the battleground for five Dominions. A battle at this level hasn't occurred since the second Prime, the man who succeeded the First, back when more races existed and fought for dominance. The Timewarped Delver is the only human to have joined a contest for supremacy between ten Dominions. Regardless of the fact that he lost, the simple fact the Pained Peaks now exist is because of the collision between those figures. Seven out of the ten that climbs those peaks remain there to this day.
An entire section of the continent was sheared off, and another was made so inhospitable no living being even mentions it anymore.
Fights at the level of Dominions usually shake entire Territories, the very skies shaking and crying. The records show that the move Marshall left behind equaled that of the Lords or Vincent at full strength, but only that of a single strike. The Depths of the Wilds are full of that kind of wilderness because the Lords care little for their land.
At least the Primes cleanse the land after if they happen to fight in the Territories.
Pinching my thigh, I pull myself from the detour. I think fast, but not fast enough to be this distracted. So, if he's only trying to buy time, we can't give it to him.
Vincent is coming to Blackreach, and so are his enemies. This whole place will be ruined. He is making a Wasteland, right? What better place than the most populated section of all of humanity? Onyx Gate is close, but when it comes to raw population, Blackreach in its entirety far surpasses Onyx Gate, Qune, Seaside, or Gravecross.
Knowing how brutal and awful Absolutions are to achieve, I can only imagine whatever act is required for Godhood is a thousand times more arduous, both on the bearer and those around him. We need to get out of here—as fast as possible before we are all sacrificed for his apotheosis.
Finally, the clacking reaches me as my thoughts are outpaced by reality. Slowly, I turn my head to meet the puppet hovering over my body. It's taller than I thought, nearly eight feet tall as it towers before me. Its eight limbs grasp for me as my body freezes once more.
My heart accelerates, sounding more like Wyatt's heart during Painsforge than a normal human heart. I can hear my blood rushing as I welcome death. But the Mannequin reaches right past me, preferring to go after the recovering Wyatt.
I can feel my insides sink as the realization. I'm not a threat, so they won't even finish me off.
Instead, they want to kill Wyatt. A powerful thump resounds in my chest as I feel my hand reach behind me. I don't even think as I move, and my right eye opens fully. A crackle of lightning covers the entirety of my vision before a whole line is cleared of the puppets, the bullet fired by Storm shattering dozens at once.
An instant later, however, I fall back to my knees as my head pounds in pain. The use of Daedrick's Lightning in my eye is painful and dangerous without a daily dose of blood from Sigileds. My Storm collides with the ground as I falter, and the remaining puppets advance.
Again, I panic. My heart thumps with a near-painful cadence as my fears get closer. But even when the clacking and lifeless face of the nearest puppet reaches for me, I don't move. That miracle of instinct and desire to defend my friend doesn't repeat itself.
Wyatt, however, has been given enough time to recover. Stumbling almost drunkenly, he rams into the Mannequin who is threatening me. It doesn't break but rolls away as it uses its many limbs to rebalance and creep back at us.
"Nice one, Earl. Hope you have some more of that in you."
My friend speaks to me with a heavy breath as he holds onto his skull. A bloody gash runs down his right eye, heading toward the bottom of his cheek that's split open. Seeing wounds linger on his form is odd, but the Bloody Palm is still absent in hibernation.
More enemies lunge at him, and he replies to their attacks without pause, evading to the side with a swift counterattack that sends two reeling back at once. But even though he's managed to pull himself together, there are just far too many.
I have no doubt he could defeat a dozen of these at once, or maybe even a hundred one at a time. But like this? With our backs against the wall? He's getting lashed with wires, beaten by fists, scratched by claws, and dogpiled constantly.
As I watch him get beat worse and worse, as more and more blood falls from his form, gradually, the simmering anger and self-hate burns through the fear. My hands don't stop shaking. It's only that the trembling's cause changes as I lunge for my Storm.
Grabbing the weapon, I fall backward, hefting its heavy form, using the wall as a lever to easily aim it. I scour my hand over its shape, swiftly reloading it with one of the many bullets stored in my bag, but as I lift it up to aim, I pause.
The trembling switches in reasoning as I watch the waving webs and many limbs. Then, a grunt and a spurt of blood from Wyatt bring me to focus.
I squeeze the trigger.
The deafening boom rips me from the lingering moment as I realize I just closed my eyes. Tightening my jaw, I reach for another casing as I try my best to ignore the pain in my eye that spreads to the entirety of my skull. At most, I can use Daedrick's Lightning four times without sleeping or releasing fresh droplets of blood onto the eye. So, two more. I should ration this for when it's needed most.
Both of my shots cleared two dozen or so in total, and Wyatt's already killed roughly a third of them, meaning around fifty remain. So, as I reload Storm, I grab something else from my bag. A knowing smile is shared between Wyatt and me as I retrieve a bundle of tightly wrapped cloth.
Inside is an explosive that detonates upon harsh impacts once I prime it. Wyatt surges forward to force the puppets back before abruptly retreating, and I toss the bomb to him lightly. He catches it without effort, and I can't help but grin as his arm winds back.
Then, it vanishes from his hand as his arm swings forward with the speed of a bullet before an explosive rings out from the group ahead of him. Unfortunately, though, he is blindsided from his right while the bright light of the explosion covers the theater.
I quickly cover him from the half-dozen that barrage him with my Storm, clearing him from any danger.
The hardest part of the battle is over, and each movement I take makes my heart skip in fear. But I can keep myself going simply because I know I have to. I'm really hoping, though, that I'll be over my fear past this.
Minutes pass as Wyatt continues to fight at the front while I conserve the last bullet I can use before nearing the limit. Anything past four, and I risk the eye devouring my own Vigor and eating me alive. I'm not an Abbot like Blake, so I can't handle that stress, nor am I very high in Sigil.
While he fights, I help with bombs, greased oil to slow the puppets, and at the perfect moment when he lines up several Mannequins, my final shot from Storm. At least the requirement for the weapon is making the Ail better or more efficient. Meaning if I grow powerful enough to handle it, I could shoot it many more times.
But it still hurts like hell.
Panting and gasping for air, I fall to my knees while using the long rifle for stability. Ahead of me, Wyatt stands tall as his body slightly bends backward so that he can look up. His chest rises and falls rapidly while a powerful tempo resounds from inside him. The beating of his heart vibrates tiny pieces of rubble around him in a rhythmic motion.
I scan around while I try to recover my breath, and I don't find any moving puppets. Instead, the only thing left of interest is the pedestal on the stage and the door behind it. I cough and drink some of my revitalizing solutions as I stand and stumble to Wyatt.
"We gotta get moving now, Wyatt. Shit is about to go crazy. Coming here was an awful idea."
Wyatt turns, blood dripping down his body as he raises an eyebrow. I continue speaking as I apply bandages to his wounds from my bag. These have several rare herbs, some even more challenging to find than the Mandaamin, that help internal recovery.
"Vincent Harvey is on his way. Dominions are to gather here and fight against the Prime as he jaunts for Godhood. We CANNOT be in the middle of that. Ed Summers must be a sacrifice, bait, or some other twisted thing for his apotheosis. We just need to get out. Saving Summers would be ideal, but we just need to live."
I watch as Wyatt's face runs through the realization of how fucked we are, trusting my intuition wholeheartedly. His face falls into sadness once it dawns on him just how many will die when this battle between Dominions starts. He doesn't even question me, and I appreciate his trust in my thoughts.
There is no need to continue the panicking thoughts, so I grab him by the shoulder as I sling Storm over my shoulder.
"Let's go. We can check the pedestal before we go to that door. I really hope it's not a fake one or something else, as it seems we were somehow transported here without one."
He nods with me, and we step over the piles of dead Mannequins as some kind of silvery liquid drips from their wounds toward the pedestal. Once we reach it, hopping up to the stage, we find a neatly written note.
I hope this ordeal has shaped your mind. Fears should not be present in the thinkers. They hold back our creativity—our power. I wish for your survival—both of you. But... that is on you. Leave as fast as you can. You will not get another warning. I gave you all the time to rest when you arrived here after felling a major threat. I know you see me as that very same major threat—that you see the man held here as someone who must be saved.
Remove those trivial thoughts. This is a battle between Demigods and Gods. All we can do is be the stepping stone and aid Vincent. I wish the other races would want to work together, but they all want to be the ones with a God in their ranks. And they all see Vincent as both the key and the guard to that. It has been literal millennia since any knew of the way forward.
Run, children, run. Let the old men play their game of chess. It started long before either of you were born. You will not get another warning or free piece.
***********
Earl Garner
As the spider-like puppets close in, panic surges through me like a tidal wave. My heart races in my chest, its frantic rhythm echoing in my ears. I can feel the cold sweat breaking out on my forehead, trickling down my spine like icy fingers. My fingertips shiver and shake as I can't even position them near my bag. The Storm on my back is untouched even as it slams against the wall behind me.
Their spider-like appearance is overwhelming, their porcelain legs resembling the creepy crawlies I've always dreaded in the worst way possible. The white limbs that contort and twist in every which way freeze my mind. I want to move, to run, to escape this nightmarish chamber I was forced into after following to find wherever Wyatt went, but my limbs refuse to obey.
I'm paralyzed, trapped in the grip of sheer terror. It's irrational. It's stupid. It's idiotic. It doesn't make any sense. But not all things do. Spiders and anything that closely resembles them have always shattered my resolve. I don't even know why. They...
The marionettes dangle from the ceiling, their movements synchronized and uncanny. They sway like macabre dancers, their strings weaving an intricate web around Wyatt and me. Each puppet spider seems to taunt me, its porcelain limbs tapping against the floor like a sinister percussion as they finally near us.
Wyatt's shouts pierce through the fog of my panic, but they are distant, barely registering. I watch in horror as he strikes one aside with the arm I made him. But then a dozen more charge at him, creepily moving across the many seats and aisles toward us.
He bursts forward with such speed the wooden floor below us cracks, throwing splinters into the air. I can't even look at him as he fights for his life.
But even as he fights with all his might, it's clear that he's being overwhelmed by the sheer number of puppet spiders. The room becomes a maelstrom of chaos, a nightmare from which there is no escape.
My companion's every movement is a blur, his strikes landing brutally. Puppets are sent sprawling, their limbs cracking and shattering on impact. Most survive the breakage, however, and he has to reapply the same pressure a half dozen times to finally put down a single marionette.
As he wages war, keeping the horde away from me, my teeth chatter, bouncing off each other. I try to get a grip as he shouts at me again, but the many limbs call my gaze, stopping anything from passing through my mind.
But despite his immense strength and determination, the sheer number of marionettes begins to overwhelm him. They swarm around him like a relentless tide, their porcelain limbs striking with the collective strength of a dozen men. And to his credit, Wyatt can take a beating better than any I know.
He is taken down several times, but he stands again with a roar, breaking even more of the puppets in his rage. Yet there are too many. Far, far too many. When he shatters one, five take its place.
I watch in agony as he fights valiantly, his face a mask of determination, but it's evident that he's struggling to maintain the upper hand. The room echoes with the sound of cracking porcelain and the eerie clatter of puppet limbs. I cup my ears, trying to block out the noise while I do my best to focus my vision.
Tears blur my eyes, and my very pupils shake as I grapple with the internal storm of panic. Every fiber of my being screams at me to move, to help, to do something. Yet, I'm trapped in this mental handcuff, unable to break free from the suffocating grip of fear.
Wyatt fights, and fights, and fights, continuously beaten down. Dozens of corpses of these odd puppets lie on the ground, forcing the man to climb over them to kill the others while the remaining Mannequins hover from their wires, climb the walls, or adeptly slide over their fallen.
The invention of the Pygmies has been taken to an extreme by Eli Weiss. Many powerful Pygmies can only control one or a few Mannequins for combat, yet Weiss has nearly a hundred without him anywhere in sight.
Time passes deafeningly as I endeavor to block out the noises, to find even a single moment to gather my courage. But the incessant clacking and cracking, along with the moving of the wires, holds me frozen.
That is until a crash beside me nearly topples me over. My pupils slide over gradually until I see Wyatt exhausted, with his head slammed into the wall behind us. The stone wall is dented but relatively unfazed by the massive force just now distributed to it.
More clacking resounds as it gets even louder while Wyatt rubs his head, attempting to refocus his gaze. But as the noises get louder, I realize that his irises are shaking. His head got rocked. He isn't thinking straight. He can't fight like he has been.
I'm not thinking straight, either. Dammit! I pride myself on my mind, and it is so easily broken by such a little trick! Well, little for anyone other than me. Weiss had to have done this on purpose. But how would he know I'm afraid of spiders and anything with a similar number of limbs?
This damn old man. He knows way too much. Those trees tell him more than he ought to know.
I can literally feel my brain shift into a moving function as I am no longer looking at the spidery puppets. The noises are eerie and tremble my grip while greasing my palms, but at least I can think.
Weiss is buying time. That is the only reason he'd put me here with Wyatt. If I were to be alone, I'd simply die. But why not put me here with anyone else? Edward and Virgil would keep me alive. Lennon might not, but those two surely would.
There has to be a more profound reasoning. Everything he does has one. And as much as I hate to admit it, those Ails given to me likely serve a similar objective. They must have a hidden goal or backdoor.
So why would Wyatt, specifically, be here with me? Think dammit! It has to be the key!
The noises become even more deafening as I shout at myself and hit my thigh to help me focus. The pain hurts and nearly deviates my thoughts as I'm not at all like Wyatt, but I manage to concentrate nonetheless. I'm definitely not doing it again, though.
Wyatt and me...
What do we hold in a combination that no other duo does?
Age? That's our first similarity. We're only a year or so apart in age. That doesn't make any sense, though. Why would Weiss care for our age? He doesn't. That isn't it.
Hmmmmmmmm.
Fear. That's it. Maybe Eli Weiss isn't trying to kill us. He's simply buying time. And the way to do it is to put a fearless man with one terrified by the thing you throw at him. The fearless one will throw himself recklessly without considering a way out as he must defend the fearful.
But it must go deeper than that. This is the Underground Tree. If he doesn't want to kill us and is buying time, then what does he want? What is that time for?
The Prime.
That warning.
Vincent Harvey is on his way.
And if he is, then so are his adversaries. Blackreach is soon to be the battleground for five Dominions. A battle at this level hasn't occurred since the second Prime, the man who succeeded the First, back when more races existed and fought for dominance. The Timewarped Delver is the only human to have joined a contest for supremacy between ten Dominions. Regardless of the fact that he lost, the simple fact the Pained Peaks now exist is because of the collision between those figures. Seven out of the ten that climbs those peaks remain there to this day.
An entire section of the continent was sheared off, and another was made so inhospitable no living being even mentions it anymore.
Fights at the level of Dominions usually shake entire Territories, the very skies shaking and crying. The records show that the move Marshall left behind equaled that of the Lords or Vincent at full strength, but only that of a single strike. The Depths of the Wilds are full of that kind of wilderness because the Lords care little for their land.
At least the Primes cleanse the land after if they happen to fight in the Territories.
Pinching my thigh, I pull myself from the detour. I think fast, but not fast enough to be this distracted. So, if he's only trying to buy time, we can't give it to him.
Vincent is coming to Blackreach, and so are his enemies. This whole place will be ruined. He is making a Wasteland, right? What better place than the most populated section of all of humanity? Onyx Gate is close, but when it comes to raw population, Blackreach in its entirety far surpasses Onyx Gate, Qune, Seaside, or Gravecross.
Knowing how brutal and awful Absolutions are to achieve, I can only imagine whatever act is required for Godhood is a thousand times more arduous, both on the bearer and those around him. We need to get out of here—as fast as possible before we are all sacrificed for his apotheosis.
Finally, the clacking reaches me as my thoughts are outpaced by reality. Slowly, I turn my head to meet the puppet hovering over my body. It's taller than I thought, nearly eight feet tall as it towers before me. Its eight limbs grasp for me as my body freezes once more.
My heart accelerates, sounding more like Wyatt's heart during Painsforge than a normal human heart. I can hear my blood rushing as I welcome death. But the Mannequin reaches right past me, preferring to go after the recovering Wyatt.
I can feel my insides sink as the realization. I'm not a threat, so they won't even finish me off.
Instead, they want to kill Wyatt. A powerful thump resounds in my chest as I feel my hand reach behind me. I don't even think as I move, and my right eye opens fully. A crackle of lightning covers the entirety of my vision before a whole line is cleared of the puppets, the bullet fired by Storm shattering dozens at once.
An instant later, however, I fall back to my knees as my head pounds in pain. The use of Daedrick's Lightning in my eye is painful and dangerous without a daily dose of blood from Sigileds. My Storm collides with the ground as I falter, and the remaining puppets advance.
Again, I panic. My heart thumps with a near-painful cadence as my fears get closer. But even when the clacking and lifeless face of the nearest puppet reaches for me, I don't move. That miracle of instinct and desire to defend my friend doesn't repeat itself.
Wyatt, however, has been given enough time to recover. Stumbling almost drunkenly, he rams into the Mannequin who is threatening me. It doesn't break but rolls away as it uses its many limbs to rebalance and creep back at us.
"Nice one, Earl. Hope you have some more of that in you."
My friend speaks to me with a heavy breath as he holds onto his skull. A bloody gash runs down his right eye, heading toward the bottom of his cheek that's split open. Seeing wounds linger on his form is odd, but the Bloody Palm is still absent in hibernation.
More enemies lunge at him, and he replies to their attacks without pause, evading to the side with a swift counterattack that sends two reeling back at once. But even though he's managed to pull himself together, there are just far too many.
I have no doubt he could defeat a dozen of these at once, or maybe even a hundred one at a time. But like this? With our backs against the wall? He's getting lashed with wires, beaten by fists, scratched by claws, and dogpiled constantly.
As I watch him get beat worse and worse, as more and more blood falls from his form, gradually, the simmering anger and self-hate burns through the fear. My hands don't stop shaking. It's only that the trembling's cause changes as I lunge for my Storm.
Grabbing the weapon, I fall backward, hefting its heavy form, using the wall as a lever to easily aim it. I scour my hand over its shape, swiftly reloading it with one of the many bullets stored in my bag, but as I lift it up to aim, I pause.
The trembling switches in reasoning as I watch the waving webs and many limbs. Then, a grunt and a spurt of blood from Wyatt bring me to focus.
I squeeze the trigger.
The deafening boom rips me from the lingering moment as I realize I just closed my eyes. Tightening my jaw, I reach for another casing as I try my best to ignore the pain in my eye that spreads to the entirety of my skull. At most, I can use Daedrick's Lightning four times without sleeping or releasing fresh droplets of blood onto the eye. So, two more. I should ration this for when it's needed most.
Both of my shots cleared two dozen or so in total, and Wyatt's already killed roughly a third of them, meaning around fifty remain. So, as I reload Storm, I grab something else from my bag. A knowing smile is shared between Wyatt and me as I retrieve a bundle of tightly wrapped cloth.
Inside is an explosive that detonates upon harsh impacts once I prime it. Wyatt surges forward to force the puppets back before abruptly retreating, and I toss the bomb to him lightly. He catches it without effort, and I can't help but grin as his arm winds back.
Then, it vanishes from his hand as his arm swings forward with the speed of a bullet before an explosive rings out from the group ahead of him. Unfortunately, though, he is blindsided from his right while the bright light of the explosion covers the theater.
I quickly cover him from the half-dozen that barrage him with my Storm, clearing him from any danger.
The hardest part of the battle is over, and each movement I take makes my heart skip in fear. But I can keep myself going simply because I know I have to. I'm really hoping, though, that I'll be over my fear past this.
Minutes pass as Wyatt continues to fight at the front while I conserve the last bullet I can use before nearing the limit. Anything past four, and I risk the eye devouring my own Vigor and eating me alive. I'm not an Abbot like Blake, so I can't handle that stress, nor am I very high in Sigil.
While he fights, I help with bombs, greased oil to slow the puppets, and at the perfect moment when he lines up several Mannequins, my final shot from Storm. At least the requirement for the weapon is making the Ail better or more efficient. Meaning if I grow powerful enough to handle it, I could shoot it many more times.
But it still hurts like hell.
Panting and gasping for air, I fall to my knees while using the long rifle for stability. Ahead of me, Wyatt stands tall as his body slightly bends backward so that he can look up. His chest rises and falls rapidly while a powerful tempo resounds from inside him. The beating of his heart vibrates tiny pieces of rubble around him in a rhythmic motion.
I scan around while I try to recover my breath, and I don't find any moving puppets. Instead, the only thing left of interest is the pedestal on the stage and the door behind it. I cough and drink some of my revitalizing solutions as I stand and stumble to Wyatt.
"We gotta get moving now, Wyatt. Shit is about to go crazy. Coming here was an awful idea."
Wyatt turns, blood dripping down his body as he raises an eyebrow. I continue speaking as I apply bandages to his wounds from my bag. These have several rare herbs, some even more challenging to find than the Mandaamin, that help internal recovery.
"Vincent Harvey is on his way. Dominions are to gather here and fight against the Prime as he jaunts for Godhood. We CANNOT be in the middle of that. Ed Summers must be a sacrifice, bait, or some other twisted thing for his apotheosis. We just need to get out. Saving Summers would be ideal, but we just need to live."
I watch as Wyatt's face runs through the realization of how fucked we are, trusting my intuition wholeheartedly. His face falls into sadness once it dawns on him just how many will die when this battle between Dominions starts. He doesn't even question me, and I appreciate his trust in my thoughts.
There is no need to continue the panicking thoughts, so I grab him by the shoulder as I sling Storm over my shoulder.
"Let's go. We can check the pedestal before we go to that door. I really hope it's not a fake one or something else, as it seems we were somehow transported here without one."
He nods with me, and we step over the piles of dead Mannequins as some kind of silvery liquid drips from their wounds toward the pedestal. Once we reach it, hopping up to the stage, we find a neatly written note.
I hope this ordeal has shaped your mind. Fears should not be present in the thinkers. They hold back our creativity—our power. I wish for your survival—both of you. But... that is on you. Leave as fast as you can. You will not get another warning. I gave you all the time to rest when you arrived here after felling a major threat. I know you see me as that very same major threat—that you see the man held here as someone who must be saved.
Remove those trivial thoughts. This is a battle between Demigods and Gods. All we can do is be the stepping stone and aid Vincent. I wish the other races would want to work together, but they all want to be the ones with a God in their ranks. And they all see Vincent as both the key and the guard to that. It has been literal millennia since any knew of the way forward.
Run, children, run. Let the old men play their game of chess. It started long before either of you were born. You will not get another warning or free piece.
