****************************
Lennon 'Bladed Monster' Hull
My eyes trail the vast landscape before me, stretching out beyond the limits of these feeble pupils. The scene from up high on the plateau of Gravecross down to Northene gives me pause, forcing my mind to slow and consider my past.
I've spent much, in fact, the vast majority of my life, protecting these places. It was a common thing for me to travel incessantly, going from village to village to deal with a threat, whether it be a ghost, demon, or beast, before heading right back on my path. Many, many times, they were other humans. I was one of the few Hunters licensed to hunt other humans without taking a specific bounty—a Mankiller.
It was something I enjoyed back then. The simplicity. The gratitude. But over time... it simply wasn't enough. I wanted more.
Perhaps I'm merely a selfish man who hid behind the wants of his mentor. Virtuous... Heh... I'm hardly even admirable.
Even what I was given is ironic. Or... I think I gave it to myself. Most people's Powers are separate from the Dzils or main skills they develop. Yet, mine are one and the same. And... when pushed beyond my limit, it changed me to the core.
I shift the Ether in my body, caving it toward one of the Sigil skills I've been given before with a Soldier, the one that toughens my skin. While doing so, I feel an instant backlash, like a grating pain that is akin to being struck where no man would prefer to be hit crashes into me.
That forceful stride of my Ether, the one that shattered beyond the physical limit I had, was not without repercussions. The only path that the Ether in my body can move is that of Monster. That divot of Ether might move over thrice as smoothly, but that doesn't mean it is how I would want it.
In this world, what man only knows one skill? What Angel only knows one way forward? Am I to only know how to kill? How to swing this blade of mine? How to... be a monster?
Perhaps Marshall was right. Wherever I walk, I tread my own path.
I slide my thumb along the scabbard that is empty on my hip. I have no more swords...
All those that I find are quickly destroyed by my own might.
And now I have no hope of making my own blade through my Ether, not that I thought it was all that feasible anyway. It's the slight hope vanishing that hurts more.
I could ask that kid to make me a sword. I'm sure he'd do a damn fine job based on the other weapons he's made, but in the end, I'll come across the same issue. Eventually, that Claymore, too, will break.
Am I cursed to never have another partner?
I suppose I might be.
The steel Edmund gave me lasted over a decade. Nothing else has borne my efforts longer than three weeks.
The only piece of forged iron I can think of that would handle the current and future me is Demonsbane. But I don't think I can take that without a blade.
To defeat the as-is Kate would require me to have a sword, which only hearkens me back to the core issue.
I suppose I should get back to training. My Ether saturation develops too slowly for me not to push myself to the brink every day. If I don't, there would be numerous years between each and every Sigil. With it? A year is the case if I nearly die several times at the minimum.
Using just a single finger, I raise back onto my feet. My Virtue did strengthen my whole form as well—something about molding the vessel for the creature inside. Once at a standstill, I trek back to my training grounds, only a few dozen feet from the edge of the plateau.
It's best for others if I'm away from them while training.
The training grounds sprawl before me, a proof almost as great as my own strength to my relentless pursuit of mastery. Broken swords lie scattered, casualties of my unyielding might. The sight gives me a minor boost of confidence while also reminding me how much I miss my old Claymore.
Ignoring the sea of shattered steel, I reach for another blade, a nameless piece of tempered steel snug in a holster with a dozen others—fodder to be ruined. My breath steadies as I close my eyes, shutting out the world around me. In this moment, there is only the steel in my hands.
As I prepare to swing the blade through the air, the world narrows to a singular focus. Every fiber of my being aligns with the imminent strike. There is nothing for me to slice, no target but the simple growth of my swing, and yet, I do so anyway. But just before the blade sings through the empty space, a soft crunch of grass underfoot disrupts the silence.
My eyes snap open, the blade halting mid-air. A voice, its timbre unfamiliar yet oddly resonant, reaches my ears. The grounds that I have shown to no one have been infiltrated. I turn, my gaze searching for the source of the disturbance.
"So this is where you've been since you recovered."
There, amidst the fallen swords, stands a figure—a silhouette against the backdrop of my secluded sanctuary. Squinting against the sun's magnificence, I find Elizabeth Stroudwater kneeling down before rising with a shattered Claymore in her fist.
I don't reply immediately, watching her closely. This woman... she's weak, and yet... I must caution myself around her. She is surrounded by figures that are not nearly as powerless as her. A lioness guarded by her pride. That is the only example I can imagine for this woman. A tongue sharper than any viper and a mind capable of weaseling her way out of anything. She has not yet reached her full potential, but still...
Had she been gifted with the talent for Ether...
Heh... perhaps we are more alike than we thought. Our talents exist; they are simply in other things.
"How many of these Claymores have you broken? A dozen? A hundred? More?"
I shake my head, not knowing the finite answer. Elizabeth simply nods as if she expected that response. The woman walks, dropping the blade as she inspects where I've stayed the past two weeks. Her fingers trail the tiny tent I've made for myself before turning to me.
All the while, my eyes don't leave her. What is she planning? I recognize that gaze. It's a calculating madness.
"You've got quite the scar there, Lennon."
She diverts the topic, pointing promptly at my bare chest and the cylindrical scar that nearly covers my whole torso. Half of my heart was destroyed by Karn. I'd be dead if it were not for Edward, Dawn, and Earl.
It took all three of them to keep me alive.
The knowledge of my tie, no my near-loss, stings my pride to no end. I shouldn't need them. I don't need them. Gradually, I grow frustrated with her presence as she keeps it cryptic, but I realize that's what she wants. She wants me to be frazzled. When did she learn how to act like this? Or has she always known? Has she been playing that boy? Or...
Did something change in her mind? Just as it did for me long ago?
And so, I stay mute as she steps toward me. Her boots fall onto sharp blades, yet she strides with enough caution for them to not pierce into her feet. I also detect that she didn't bring that rifle with her.
"You are looking for a new target, yes?"
Elizabeth stares directly at me from only a foot away. Her posture belays the feeling of comfort while those eyes display nothing but a challenge to myself.
I nod slowly, finally speaking. Perhaps this will get her to leave faster.
"Yes. But I need a new blade. These ones are all too feeble."
At my words, Elizabeth retrieves a bundled-up piece of cloth from behind her, the item short enough to hide entirely behind her. I stare at it with interest as she takes the weapon out of the cloth, revealing a Claymore I never thought I'd see.
It is a thin blade, one closer in stature to that of a needle. Yet, it is as long as a medium-length sword. Narrowing my eyes, I can even see the name inscribed onto the hilt Elizabeth holds.
The 6th - Sewing Needle
Forged By Arnold Pilner
My heart accelerates at the mere name of the author of this blade. Arnold Pilner...
"Where did you find this? How did you get this?"
Elizabeth's grin widens into a knowing smile. The woman's eyes slink backward toward the city behind us before focusing again.
"I was given access to Canyon's estate. I had figured that the old man would have at least one Claymore worthy to strike a deal with you."
Her tone is odd when speaking about the blade. I raise an eyebrow as I reach out for the sword, but she steps back with a glare.
"Did you steal it?"
The accusation hits home as I recognize just how desperate she is. The world is collapsing, but Elizabeth Stroudwater has next to no power of her own to stop it. All she can do is manipulate others.
"Yes. Yes, I did. That old bastard had no use for it, leaving it up here to rust. And I will give it to you if you take me to find Wyatt."
I consider her words before finding no reason to disagree. The 6th Lumen won't last me forevermore, but it will last long enough to prop me into becoming a true Virtue. Or at least it'll be sufficient to kill one.
Elizabeth smiles at my agreement, that bit of childishness left in her leaking. I extend my hand despite it for the blade.
"The deal is made. Allow me to see the scabbard, too."
The little lioness meets my hand with the blade nestled inside the needle-thin scabbard. The blade is meant for stabbing, so I'll have to change my swordsmanship slightly. It won't be all that strenuous, though. I can use any blade just as Johnny can use any gun. However, neither of our expertise is as varied as Clarence Love's. That man can use any weapon to lethal effect, even a piece of paper.
I rip the blade from its sheath and feel an immediate effect. My limbs are inundated with Ether from the weapon, pouring into my veins. The needle doesn't wrestle for control or fight against my veins, which are meant for only a single path.
Instead, it makes me feel as swift as the wind. My fingers turn pliable and flexible, just as my arms do. I shift back and forth, enjoying the new sensation. This... will be interesting.
But for now, the practice with the blade will have to wait. I have made a deal. I nod to the woman as I sheathe the Claymore.
"Where to?"
Elizabeth pivots and points toward the vast landlocked sea of Lawless Lake. Her eyes point out beyond the horizon, locking onto something, or someone, that I can't see.
"There. Wyatt will be in Kingstown."
Her voice holds no negotiation or hesitation. She has complete faith that the boy is still alive. I could never have that level of confidence in another being, let alone a human. Only in myself or Dia have I ever held that pure conviction. I don't think I'll ever find another blade to match her.
I reach down and grab my pack from beside my shabby tent before shouldering it and walking in the direction she pointed. The woman, surprised by my eagerness, follows.
"We're leaving now?"
"Of course."
I hardly pay attention to her words as I trek toward the edge of the plateau, gracing my mind with the words written upon the Lumen's scabbard. These are the words of a former Prime. Even my awful talents could possibly learn something from them.
The 6th - Sewing Needle
The world has infinite holes and catastrophes, but there are a finite number of fixers. Life is a struggle, born by the few who can maintain the weight. It is the tools that writhe that keep it all together, not the destructive weapons. Not all weapons must destroy, however. Some shall help build. Some shall leave the world a better place after they fall.
Crafted, Ensigiled, and Inscribed by Arnold Pilner.
*******************
Virgil 'Wraith' Boone
I stand on the edge of the ship, waiting. No sound is coming from the pit that Wyatt, Ryder, and Maddox entered. With bated breath, I can only wait for my friend to emerge. Several times during this duel, I attempted to intervene, but the Sea's Shadow stopped me each and every time. I held back from attacking him directly and instead tried to sneak past, but nothing worked. I'm not foolish enough to directly face him.
He didn't strike back, though. He only laughed and told me that cheaters shouldn't get caught.
I stare at that pit where they crashed into, waiting. Seconds turn into minutes. Still, everyone lingers. No one moves, wanting to witness the ending of the duel. Beside me, Abraham gnaws on his fingernails while Autumn leans on the ship with wide eyes, refusing to miss a beat.
Then, a figure emerges with slithering waves. For a moment, my heart hitches in my throat, but it recovers when I realize the figure is Maddox, not Ryder.
I stride forward, past the point of no return, asking the man brazenly. I can't wait any longer. Either Wyatt is dead, or he isn't. And there is no way the latter is true.
"Is he able to move?"
Maddox's eyes, clouded by something unknown, shift to meet mine. The tempestuous orbs linger for a moment before a hearty chuckle breaks the contact.
"You sure are confident in the young man. A man against an Angel, and you bet on the child? Admirable yet stupid. Go retrieve him. Your boy is asleep. Mine will never wake."
I rush past Maddox when he gives me the go-ahead. Still, I give him a cautious glance, just waiting for him to strike. His son did just die, after all, but he doesn't. He strides away without a modicum of care. Ether empowers my every footfall before I slide down into the hole. Reaching upward, a Nightwhip acts as a rope as I fall down to where I last saw Wyatt.
The darkness envelops me as I crash further and further down. Yet the moment before impact with the bottom of the ship, I tighten the Nightwhip, slowing my descent. But as I regain my bearings, I realize that Wyatt isn't sleeping.
The man is standing, haunched over with a dangling arm. It resembles the look of a madman. I eye him carefully and call out to him. The lack of injuries isn't all too surprising, but Maddox being wrong is.
"Wyatt? You alright?"
A growl is my only reply as flesh explodes from my friend's body. Bloody and meaty tendrils lash outwardly as a garbled cry leaves his throat.
"Whargh! Whargh ish whe!?"
I squint and slide backward, Nightwhips forming around me to block the tendrils. They are chaotic and without targets, like panicked outcries. This isn't Wyatt. I haven't ever spoken to the thing inside him, but I've heard enough about it from him.
Childish, yet brutal. Ignorant, yet instinctive. Afraid, yet monstrous.
Those crimson eyes are unlike Wyatt's colorless pupils.
"Blodwyn?"
The call to the Arca calms it for a moment, the tendrils born of Wyatt's flesh dying down. But it only lasts for a moment before that distorted cry of a being that doesn't know how to use its vocal cords returns.
"Whargh! Whargh ish whe!?"
This time, it's even louder, deafening enough to crack some of the already damaged wood around us. To make matters worse, those tendrils are even more crazed.
Dammit.
Has Wyatt been taken over? No... he told me himself that Blodwyn would never unless he died. But I don't think Wyatt's dead. If he were...
His Arca wouldn't be asking where he is.
I need to calm Blodwyn down. That's the first order of business.
My heart clenches, inhaling deeply as I prepare to face the creature before me. It is my friend, but it is not. I don't have to be soft with this, but I should be. The last thing I want is for Blodwyn to truly grow angry, not just agitated.
Dashing forward, my movements are tinged with the darkness around me. Leaping over, sliding under, and twisting around the perilous tendrils, I inch closer to the heart of the turmoil.
I stay my hand from retaliating, even as I'm stuck against my back. I don't want to use any big shows of Ether as I'm afraid that might scare the Arca more. So, I bear the hit and continue after stumbling with a lash down my back.
As I loom near Wyatt and Blodwyn, tendrils of darkness manifest from my being, a counterforce to the grotesque appendages. The many Nightwhips reach out, latching onto and entwining with the fleshy extensions. I heft my mind, planting resistance against Blodwyn's tendrils of flesh. I can quickly feel that his power is beyond mine, yet I only need to hold it for a moment.
In the worst case, I can always Flicker away.
Finally, within striking distance, I neglect the chance to attack. Instead, I close the gap and embrace my friend. Blodwyn pauses in shock, the Arca's struggle ceasing for a moment as I tighten my hold and speak to him.
"It's alright. Just take a deep breath. Everything will be fine."
I whisper into his ear just as I once did for Vernon when he killed his first man. It's not the same feeling between them, but I know the look of panic, confusion, heartbreak, and self-hate. It's one I know very well. It's one that I didn't have someone to comfort me for.
Blodwyn's Ether calms, the flesh receding back into his body. Looking closely, I find those crimson eyes grow lucid, losing their rabid gaze and gaining sentience.
The body of my friend crumples, and I follow him to the ground, holding him the whole way down.
"It's okay. It's okay. Take a moment. Take your time. There is no rush. Breathe in and out. Then... tell me what happened."
The artifact quiets for a moment at my calm order. The only sound in the air is the rhythmic breathing of Wyatt's body. I pat the young being, only months old in its sentience, and it slowly begins to speak.
"He sleep."
I raise an eyebrow and return the response with slow words. I can't let him panic again. This has to be done with utmost caution. Artifacts are all highly volatile bombs of emotion. The young being losing his one anchor will not occur without incident.
"How did he fall asleep? Is he tired?"
Blodwyn shakes his shoulders in confusion. So, I can only hug the artifact in turn without a concrete answer. Regardless, the worry in my heart grows, that is until Blodwyn finds the words he couldn't.
"He found wings."
****************************
Lennon 'Bladed Monster' Hull
My eyes trail the vast landscape before me, stretching out beyond the limits of these feeble pupils. The scene from up high on the plateau of Gravecross down to Northene gives me pause, forcing my mind to slow and consider my past.
I've spent much, in fact, the vast majority of my life, protecting these places. It was a common thing for me to travel incessantly, going from village to village to deal with a threat, whether it be a ghost, demon, or beast, before heading right back on my path. Many, many times, they were other humans. I was one of the few Hunters licensed to hunt other humans without taking a specific bounty—a Mankiller.
It was something I enjoyed back then. The simplicity. The gratitude. But over time... it simply wasn't enough. I wanted more.
Perhaps I'm merely a selfish man who hid behind the wants of his mentor. Virtuous... Heh... I'm hardly even admirable.
Even what I was given is ironic. Or... I think I gave it to myself. Most people's Powers are separate from the Dzils or main skills they develop. Yet, mine are one and the same. And... when pushed beyond my limit, it changed me to the core.
I shift the Ether in my body, caving it toward one of the Sigil skills I've been given before with a Soldier, the one that toughens my skin. While doing so, I feel an instant backlash, like a grating pain that is akin to being struck where no man would prefer to be hit crashes into me.
That forceful stride of my Ether, the one that shattered beyond the physical limit I had, was not without repercussions. The only path that the Ether in my body can move is that of Monster. That divot of Ether might move over thrice as smoothly, but that doesn't mean it is how I would want it.
In this world, what man only knows one skill? What Angel only knows one way forward? Am I to only know how to kill? How to swing this blade of mine? How to... be a monster?
Perhaps Marshall was right. Wherever I walk, I tread my own path.
I slide my thumb along the scabbard that is empty on my hip. I have no more swords...
All those that I find are quickly destroyed by my own might.
And now I have no hope of making my own blade through my Ether, not that I thought it was all that feasible anyway. It's the slight hope vanishing that hurts more.
I could ask that kid to make me a sword. I'm sure he'd do a damn fine job based on the other weapons he's made, but in the end, I'll come across the same issue. Eventually, that Claymore, too, will break.
Am I cursed to never have another partner?
I suppose I might be.
The steel Edmund gave me lasted over a decade. Nothing else has borne my efforts longer than three weeks.
The only piece of forged iron I can think of that would handle the current and future me is Demonsbane. But I don't think I can take that without a blade.
To defeat the as-is Kate would require me to have a sword, which only hearkens me back to the core issue.
I suppose I should get back to training. My Ether saturation develops too slowly for me not to push myself to the brink every day. If I don't, there would be numerous years between each and every Sigil. With it? A year is the case if I nearly die several times at the minimum.
Using just a single finger, I raise back onto my feet. My Virtue did strengthen my whole form as well—something about molding the vessel for the creature inside. Once at a standstill, I trek back to my training grounds, only a few dozen feet from the edge of the plateau.
It's best for others if I'm away from them while training.
The training grounds sprawl before me, a proof almost as great as my own strength to my relentless pursuit of mastery. Broken swords lie scattered, casualties of my unyielding might. The sight gives me a minor boost of confidence while also reminding me how much I miss my old Claymore.
Ignoring the sea of shattered steel, I reach for another blade, a nameless piece of tempered steel snug in a holster with a dozen others—fodder to be ruined. My breath steadies as I close my eyes, shutting out the world around me. In this moment, there is only the steel in my hands.
As I prepare to swing the blade through the air, the world narrows to a singular focus. Every fiber of my being aligns with the imminent strike. There is nothing for me to slice, no target but the simple growth of my swing, and yet, I do so anyway. But just before the blade sings through the empty space, a soft crunch of grass underfoot disrupts the silence.
My eyes snap open, the blade halting mid-air. A voice, its timbre unfamiliar yet oddly resonant, reaches my ears. The grounds that I have shown to no one have been infiltrated. I turn, my gaze searching for the source of the disturbance.
"So this is where you've been since you recovered."
There, amidst the fallen swords, stands a figure—a silhouette against the backdrop of my secluded sanctuary. Squinting against the sun's magnificence, I find Elizabeth Stroudwater kneeling down before rising with a shattered Claymore in her fist.
I don't reply immediately, watching her closely. This woman... she's weak, and yet... I must caution myself around her. She is surrounded by figures that are not nearly as powerless as her. A lioness guarded by her pride. That is the only example I can imagine for this woman. A tongue sharper than any viper and a mind capable of weaseling her way out of anything. She has not yet reached her full potential, but still...
Had she been gifted with the talent for Ether...
Heh... perhaps we are more alike than we thought. Our talents exist; they are simply in other things.
"How many of these Claymores have you broken? A dozen? A hundred? More?"
I shake my head, not knowing the finite answer. Elizabeth simply nods as if she expected that response. The woman walks, dropping the blade as she inspects where I've stayed the past two weeks. Her fingers trail the tiny tent I've made for myself before turning to me.
All the while, my eyes don't leave her. What is she planning? I recognize that gaze. It's a calculating madness.
"You've got quite the scar there, Lennon."
She diverts the topic, pointing promptly at my bare chest and the cylindrical scar that nearly covers my whole torso. Half of my heart was destroyed by Karn. I'd be dead if it were not for Edward, Dawn, and Earl.
It took all three of them to keep me alive.
The knowledge of my tie, no my near-loss, stings my pride to no end. I shouldn't need them. I don't need them. Gradually, I grow frustrated with her presence as she keeps it cryptic, but I realize that's what she wants. She wants me to be frazzled. When did she learn how to act like this? Or has she always known? Has she been playing that boy? Or...
Did something change in her mind? Just as it did for me long ago?
And so, I stay mute as she steps toward me. Her boots fall onto sharp blades, yet she strides with enough caution for them to not pierce into her feet. I also detect that she didn't bring that rifle with her.
"You are looking for a new target, yes?"
Elizabeth stares directly at me from only a foot away. Her posture belays the feeling of comfort while those eyes display nothing but a challenge to myself.
I nod slowly, finally speaking. Perhaps this will get her to leave faster.
"Yes. But I need a new blade. These ones are all too feeble."
At my words, Elizabeth retrieves a bundled-up piece of cloth from behind her, the item short enough to hide entirely behind her. I stare at it with interest as she takes the weapon out of the cloth, revealing a Claymore I never thought I'd see.
It is a thin blade, one closer in stature to that of a needle. Yet, it is as long as a medium-length sword. Narrowing my eyes, I can even see the name inscribed onto the hilt Elizabeth holds.
The 6th - Sewing Needle
Forged By Arnold Pilner
My heart accelerates at the mere name of the author of this blade. Arnold Pilner...
"Where did you find this? How did you get this?"
Elizabeth's grin widens into a knowing smile. The woman's eyes slink backward toward the city behind us before focusing again.
"I was given access to Canyon's estate. I had figured that the old man would have at least one Claymore worthy to strike a deal with you."
Her tone is odd when speaking about the blade. I raise an eyebrow as I reach out for the sword, but she steps back with a glare.
"Did you steal it?"
The accusation hits home as I recognize just how desperate she is. The world is collapsing, but Elizabeth Stroudwater has next to no power of her own to stop it. All she can do is manipulate others.
"Yes. Yes, I did. That old bastard had no use for it, leaving it up here to rust. And I will give it to you if you take me to find Wyatt."
I consider her words before finding no reason to disagree. The 6th Lumen won't last me forevermore, but it will last long enough to prop me into becoming a true Virtue. Or at least it'll be sufficient to kill one.
Elizabeth smiles at my agreement, that bit of childishness left in her leaking. I extend my hand despite it for the blade.
"The deal is made. Allow me to see the scabbard, too."
The little lioness meets my hand with the blade nestled inside the needle-thin scabbard. The blade is meant for stabbing, so I'll have to change my swordsmanship slightly. It won't be all that strenuous, though. I can use any blade just as Johnny can use any gun. However, neither of our expertise is as varied as Clarence Love's. That man can use any weapon to lethal effect, even a piece of paper.
I rip the blade from its sheath and feel an immediate effect. My limbs are inundated with Ether from the weapon, pouring into my veins. The needle doesn't wrestle for control or fight against my veins, which are meant for only a single path.
Instead, it makes me feel as swift as the wind. My fingers turn pliable and flexible, just as my arms do. I shift back and forth, enjoying the new sensation. This... will be interesting.
But for now, the practice with the blade will have to wait. I have made a deal. I nod to the woman as I sheathe the Claymore.
"Where to?"
Elizabeth pivots and points toward the vast landlocked sea of Lawless Lake. Her eyes point out beyond the horizon, locking onto something, or someone, that I can't see.
"There. Wyatt will be in Kingstown."
Her voice holds no negotiation or hesitation. She has complete faith that the boy is still alive. I could never have that level of confidence in another being, let alone a human. Only in myself or Dia have I ever held that pure conviction. I don't think I'll ever find another blade to match her.
I reach down and grab my pack from beside my shabby tent before shouldering it and walking in the direction she pointed. The woman, surprised by my eagerness, follows.
"We're leaving now?"
"Of course."
I hardly pay attention to her words as I trek toward the edge of the plateau, gracing my mind with the words written upon the Lumen's scabbard. These are the words of a former Prime. Even my awful talents could possibly learn something from them.
The 6th - Sewing Needle
The world has infinite holes and catastrophes, but there are a finite number of fixers. Life is a struggle, born by the few who can maintain the weight. It is the tools that writhe that keep it all together, not the destructive weapons. Not all weapons must destroy, however. Some shall help build. Some shall leave the world a better place after they fall.
Crafted, Ensigiled, and Inscribed by Arnold Pilner.
*******************
Virgil 'Wraith' Boone
I stand on the edge of the ship, waiting. No sound is coming from the pit that Wyatt, Ryder, and Maddox entered. With bated breath, I can only wait for my friend to emerge. Several times during this duel, I attempted to intervene, but the Sea's Shadow stopped me each and every time. I held back from attacking him directly and instead tried to sneak past, but nothing worked. I'm not foolish enough to directly face him.
He didn't strike back, though. He only laughed and told me that cheaters shouldn't get caught.
I stare at that pit where they crashed into, waiting. Seconds turn into minutes. Still, everyone lingers. No one moves, wanting to witness the ending of the duel. Beside me, Abraham gnaws on his fingernails while Autumn leans on the ship with wide eyes, refusing to miss a beat.
Then, a figure emerges with slithering waves. For a moment, my heart hitches in my throat, but it recovers when I realize the figure is Maddox, not Ryder.
I stride forward, past the point of no return, asking the man brazenly. I can't wait any longer. Either Wyatt is dead, or he isn't. And there is no way the latter is true.
"Is he able to move?"
Maddox's eyes, clouded by something unknown, shift to meet mine. The tempestuous orbs linger for a moment before a hearty chuckle breaks the contact.
"You sure are confident in the young man. A man against an Angel, and you bet on the child? Admirable yet stupid. Go retrieve him. Your boy is asleep. Mine will never wake."
I rush past Maddox when he gives me the go-ahead. Still, I give him a cautious glance, just waiting for him to strike. His son did just die, after all, but he doesn't. He strides away without a modicum of care. Ether empowers my every footfall before I slide down into the hole. Reaching upward, a Nightwhip acts as a rope as I fall down to where I last saw Wyatt.
The darkness envelops me as I crash further and further down. Yet the moment before impact with the bottom of the ship, I tighten the Nightwhip, slowing my descent. But as I regain my bearings, I realize that Wyatt isn't sleeping.
The man is standing, haunched over with a dangling arm. It resembles the look of a madman. I eye him carefully and call out to him. The lack of injuries isn't all too surprising, but Maddox being wrong is.
"Wyatt? You alright?"
A growl is my only reply as flesh explodes from my friend's body. Bloody and meaty tendrils lash outwardly as a garbled cry leaves his throat.
"Whargh! Whargh ish whe!?"
I squint and slide backward, Nightwhips forming around me to block the tendrils. They are chaotic and without targets, like panicked outcries. This isn't Wyatt. I haven't ever spoken to the thing inside him, but I've heard enough about it from him.
Childish, yet brutal. Ignorant, yet instinctive. Afraid, yet monstrous.
Those crimson eyes are unlike Wyatt's colorless pupils.
"Blodwyn?"
The call to the Arca calms it for a moment, the tendrils born of Wyatt's flesh dying down. But it only lasts for a moment before that distorted cry of a being that doesn't know how to use its vocal cords returns.
"Whargh! Whargh ish whe!?"
This time, it's even louder, deafening enough to crack some of the already damaged wood around us. To make matters worse, those tendrils are even more crazed.
Dammit.
Has Wyatt been taken over? No... he told me himself that Blodwyn would never unless he died. But I don't think Wyatt's dead. If he were...
His Arca wouldn't be asking where he is.
I need to calm Blodwyn down. That's the first order of business.
My heart clenches, inhaling deeply as I prepare to face the creature before me. It is my friend, but it is not. I don't have to be soft with this, but I should be. The last thing I want is for Blodwyn to truly grow angry, not just agitated.
Dashing forward, my movements are tinged with the darkness around me. Leaping over, sliding under, and twisting around the perilous tendrils, I inch closer to the heart of the turmoil.
I stay my hand from retaliating, even as I'm stuck against my back. I don't want to use any big shows of Ether as I'm afraid that might scare the Arca more. So, I bear the hit and continue after stumbling with a lash down my back.
As I loom near Wyatt and Blodwyn, tendrils of darkness manifest from my being, a counterforce to the grotesque appendages. The many Nightwhips reach out, latching onto and entwining with the fleshy extensions. I heft my mind, planting resistance against Blodwyn's tendrils of flesh. I can quickly feel that his power is beyond mine, yet I only need to hold it for a moment.
In the worst case, I can always Flicker away.
Finally, within striking distance, I neglect the chance to attack. Instead, I close the gap and embrace my friend. Blodwyn pauses in shock, the Arca's struggle ceasing for a moment as I tighten my hold and speak to him.
"It's alright. Just take a deep breath. Everything will be fine."
I whisper into his ear just as I once did for Vernon when he killed his first man. It's not the same feeling between them, but I know the look of panic, confusion, heartbreak, and self-hate. It's one I know very well. It's one that I didn't have someone to comfort me for.
Blodwyn's Ether calms, the flesh receding back into his body. Looking closely, I find those crimson eyes grow lucid, losing their rabid gaze and gaining sentience.
The body of my friend crumples, and I follow him to the ground, holding him the whole way down.
"It's okay. It's okay. Take a moment. Take your time. There is no rush. Breathe in and out. Then... tell me what happened."
The artifact quiets for a moment at my calm order. The only sound in the air is the rhythmic breathing of Wyatt's body. I pat the young being, only months old in its sentience, and it slowly begins to speak.
"He sleep."
I raise an eyebrow and return the response with slow words. I can't let him panic again. This has to be done with utmost caution. Artifacts are all highly volatile bombs of emotion. The young being losing his one anchor will not occur without incident.
"How did he fall asleep? Is he tired?"
Blodwyn shakes his shoulders in confusion. So, I can only hug the artifact in turn without a concrete answer. Regardless, the worry in my heart grows, that is until Blodwyn finds the words he couldn't.
"He found wings."
