***********************
Virgil 'Wraith' Boone
I hit the ground running, slamming my feet against the sand beneath my heels before sliding under a hurtling rock heading toward me from behind. Tendrils of nightmarish Ether contort through my flesh, giving me the speed needed to outpace this monster. Still, just because I'm faster than it doesn't mean I'm out of the proverbial woods yet.
Twisting, I glance behind me to fire off another shot from Falling Rain, only to grimace in pain from the kickback. The cluster of speeding projectiles slams into the Angelic monster that is hurtling toward me, but it hardly slows it down.
Shit.
These weapons aren't enough to strike down this big one.
The big one behind me, an ominous cloud of swirling stones and sand guarding a solid core of muscle-like tissue, trails me relentlessly. It would be a silent predator in its pursuit of me if it weren't for the crashing, deadly stones seeking my life. My failed attempt to kill it hours ago has only stoked its fury, and now, I am the hunted. The landscape of the Wastes born from Vincent Harvey morphs into a battlefield, and I navigate the treacherous terrain with every morsel of my focus, each step a precarious dance with death.
But this is a dance I have made many times, one that I consider to be, at this point, a regularity. When I left behind my family after stopping at Gravecross to advance to Angelhood, I debated on simply killing a creature and stealing a Nightowl to make the leap. That God, P'mola. She gave me a gift, one that I will not refuse but will not take advantage of.
I will earn my place just as all others have.
I will not simply allow Wyatt to carry me to the stars and beyond. I am a man myself. I have my own pride. And it will not allow me to be a weight boosted by a child, even if that child is one of those dearest to me.
My pupils slide along my missing sleeves. The depths of the Wastes give me all the nightly boons I would typically have while simultaneously hiding me from the sun. Still, that feather rests along my wrist.
The gift of P'mola is not as simple as making me worthy. There must be another stage, or step, or figure that it will bestow.
Nevertheless, I will earn my place.
I dodge clumps of earth that materialize into enormous creatures to join in the chase, their forms emerging from the monster's malevolent influence. Sidestepping with a rope of nightly Ether that diverts a rock, I narrowly avoid the crushing force of their impact. My eyes stay vigilant as I continuously check behind me, scanning the surroundings for the next threat.
Approaching a ravine, I gauge the distance as sand cascades down its slopes in massive heaps. It seems as though the world itself is being sucked into the vast ravine, never to be seen again in the clutches of the depths.
I would rather not join it.
I flick my hand outward in response, taking hints from P'mola's dying form to manipulate my Ether. In an instant, a sword-like feather of absolute darkness intertwines with my right hand. Beneath a heaving grunt, I hurl it behind me to slow my pursuer just a bit. A harrowed call is all I hear as a response to the wind. With a burst of speed, I sprint along a crumbling ledge, each footfall seemingly defying gravity. The precipice of life quivers beneath my weight, but I push on and take the leap. Time seems to slow as I bridge the gap.
It was not a good idea to come here, the place where I nearly died—the place where I came closest to death in all my time on this giant rock. Even a God said that I should not be alive, kept afloat by an abnormality to reality.
Still.. I will not be useless. I will be powerful.
I will not let down Vernon. He saw me as a hero, a man who could accomplish anything he set his mind to. There are few greater motivators than a little brother or a little sister urging you on. Aron's cynic face and Nora's sickly face remind me why I'm here.
In the air, with stones flying after me at near-bullet speeds, I tighten my gaze. Ether explodes from my form as Nightwhips extend far beyond my frame, grasping onto the other end of the ravine.
Then, a bone-deep impact shakes me to the core. Still, I don't have even an instant to rest. Another shattering rock lands only a few feet from me, and another creature is born from the explosion of stone.
I roll over, kicking myself forward as I duck under another projectile, narrowingly eluding it. These bastards...
Simply becoming an Angel isn't enough. I need to become something more.
I've never been talented at Ether. Neither have I been proficient at leading or commanding others to replace that. I don't have brains, brawn, or talent. What I do have, however, is a very unique set of skills.
Gritting my teeth, I push my body to the limit, weaving through the onslaught of obstacles with a fluidity born of relentless training. My limbs react instinctively, dodging, leaping, and twisting to evade each impending danger. This Angel is faster, stronger, and more durable. But it is not without weaknesses, and it does not have my experience. The monster's relentless pursuit fuels a fire within me; I can do better; I must do better.
There's no room for hesitation as my eyes catch a figure through the swirling winds—a giant of insane proportions. A moment of doubt creeps in, but I cast it aside, recalling my training. In this world of sand and death, safety lies in confronting the most dangerous challenges head-on.
I press forward, my Nightwhips straining my flesh and muscles to allow me to steer through this chaotic landscape. The monster's rage on my rear becomes my crucible, pushing me to scrape by each perilous encounter.
A weight has always rested on my shoulders, and as I am once again alone in the darkness, I recall what it was once like to struggle every day without a single hand to guide me.
I was alone for a very long time. Even when I thought there was one person there... he wasn't. He had been dead for a long, long time, unbeknownst to me.
This solitude...
I push myself forward, leaping over a sandy rock made into motion by the Angelic creature behind me. I don't know its name or form. All that I do know is that it is no longer my target. That... Goregiant. It is my new target.
The bigger, the better.
The grander they are, the more substantial the growth it will require to kill them. I can kill this one behind me. I am sure of that. This? This thing? I do not know. And that is what locks my senses into place. It is akin to the focus one receives upon hearing awful news, the stare that has no end but harbors no beginning. It simply exists, capable of judging and deciding in an instant without regard for feelings.
As I approach the colossal affliction of life known to Wyatt as the Goregiant, a monstrous amalgamation of flesh, blood, and sand, I feel the ground quake beneath its immense weight. Each and every step throws sand into the air that glides against my skin hidden by Mask. It would seem the skill doesn't work if the sand is thrown against me. It's a passive defense, not an active one. Makes sense. Still, the slight nibbling of the sand forces a growl from my throat in response to the pain.
The stony Angel behind me propels me forward with relentless speed due to the need to outrun it, and I can sense more creatures converging, joining the frenzied chase beyond simply its children formed of rock and sand. Hundreds of mindless Crimlimes raise their arms like undead born from coffins as they slide alongside the Angel.
Quick as a shadow, I kick off one pursuing Crimlime with a boot glazed with lightless Ether, launching myself into the air with a practiced agility. The many obstacle courses and forced marathons under gunpoint chafe through my mind.
My past was brutal, inhumane, and agonizing. But I would be lying if I said it was not effective.
The heels of my boots graze against another monstrosity, its surface akin to rough stone. The friction slows me abruptly as I scrape against it. In a half crouch, I burst forward, evading a reaching arm to sprint alongside its enormous body.
One thing most of the creatures within the Wastes share is size. Only the Crimlimes and a few other rare species are not magnitudes above humanity in stature. I can only wonder where Vincent pulled all these bastards from.
Leaping off yet another, I slide beneath a looming fourth, my movements resembling a man seeking death by how narrow the paths are. The scraping sand above slices a shred of my hood off, the fabric fading into the sand. This is the artistry of the Wraith, a nickname earned through years of evading and confronting the deadliest foes before they had ever even seen me.
When I first met Wyatt, people did not call me this, however. For a long time, I was called Ghost, or Shadowed, or any other genre of dark-like name. Even the others who worked under the Estates were scared of me, but rarely did Wraith land in my ears. Only after growing alongside the young man did the name truly stick.
Conscious of conserving my energy, I Flicker through a lethal slam from a rocky aberration, an elusive afterimage of my Silhouette left behind to distract them from my backside as I appear beyond the creature, resuming my rapid sprint. The monsters multiply, a nightmarish horde, but I press on, moving faster than ever before.
Adding more and more creatures to the chase is a fool's errand in almost every situation, but the being I'm fixated on will turn them all to simple rubble. Only careful dexterity and agility would allow one to climb such a behemoth. When I first saw Behemoth, I wondered if I could kill him.
As I am now, I cannot. Even if he let me strike him a thousand times without repercussions, I'd still fail. I need to form a weapon to slay even the mightiest creature—to fell even the most disastrous disaster.
And I need to do it all without even a trace of my shadow being seen.
My every stride echoes with purpose as the Goregiant looms ahead, its steps shaking the very foundation of the earth. Its shadow, formed by the vestiges of the sun within this place, falls upon me. Unlike most shadows, however, I don't feel any comfort at all.
A shiver runs down my spine as I witness a gargantuan eye formed of clawing hands and smashed-together pupils in a distorted harmony of chaos twist bizarrely before fixating on me. Like the collaboration of a thousand damned souls, the focus of the Goregiant is aimed toward me.
I nearly pause in a mixture of horror, surprise, and raw, unadulterated chill. A coldness burrows into my veins as I stare at the creature that could meet even Behemoth in size.
Yet as I stare at it and it stares back at me in turn, I find no reason not to continue. The things in this world that can catch my shadow are few and far between. Such an unwieldy monster cannot do that.
A surge of confidence courses through me as I near the colossal creature, with the thoughts spiraling in my mind. As I approach, the monsters trailing behind me seem to sense the impending danger and retreat, unwilling to face the Goregiant's monumental might. Even the Angel does, not to mention the mindless Crimlimes.
I take a moment to reconsider after witnessing the Angel flee. Perhaps... perhaps this thing is more threatening than I thought. As far as I've been able to tell, Virtues are the limit of creatures within these Wastes. At most, this Goregiant is a Virtue, right?
Surely. If it were a Dominion, then how could there be multiple throughout the Wastes? And why wouldn't they leave the Wastes? I should be able to escape from a Virtue of this size if I fail to kill it. A Dominion, however, could most likely catch me with the powers that come with that stature.
A triumphant smile graces my lips; this is my moment.
Simply becoming an Angel is not enough.
I redirect my focus to the next challenge, darting toward the Goregiant's colossal legs. With each step, the creature shakes the ground, and I weave through the shattered stones that are sent flying by its towering limbs.
Still, I do not relent and approach its massive foot, bereft of any covering other than the swirling sands of blood that cascade from it. Sprinting with all I have, my Nightwhips cracking my bones from the sheer force they are binding me with, I flip my daggers into reverse grips.
The wind howls around me as I leap onto the monstrous Goregiant, my daggers gripped tightly in each hand, poised to begin my climb. Tendrils of consolidated night extend from my body, wrapping around protruding chunks of flesh, providing the leverage needed for my ascent. My every movement is a concentrated balance between blades and shadows.
But the Goregiant is not a mere monster; it is an Angel, perhaps even a Virtued one. The being shows me that in less than an instant. It is a living nightmare of conjoined flesh, blood, and sand. As I begin, only reaching the Goregiant's ankle, a nightmarish appendage of curled and knotted blood along an old, wrinkled man's arm nearly knocks me off balance.
I quickly find myself hanging by a thread, my dagger the only thing keeping me from the abyss below as I am thrown backward. The Goregiant's flesh writhes, responding to my intrusion with a malevolent sentience—even more sprouts from nearby, seeking my life.
Humanoid claws, twisted and grotesque, emerge from the mangled form, reaching for me with an insidious intent. They grasp at the air, seeking to tear me from my precarious hold.
I don't wait a moment to act, kicking off the flesh I'm hanging from. And as I soar backward, I focus my gaze on a point in the air. Darkness gathers as Ether flows from my pupils down to my heels, concentrating on a tiny platform large enough for a single boot.
Landing, I reorient and launch myself once more toward the Goregiant. If I had the Ether saturation of Wyatt, I could simply leap to the top without ever touching this creature. But I do not. It is only thanks to the improved saturation after my brush with the Pale Lady that I can be so free with my skills to not fear falling unconscious after an hour of running for my life.
Most, even those with a stalwart heart, would shrink at this... being bearing down on them. Yet, I have seen worse.
There will never be a worse, more harrowing, more torturous feeling than sinking a blade into the heart of my dear younger brother. Since burying him, it has been hard to even feel fear.
In comparison, this world is dull now, a light robbed from it. And with less light, there are fewer shadows to shirk from. A pale gray has washed over my senses, in some ways a bad change, in some ways a good.
Leaping horizontally to dodge more grasping limbs and tendrils of sandy, bloodied flesh, I consider what Vernon's death truly means for me.
I've spent nearly a year coming to terms with it, but the pain has never gone away or lessened. It is my fault. Pure and simple.
If I was stronger, if I was faster, if I was better...
He would be alive.
And it is that regret, that gnawing, pounding need within, that pushes me forward.
Not again.
Never again. Not Aron. Not Nora. Not Victor. Not anyone else I care for. Not anyone else that looks up to me. I can't bear it again. Not another death.
It is one thing to be alone. I have always been alone. I find comfort in the silence, in the dark, in the places where people would rather not venture. I find solace in the road less traveled. It is a gift that I have. Solitude does not affect me as it does others.
But it is a vastly different thing to be lonely.
And there are less than a handful of people who keep me from feeling that way.
Undeterred by the grasping claws, I press on, my heart pounding as I face the relentless onslaught. The humanoid nails continue to emerge, springing from the Goregiant's form like sinister blossoms. I dodge, weave, and parry, each move fueled by the adrenaline of survival.
My ascent becomes an arduous struggle simply seconds from the start, a relentless battle against the grotesque limbs that threaten to dislodge me. Every inch is fought for, every foot sweat for, every region bled for.
The Nightwhips I have carried for years prove themselves essential as usual, helping me pull myself up with a strength born of desperation. Ever since learning Willful Strand, their reach has increased exponentially, allowing me to grasp far beyond where even the hands reach.
No matter how I am struck, even as I fall nearly two hundred feet to catch myself with a dagger wrapped with a Nightwhip, I remain focused on the goal—the top of the Goregiant, where its weakness must lie. It must be there.
The climb is fraught with danger, and I can feel the exhaustion setting in. Yet, I have faced countless creatures, and never once have I encountered one without a vulnerability placed near its eyes, even ghosts or Otherplanars. The region that houses a soul, no matter the kind, is always a weak point.
Pain soars within my shoulder as I catch myself once more, the many rapid descents forced by danger gradually adding up. It is scarce that crimson leaks from me as my Nightwhips seal the wounds shortly after they arrive, but the impacts beneath remain, bruising bone, shocking organs, damaging vitals. Even still, I am making progress.
My eyes scan my surroundings to find myself planted a quarter mile from the earth. From here, I can no longer see the ground due to the sands, and my only basis for my height is correlated with my position on the Goregiant.
Plunging my blade into the Goregiant's hip, I leap upward once more with it as leverage, narrowingly evading a tendril with gnashing teeth. But as I catch myself once more, I feel a swooning wind above me, as if the sky itself is buckling.
I glance upward, realizing the Goregiant is finally making its move.
This is where the real fun begins.
Come on, you big bastard. Bring me to your head faster.
I keep my pupils primed, scanning the vast sands that block my vision even while I avoid the reaching hands like that of the damned wanting salvation. Seconds pass before I see it.
A palm, one so enormous that I can hardly see myself being the same width as the seam of flesh in the palm, crashes toward me like a meteor. This is it.
Flipping around, I dig my heels into the hip of the giant that acts more like a wall to be mantled. Necrosis and Whet sharpen my heels as I push the skills beyond their usual capacity with Willful Strand, allowing the blades of Ether to sink far enough to be used as a platform.
I need to be fast—so swift that it believes I am dead.
Something this large would hardly be able to tell when it killed a creature of my size, especially not one with a Power, Virtue, or Dominion to easily sense with its.
And as the hand approaches, the very air cracking under the pressure and speed of the slap birthed by a creature that could go toe-to-toe with Behemoth in size, I take a leap toward that hand, placing faith in my burgeoning Power.
***********************
Virgil 'Wraith' Boone
I hit the ground running, slamming my feet against the sand beneath my heels before sliding under a hurtling rock heading toward me from behind. Tendrils of nightmarish Ether contort through my flesh, giving me the speed needed to outpace this monster. Still, just because I'm faster than it doesn't mean I'm out of the proverbial woods yet.
Twisting, I glance behind me to fire off another shot from Falling Rain, only to grimace in pain from the kickback. The cluster of speeding projectiles slams into the Angelic monster that is hurtling toward me, but it hardly slows it down.
Shit.
These weapons aren't enough to strike down this big one.
The big one behind me, an ominous cloud of swirling stones and sand guarding a solid core of muscle-like tissue, trails me relentlessly. It would be a silent predator in its pursuit of me if it weren't for the crashing, deadly stones seeking my life. My failed attempt to kill it hours ago has only stoked its fury, and now, I am the hunted. The landscape of the Wastes born from Vincent Harvey morphs into a battlefield, and I navigate the treacherous terrain with every morsel of my focus, each step a precarious dance with death.
But this is a dance I have made many times, one that I consider to be, at this point, a regularity. When I left behind my family after stopping at Gravecross to advance to Angelhood, I debated on simply killing a creature and stealing a Nightowl to make the leap. That God, P'mola. She gave me a gift, one that I will not refuse but will not take advantage of.
I will earn my place just as all others have.
I will not simply allow Wyatt to carry me to the stars and beyond. I am a man myself. I have my own pride. And it will not allow me to be a weight boosted by a child, even if that child is one of those dearest to me.
My pupils slide along my missing sleeves. The depths of the Wastes give me all the nightly boons I would typically have while simultaneously hiding me from the sun. Still, that feather rests along my wrist.
The gift of P'mola is not as simple as making me worthy. There must be another stage, or step, or figure that it will bestow.
Nevertheless, I will earn my place.
I dodge clumps of earth that materialize into enormous creatures to join in the chase, their forms emerging from the monster's malevolent influence. Sidestepping with a rope of nightly Ether that diverts a rock, I narrowly avoid the crushing force of their impact. My eyes stay vigilant as I continuously check behind me, scanning the surroundings for the next threat.
Approaching a ravine, I gauge the distance as sand cascades down its slopes in massive heaps. It seems as though the world itself is being sucked into the vast ravine, never to be seen again in the clutches of the depths.
I would rather not join it.
I flick my hand outward in response, taking hints from P'mola's dying form to manipulate my Ether. In an instant, a sword-like feather of absolute darkness intertwines with my right hand. Beneath a heaving grunt, I hurl it behind me to slow my pursuer just a bit. A harrowed call is all I hear as a response to the wind. With a burst of speed, I sprint along a crumbling ledge, each footfall seemingly defying gravity. The precipice of life quivers beneath my weight, but I push on and take the leap. Time seems to slow as I bridge the gap.
It was not a good idea to come here, the place where I nearly died—the place where I came closest to death in all my time on this giant rock. Even a God said that I should not be alive, kept afloat by an abnormality to reality.
Still.. I will not be useless. I will be powerful.
I will not let down Vernon. He saw me as a hero, a man who could accomplish anything he set his mind to. There are few greater motivators than a little brother or a little sister urging you on. Aron's cynic face and Nora's sickly face remind me why I'm here.
In the air, with stones flying after me at near-bullet speeds, I tighten my gaze. Ether explodes from my form as Nightwhips extend far beyond my frame, grasping onto the other end of the ravine.
Then, a bone-deep impact shakes me to the core. Still, I don't have even an instant to rest. Another shattering rock lands only a few feet from me, and another creature is born from the explosion of stone.
I roll over, kicking myself forward as I duck under another projectile, narrowingly eluding it. These bastards...
Simply becoming an Angel isn't enough. I need to become something more.
I've never been talented at Ether. Neither have I been proficient at leading or commanding others to replace that. I don't have brains, brawn, or talent. What I do have, however, is a very unique set of skills.
Gritting my teeth, I push my body to the limit, weaving through the onslaught of obstacles with a fluidity born of relentless training. My limbs react instinctively, dodging, leaping, and twisting to evade each impending danger. This Angel is faster, stronger, and more durable. But it is not without weaknesses, and it does not have my experience. The monster's relentless pursuit fuels a fire within me; I can do better; I must do better.
There's no room for hesitation as my eyes catch a figure through the swirling winds—a giant of insane proportions. A moment of doubt creeps in, but I cast it aside, recalling my training. In this world of sand and death, safety lies in confronting the most dangerous challenges head-on.
I press forward, my Nightwhips straining my flesh and muscles to allow me to steer through this chaotic landscape. The monster's rage on my rear becomes my crucible, pushing me to scrape by each perilous encounter.
A weight has always rested on my shoulders, and as I am once again alone in the darkness, I recall what it was once like to struggle every day without a single hand to guide me.
I was alone for a very long time. Even when I thought there was one person there... he wasn't. He had been dead for a long, long time, unbeknownst to me.
This solitude...
I push myself forward, leaping over a sandy rock made into motion by the Angelic creature behind me. I don't know its name or form. All that I do know is that it is no longer my target. That... Goregiant. It is my new target.
The bigger, the better.
The grander they are, the more substantial the growth it will require to kill them. I can kill this one behind me. I am sure of that. This? This thing? I do not know. And that is what locks my senses into place. It is akin to the focus one receives upon hearing awful news, the stare that has no end but harbors no beginning. It simply exists, capable of judging and deciding in an instant without regard for feelings.
As I approach the colossal affliction of life known to Wyatt as the Goregiant, a monstrous amalgamation of flesh, blood, and sand, I feel the ground quake beneath its immense weight. Each and every step throws sand into the air that glides against my skin hidden by Mask. It would seem the skill doesn't work if the sand is thrown against me. It's a passive defense, not an active one. Makes sense. Still, the slight nibbling of the sand forces a growl from my throat in response to the pain.
The stony Angel behind me propels me forward with relentless speed due to the need to outrun it, and I can sense more creatures converging, joining the frenzied chase beyond simply its children formed of rock and sand. Hundreds of mindless Crimlimes raise their arms like undead born from coffins as they slide alongside the Angel.
Quick as a shadow, I kick off one pursuing Crimlime with a boot glazed with lightless Ether, launching myself into the air with a practiced agility. The many obstacle courses and forced marathons under gunpoint chafe through my mind.
My past was brutal, inhumane, and agonizing. But I would be lying if I said it was not effective.
The heels of my boots graze against another monstrosity, its surface akin to rough stone. The friction slows me abruptly as I scrape against it. In a half crouch, I burst forward, evading a reaching arm to sprint alongside its enormous body.
One thing most of the creatures within the Wastes share is size. Only the Crimlimes and a few other rare species are not magnitudes above humanity in stature. I can only wonder where Vincent pulled all these bastards from.
Leaping off yet another, I slide beneath a looming fourth, my movements resembling a man seeking death by how narrow the paths are. The scraping sand above slices a shred of my hood off, the fabric fading into the sand. This is the artistry of the Wraith, a nickname earned through years of evading and confronting the deadliest foes before they had ever even seen me.
When I first met Wyatt, people did not call me this, however. For a long time, I was called Ghost, or Shadowed, or any other genre of dark-like name. Even the others who worked under the Estates were scared of me, but rarely did Wraith land in my ears. Only after growing alongside the young man did the name truly stick.
Conscious of conserving my energy, I Flicker through a lethal slam from a rocky aberration, an elusive afterimage of my Silhouette left behind to distract them from my backside as I appear beyond the creature, resuming my rapid sprint. The monsters multiply, a nightmarish horde, but I press on, moving faster than ever before.
Adding more and more creatures to the chase is a fool's errand in almost every situation, but the being I'm fixated on will turn them all to simple rubble. Only careful dexterity and agility would allow one to climb such a behemoth. When I first saw Behemoth, I wondered if I could kill him.
As I am now, I cannot. Even if he let me strike him a thousand times without repercussions, I'd still fail. I need to form a weapon to slay even the mightiest creature—to fell even the most disastrous disaster.
And I need to do it all without even a trace of my shadow being seen.
My every stride echoes with purpose as the Goregiant looms ahead, its steps shaking the very foundation of the earth. Its shadow, formed by the vestiges of the sun within this place, falls upon me. Unlike most shadows, however, I don't feel any comfort at all.
A shiver runs down my spine as I witness a gargantuan eye formed of clawing hands and smashed-together pupils in a distorted harmony of chaos twist bizarrely before fixating on me. Like the collaboration of a thousand damned souls, the focus of the Goregiant is aimed toward me.
I nearly pause in a mixture of horror, surprise, and raw, unadulterated chill. A coldness burrows into my veins as I stare at the creature that could meet even Behemoth in size.
Yet as I stare at it and it stares back at me in turn, I find no reason not to continue. The things in this world that can catch my shadow are few and far between. Such an unwieldy monster cannot do that.
A surge of confidence courses through me as I near the colossal creature, with the thoughts spiraling in my mind. As I approach, the monsters trailing behind me seem to sense the impending danger and retreat, unwilling to face the Goregiant's monumental might. Even the Angel does, not to mention the mindless Crimlimes.
I take a moment to reconsider after witnessing the Angel flee. Perhaps... perhaps this thing is more threatening than I thought. As far as I've been able to tell, Virtues are the limit of creatures within these Wastes. At most, this Goregiant is a Virtue, right?
Surely. If it were a Dominion, then how could there be multiple throughout the Wastes? And why wouldn't they leave the Wastes? I should be able to escape from a Virtue of this size if I fail to kill it. A Dominion, however, could most likely catch me with the powers that come with that stature.
A triumphant smile graces my lips; this is my moment.
Simply becoming an Angel is not enough.
I redirect my focus to the next challenge, darting toward the Goregiant's colossal legs. With each step, the creature shakes the ground, and I weave through the shattered stones that are sent flying by its towering limbs.
Still, I do not relent and approach its massive foot, bereft of any covering other than the swirling sands of blood that cascade from it. Sprinting with all I have, my Nightwhips cracking my bones from the sheer force they are binding me with, I flip my daggers into reverse grips.
The wind howls around me as I leap onto the monstrous Goregiant, my daggers gripped tightly in each hand, poised to begin my climb. Tendrils of consolidated night extend from my body, wrapping around protruding chunks of flesh, providing the leverage needed for my ascent. My every movement is a concentrated balance between blades and shadows.
But the Goregiant is not a mere monster; it is an Angel, perhaps even a Virtued one. The being shows me that in less than an instant. It is a living nightmare of conjoined flesh, blood, and sand. As I begin, only reaching the Goregiant's ankle, a nightmarish appendage of curled and knotted blood along an old, wrinkled man's arm nearly knocks me off balance.
I quickly find myself hanging by a thread, my dagger the only thing keeping me from the abyss below as I am thrown backward. The Goregiant's flesh writhes, responding to my intrusion with a malevolent sentience—even more sprouts from nearby, seeking my life.
Humanoid claws, twisted and grotesque, emerge from the mangled form, reaching for me with an insidious intent. They grasp at the air, seeking to tear me from my precarious hold.
I don't wait a moment to act, kicking off the flesh I'm hanging from. And as I soar backward, I focus my gaze on a point in the air. Darkness gathers as Ether flows from my pupils down to my heels, concentrating on a tiny platform large enough for a single boot.
Landing, I reorient and launch myself once more toward the Goregiant. If I had the Ether saturation of Wyatt, I could simply leap to the top without ever touching this creature. But I do not. It is only thanks to the improved saturation after my brush with the Pale Lady that I can be so free with my skills to not fear falling unconscious after an hour of running for my life.
Most, even those with a stalwart heart, would shrink at this... being bearing down on them. Yet, I have seen worse.
There will never be a worse, more harrowing, more torturous feeling than sinking a blade into the heart of my dear younger brother. Since burying him, it has been hard to even feel fear.
In comparison, this world is dull now, a light robbed from it. And with less light, there are fewer shadows to shirk from. A pale gray has washed over my senses, in some ways a bad change, in some ways a good.
Leaping horizontally to dodge more grasping limbs and tendrils of sandy, bloodied flesh, I consider what Vernon's death truly means for me.
I've spent nearly a year coming to terms with it, but the pain has never gone away or lessened. It is my fault. Pure and simple.
If I was stronger, if I was faster, if I was better...
He would be alive.
And it is that regret, that gnawing, pounding need within, that pushes me forward.
Not again.
Never again. Not Aron. Not Nora. Not Victor. Not anyone else I care for. Not anyone else that looks up to me. I can't bear it again. Not another death.
It is one thing to be alone. I have always been alone. I find comfort in the silence, in the dark, in the places where people would rather not venture. I find solace in the road less traveled. It is a gift that I have. Solitude does not affect me as it does others.
But it is a vastly different thing to be lonely.
And there are less than a handful of people who keep me from feeling that way.
Undeterred by the grasping claws, I press on, my heart pounding as I face the relentless onslaught. The humanoid nails continue to emerge, springing from the Goregiant's form like sinister blossoms. I dodge, weave, and parry, each move fueled by the adrenaline of survival.
My ascent becomes an arduous struggle simply seconds from the start, a relentless battle against the grotesque limbs that threaten to dislodge me. Every inch is fought for, every foot sweat for, every region bled for.
The Nightwhips I have carried for years prove themselves essential as usual, helping me pull myself up with a strength born of desperation. Ever since learning Willful Strand, their reach has increased exponentially, allowing me to grasp far beyond where even the hands reach.
No matter how I am struck, even as I fall nearly two hundred feet to catch myself with a dagger wrapped with a Nightwhip, I remain focused on the goal—the top of the Goregiant, where its weakness must lie. It must be there.
The climb is fraught with danger, and I can feel the exhaustion setting in. Yet, I have faced countless creatures, and never once have I encountered one without a vulnerability placed near its eyes, even ghosts or Otherplanars. The region that houses a soul, no matter the kind, is always a weak point.
Pain soars within my shoulder as I catch myself once more, the many rapid descents forced by danger gradually adding up. It is scarce that crimson leaks from me as my Nightwhips seal the wounds shortly after they arrive, but the impacts beneath remain, bruising bone, shocking organs, damaging vitals. Even still, I am making progress.
My eyes scan my surroundings to find myself planted a quarter mile from the earth. From here, I can no longer see the ground due to the sands, and my only basis for my height is correlated with my position on the Goregiant.
Plunging my blade into the Goregiant's hip, I leap upward once more with it as leverage, narrowingly evading a tendril with gnashing teeth. But as I catch myself once more, I feel a swooning wind above me, as if the sky itself is buckling.
I glance upward, realizing the Goregiant is finally making its move.
This is where the real fun begins.
Come on, you big bastard. Bring me to your head faster.
I keep my pupils primed, scanning the vast sands that block my vision even while I avoid the reaching hands like that of the damned wanting salvation. Seconds pass before I see it.
A palm, one so enormous that I can hardly see myself being the same width as the seam of flesh in the palm, crashes toward me like a meteor. This is it.
Flipping around, I dig my heels into the hip of the giant that acts more like a wall to be mantled. Necrosis and Whet sharpen my heels as I push the skills beyond their usual capacity with Willful Strand, allowing the blades of Ether to sink far enough to be used as a platform.
I need to be fast—so swift that it believes I am dead.
Something this large would hardly be able to tell when it killed a creature of my size, especially not one with a Power, Virtue, or Dominion to easily sense with its.
And as the hand approaches, the very air cracking under the pressure and speed of the slap birthed by a creature that could go toe-to-toe with Behemoth in size, I take a leap toward that hand, placing faith in my burgeoning Power.
