Reliance

               Somewhere there was some old sheet of paper with his name on it. That was the assumption he worked off of. It detailed what was expected of him, and had probably been updated over the years. Hell, it probably wasn’t just a single page anymore. Said set of pages probably detailed what his duties were since having been continuously cursed with different titles. Not that he hadn’t tried to have all of that nonsense stopped some time ago. Regardless, Redamous was almost dead certain of one thing. Nowhere on any piece of that document did it likely say “go find glowing rocks for elves”.

               Sure, there were probably details regarding dealing with potential allies in a positive manner. And these elves certainly seemed to be potential allies. All the same, picking rocks out of the ground and dealing with the mindless addicts that were prowling about wasn’t high on his to-do list. He paused his train of thought to bend over and toss another blue crystal in the bag he had going, slinging it over his shoulder once it was in place amongst the others.

               All in all this entire arrangement seemed to be a recipe for disaster. At any point if the supply chain stopped their would-be allies could easily slip into as mindless as a ghoul, and if someone along the supply chain decided it was time to starve their friends for whatever reason it would prove to be a rather nasty negotiation tactic.

               The worgen paused once more to kneel down at retrieve a few pebble sized crystals, adding them to the bag and again throwing it back over his shoulder when it was tied shut. As he made to stand up he paused mid-motion, an ear twitching. He remained halfway kneeled down for a minute or two, he had struggled with more exact timing since the need to sleep and such had departed, until he was certain that nothing nearby was moving. Some shambling elf had sprung themselves on him enough times to make him not want to relive the experience yet again.

               Continuing through the thicket of trees he had decided to cut through, he debated whether or not this was one of the bigger mistakes he had made in the past few days. On the one hand, there wasn’t a swamp here, far as he had seen, which made it better than Val’sharah in the sense that his bare feet weren’t getting all muddy and damp. On the other hand, Val’sharah, despite its corruption issues, hadn’t tossed its psychotic denizens at him from the tops of trees and under patches of grass. Sure, he had found more of these crystals off the beaten path, but the fact that there was less to be found on the path meant that there were less things hovering around the path. Either way, here he was.

He curved off to the left as he found some sort of cliff side, the top of which he couldn’t see through the trees. It was bound to lead out to something, and at present the most he was going to hope for was that it was a peaceful something. Getting lost was hardly a concern, what with the fact that a death gate made Acherus a few moments away. Red came to a halt as the cliff jutted inward somewhat, with the ground moving downward to follow suit.

On the one hand, descending into a dark cave was just asking for something untoward to happen. The other possibility was that other people had thought the same, and that there would be enough of these damned crystals down there that he could call it a fairly successful day. There wasn’t much debate on the matter. Anything that could make this go quicker was something worth at least a try.

Striking a torch he raised it close to the ceiling, descending into the cave, eyes peeled for anything blue. Within a few minutes of rounding corners he had added at least four or five to his haul, and only found more the further he went. By the time the cave had quit winding his bag was full enough to call the whole ordeal a success. Which was good, considering by the time the cave had quit winding his surroundings had changed enough to make him want to leave.

The first thing he noted were indentions in the wall, which appeared to be places to house torches at one point in time. Soon enough what seemed to be holes that had once housed traps, as shown by the old mechanisms that were broken and abandoned below said holes, a few of the piles containing arrows or old stones bearing runes. Once he had left the long hallway it became most apparent that someone had been here before he had. Long before he had, he assumed.

The hallway lead to a large circular space, with no exit save the one he had come through, far as he could tell. His jaw grew slack somewhat as he slowly entered the chamber. Peppered around the room were tables and bookshelves, all covered with aged instruments, texts, and pages of some script he could only guess was elven. Red lowered his bag from his shoulder, laying it against one of the tables near him as he slowly circled the room. There was nothing to be gathered from any of the books, unless he could convince someone from the area to translate for him, which wasn’t a struggle he felt like going through at the moment. Most everything else was too worn to be useful, or even recovered. The tables were damp and rotting, the glasses and beakers they housed broken or smashed. As he reached up to tap one of the more whole cylinders, his ear twitched once more at a small noise behind him.

The noise got louder as he turned, flicking the glass on accident as he did so. Near the entrance some slate of stone fell into place, a few spots on the ceiling blinking with light as it did so. The wards coming to life caught his attention long enough that he almost missed the fact that someone was actually standing in front of the entrance, and had likely just barely missed being smashed between the new stone and the wall.

Redamous stood as rigid as possible, waiting for the other individual to move. He allowed his hand to lower somewhat, directing the torches light more at the figure than the room on the whole. Their attire was almost entirely covering, and rather soft in terms of material, with not a piece of armor in sight. Their face was concealed under a hood, with a scarf covering the lower half of their head. Their torso was covered in some long-sleeved shirt and coat, a long cloak which appeared to be attached to the hood stretching from the front side of their right shoulder all the way down their back.

His company’s head tilted somewhat as they apparently examined him. Their arms remained at their side, fingers, occasionally twitching in their gloves, involuntarily tapping at the side of their legs. Their left foot seemed to follow suit, tapping along to some unseen beat. By the time the appeared to move of their own volition rather than some sort of tick, it was towards the bag of crystals he had left near the door. They paused in front of it, but didn’t lean over to pick through it. Their hand traced the wall as they circled the room, walking closer to the worgen.

“I would never fault someone here’s ability to keep someone from taking any of their things, even in death.” He turned as the figure moved along, keeping her, and it was a her far as he could tell from the voice, as they drew closer to him.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten locked in by some stupid trap,” he muttered, keeping himself at the ready should what conversation there was turning sour.

The woman nodded, stopping as she reached the worgen. Up this close it was easier to identify the blue skin and seemingly curved face under the hood. Even if his interactions with the Nightfallen had been short up to this point, they looked different enough for him to know this was one of them. She didn’t stop to give him enough time to dwell on the matter, motioning for him to move to the side, which he did. Continuing to prod the wall, she glanced over her shoulder, voice somewhat forcibly steady, “What brings you to our woods, beast-man?”

Red couldn’t help but let out a snort, “Technical term’s ‘Worgen’ thanks. ‘Beast-man’ or ‘beast-folk’s a bit offensive.”

The response produced an uneven chuckle in the elf, who nodded, silently muttering “Fair enough.”

“And I were,” he paused, glancing at his pack for a moment, “Rock gatherin’.”

“Getting mana crystals for the locals. A relatable endeavor.”

She stopped in front of a section of the wall, pressing inward until a section of the rock sunk into itself. He could only assume she looked more than a bit smug as she turned to look at the stone door swing back open.

He worked his way around the room, in the opposite direction she had, finding himself facing her near the door. Slowly bending over to fetch his pack, he looked back to the elf, cocking a brow, “Assume you’re out doin’ the same, then. With it bein’ ‘relatable’.”

The elf paused, even down to her twitching fingers, as though she had suddenly become aware of them. “I suppose I am.” He could see her blink a few times, turning back to look at the room on the whole, “Sometimes it’s nice to forget about it for a bit.” She chuckled again, looking back to him, “A little distraction, or a brain-teaser.”

Redamous nodded somewhat, glancing down at his bag, pulling it open. He grabbed a few of the gems sitting inside, tossing them in the elf’s direction. She was apparently caught off guard enough that she nearly didn’t catch them. She looked between them and their donator for a long period of time, until he finally muttered “Make it a bit easier.”

They stood in silence for a moment, until he started his way out of the cave. She coughed to draw his attention for a moment, “Do you ‘worgen’ have names?”

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder to nod, “We do, as it happens. Redamous. Or Red, if that’s too on the long side a things.”

The elf glanced down at the mana crystals again, before looking up at the worgen with a nod, “Then I thank you, Redamous. And I do hope to see you further down the path.” Her attention shot back to her new prize for a moment, before a thought occurred to her as he began to walk off again, “I am Xanthe.”

Red sighed, stopping again. He turned somewhat this time to look the elf more in the eyes, and nodded. “Nice meetin’ you,” he said, offering a small nod, before turning around to exit the cave, and begin wandering back to wherever his delivery was due.

Invasion

               To his left and right were trees. Behind him, trees. As far as he could see in front of him? Trees. Cursed trees that were scattered and spotted across the land, all odd and twisted, with the occasional one that apparently had caught fire. Green fire. He tried to keep his breathing slow and steady as he kept up his pace, moving as fast as his short legs would allow him. Somewhere behind him he had lost his hat, but like hell if he was going to go back and retrieve it. That thing was still back there, and knew it.

               It had come from nowhere. Well, not really nowhere. It had come from the sky, after the clouds had turn a sickening green. Like a terrible thunderstorm, except the lightning had been replaced with glowing green rocks that housed hordes of demons all ready to maim and kill. Or worse. He had been out gathering some herd of rams, who promptly defected from any sense of order the moment the sky started spitting fire. Not that he blamed them at all. When his brain finally clicked into what was going on, he hoofed it too.

               His first thought was to head back home. He had to warn his folks, until it occurred to him that they had gone off to Ironforge for the day to pick up some equipment. Which happened to be a rather lucky choice, he noted upon cresting the hill that overlooked their humble home. What stone was above ground was cracked from some sort of nearby impact, and the door had been kicked in. Things were moving about, namely the rather large thing that happened to be heading in his direction. Somewhere inside of him something screamed for him to find some way to defend his home. The rest of him said that despite the longstanding history of the place, it wasn’t worth his life.

               So off into the forest he’d gone. On a better day he would have been able to navigate this particular bunch of trees with ease, but his focus had been thrown out the window a few minutes ago. He had taken enough turns now that there was no particular way he could consider to place himself. All he could really think to do was continue moving so that the thing couldn’t catch him. The pointy hatted, heavy axe-wielding thing. Demon. It almost had to be a demon, especially since he couldn’t imagine it being anything else. Druids were all about being green, last he had heard, but they weren’t so into crashing in from the sky and raiding people’s homes.

               Shit.

               Regardless of any better words he would have produced in other situations, especially when in the presence of his relatives, that seemed the most appropriate for now. So much show that he muttered it out loud more than a few times as he grew closer to the worldly structure he had dreaded to find. The steep rocky walls of a cliff all he could see. Worse still when he curved off in either direction to start working his way elsewhere he noted that he had wormed his way into the tail end of some canyon. He racked his brain to determine how far he must have ran to end up at the end of a canyon, and could only decide that he must have gone miles. How long he had been going he couldn’t even say. What he could say, based on the rustling behind him, was that he was going to regret coming this far.

               There was the most basic of hopes he could muster that he was going to turn around and see a wolf or something that had decided he would make a good midday meal. But no, it was that pointy headed thing from before, still lugging around that massive axe. It had a terrible grin on its face as it thumped along, its heavy armored feet leaving impressions deeper than just the snow and into the dirt that was frozen below it.

               He glanced off to the left and right, debating which way would give him more room to run and a bigger space between him and it, but didn’t get much time to consider the idea. There was a loud groan from the demon as it jerked its body forward, stumbling enough that it had to use the pole of its long axe to keep its footing. The dwarf had to squint to notice that the thing had been attacked from its flank, with something still clinging onto its back, dangling a few feet off the ground.

               The demon began twisting and turning until its attacker was successfully flung off, slamming into the tree. Squinting the dwarf noted that the pile of metal and fur that had dropped to the ground near the tree’s trunk appeared to be a Worgen, a large mace slung along his back. With a fair amount of muttering and cursing the Worgen picked himself off the ground and faced the demon, whose attention had turned from his previous prey to this new one.

               Despite the size of the mace he was lugging about, the Worgen continued on unarmed, dropping a foot back to prepare for the demon’s charge, which came soon after. It brought its weapon back for a forward swing, which the Worgen managed to duck under, barely missing the tips of his ears. The Worgen’s claws found their way into the demon’s shoulder as he swept upward from under the axe, before the quickly jumped backward to wait for another strike.

               The demon stumbled back, not from the blow far as the dwarf could tell, but rather something happening because of the blow. It hacked and coughed and scratched at the place it had been struck, grunting in pain as though someone had set a match against its skin. Its opponent took this as another moment to strike, making another slash on the demon before it was smacked away by the demon’s unoccupied hand.

               Crashing to the ground again the Worgen clawed his way to his knees before swiftly receiving a kick from the demon, grazing a tree and ending up further in the snow. The beast flopped onto his back, awkwardly laying on top of the mace, staring up at the sky for a moment while regaining his composure, lazily looking towards the direction he had been tossed from to find his attacker charging to do the same again. One of his claws slammed against the ground, a section of his glove glowing bright blue as the area under the demon’s feet causing it to fall forward at its sudden drop in momentum.

               With the demon grounded, the Worgen slowly clambered back to his feet, finally drawing the mace from its back. Before he got the chance to use it, the demon slammed its axe into the ground a giant burst of green fire knocking the Worgen back against the canyon wall. It slammed the blade of the axe against its iced feet, bringing it back to its full height. It stomped over to the Worgen, bringing a foot down on the beast before it could recover. It continued to do this until it seemed satisfied that the Worgen wasn’t getting up to oppose it for the time being, preparing to bring its axe down on its enemy’s neck.

               The Worgen lifted a hand up, flicking his wrist, a motion that was followed by another flash of light, this time red in color. The demon paused in its attack, apparently lifted up into the air by its throat, gasping for air. The Worgen heaved itself up, mace and all, bringing the former up to slam against the demon. As the weapon made contact the demon appeared to be released, allowing it to fly off into the forest, dropping its axe as it flew.

               Letting the head of his mace drag along the ground, the Worgen limped over toward the fallen demon. He flicked his other hand again, another       flash of blue light as the demon apparently froze to the ground, struggling against its icy chains. With a final heave, the Worgen brought his mace up over his shoulder, bringing it down against the demon’s head. The dwarf quickly looked away, grimacing and grinding his teeth at the sound of bone crushing. By the time he had looked back the Worgen had sheathed his weapon, and was in the process of letting out a sigh.

               The Worgen took a moment to glance at the dwarf, raising his voice so that he could be heard, “Find somewhere to hole up.”

               The dwarf blinked, looking down at the now-dead demon, “There’s more of ‘em?”

               The Worgen snorted, turning to head back into the forest, voice still raised, “There’s a lot more of ‘em.”

Frustrations

Written while listening to: In Circles.

She had seen him like this before. The times had been few, but enough that she knew this was just how the man took bad news. Sitting rigid, eyes fixated on a point in the room, rarely blinking. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that in times such as these, it was simply best to leave him be to his thinking.

The first occasion she could recall such a situation happened around the time they had received word that his mother had passed in the night. He had sat for a number of hours on his own, contemplating his thoughts. She had left to go into town and returned to find him in just the same state as she had left him. It was a new enough experience at the time to worry her, but she didn’t delve too deep into the matter when he quickly rebuked her attempts at consul. After he had had the time to himself she was allowed to enter the matter and offer her thoughts to be taken into consideration, but not, as she soon caught on, until he had taken the time to process his own.

In some regards she could respect the practice. It meant the man didn’t jump head first into every situation with some cynical outlook, not that he wasn’t prone to such views regardless, or in emotional distress. He took the time to grieve or to process whatever had just been told to him. On the other hand, his being out of commission and severing his ties to her for the time was frustrating in multiple ways. At times where she wanted to comfort him, where he certainly would have been comforting her, he simply wandered off as far away as possible into his own head to deal with his problems all by his lonesome.

So here she was, forced to bide her time until he was willing to speak. Which meant finding ways to occupy herself in the meantime, which at present meant fixing up the disaster of an office that they had come upon. In all the time she was aware of, this forsaken floating fortress had not once moved, and now it was being flung off to fight their foreign invaders, trekking halfway across the ocean in the process. At some point she had apparently worked up enough determination to be able to pick up things still remaining on the physical plane that had forsaken her. Which didn’t surprise her all that much. Growing up she had heard so many stories from her uncles that contained haunted houses and floating objects. Now that she knew haunted houses likely held grains of truth in their tales, what was to say the floating objects were a lie?

Far too many folders had found their way to the floor, each and every one of them containing pages that had either been skimmed or skipped entirely. Some of those that had been skimmed ended up in the burn pile, others were deemed unimportant enough to not bother setting aflame to imply they had never been seen. Where the man had picked up this little arson habit she was never able to gather, but so long as he was just burning pages and not homes or something she supposed there were worse vices in the world.

After what seemed like a solid hour had passed, not that she could tell time in this Light-forsaken room and its lack of both clocks and windows both of which the dead gave little regard for in their current state, he finally let out a sigh. It amused her somewhat that this was notable mostly in regards to the fact that the sigh meant he had let out a breath at all. Where once his breathing would have simply been steady, it was now non-existent, so any sign of its return implied that just maybe he was coming out of his mood. Soon after the return of his breathing came the clicking of his claws from one hand, the other flicking through a few select sheets of paper again as he re-read what had set him off in the first place. He fully returned to reality when he allowed a hand to cover his face, letting out a heavy sigh.

“And so he returns to the land of the living,” she muttered with a smirk, sliding a few things on his desk back into place.

His lips pulled back in an expression that was direly lacking in amusement, “Har.”

She just shrugged, resting against the side of his old desk, the first thing they had shoved back into place, “Could try for an actual joke, if you’d prefer.”

“Not rightly in the mood,” he muttered.

“Figured.”

His hand remained firmly on his face, “I.” He paused, taking a moment to consider, “Hate this bloody job sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” He couldn’t see it due to his hand, but she cocked brow in sarcastic disbelief.

“Most of the time.” He waved the idea away, “But all the time with stuff like this.” The clawed left his face to slam down against the pages, “When I have to sit here an’ read this stuff.”

“Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“Don’t mean I have to like the fact that it’s me. That I gotta watch us go ‘round an’ round, end back up where we started, ‘cept now far as I’m aware the folks who are decidin’ this stuff’re in their right sensibilities. Which makes it worse.”

“Well. As is doesn’t seem like there’s much you can do about it, so maybe it’s better to jus’ get off your arse and go do the other part of your job.” That brow was still up, though now with her tone he felt it was more a judgmental gesture than a sarcastic one.

“An’ tha’s half the problem,” he growled, ignoring her suggestion, “There ain’t nothin’ I can do about it ‘cept live with knowin’ it. And of course dealin’ with whatever hell the living shake up ‘cause of it.”

“And I’m sure you’ll get to deal with that when it comes. But it ain’t come, so maybe don’t try dealing with it yet.”

He clenched his fists at the thought, standing up from the desk. A line was carved into it with his claw as he crossed the room for the door, leaving the large mace he had tossed to one side of it upon entering.

“Ain’t ya forgettin’ somethin’?”

The Worgen paused for a moment and glanced down at the mace for a moment, before shaking his head, “No. Don’t wanna smash nothin’s head in. Wanna claw their faces off right now.”

She let out a snort, “Whatever gets all the anger out dear.”

Walking the Edge: Light and Dark

There was the Light.

There had always been the Light. For as long as she could remember there had been the Light. The Light had been there when they had attended service in the Cathedral.

The Light was invoked at every turn.

A child was born, and there was the Light to help it along the way into this world. A family member died, and the Light was there to comfort those left behind and to guide those departed along. When things went wrong, it was cursed. When things went right, it was praised.

There was no 'turning' to the Light when she departed her family home to work in the Cathedral of Stormwind. Surely it was impossible to turn away from something so present. Everywhere she looked the Light either was, or was scratching to get to. It had not touched all within the city, but it was making an attempt to do so. Those whose lives had turned against them could still be bathed in its glow, and she could see it.

The warmth in their face when they were helped, the relief in their eyes when someone showed them kindness. The Light radiated through such people. It was something she could never truly describe in words, the way it made her feel. It was a guide, it was a presence, and it was a power. A power to heal and a power to touch people in ways that could do so much good.

But there was also the Dark.

She hadn't noticed it for the longest time. Not when she was a child. Her early days with the Church even went without any identification of this other entity's existence. Nothing in Stormwind had hinted at Its being either. In the face of all of those who still somehow spurned the Light, even knowing that such things as the undead and the demonic meandered through the city's streets, nothing gave her an inkling of the Void.

Until she left.

The thought of travel had been so thrilling. There was so much of the world left to experience, and so many other things the Light had touched that she had never seen, or helped. She wasn't, couldn't have been, told that where she was going was nothing short of the very shores of Twisting Nether itself. Had she been sent off to Pandaria just before its conflicts truly began? Or marched through some portal to a foreign world to face a threat she could still hardly comprehend? Perhaps it was both.

Each time she considered the matter it seemed to snap at her, gnawing away at what she recalled of either incident. She could still remember those beautiful beaches. The lush jungles. But could she? When she recalled them it was as though through the eyes of another. Like reading the story of one pushed to extremes.

Always the incident rushed back to her mind when committing to recollection. Someone, she used to think it was herself but could no longer make such a claim with any certainty, was all that was left. Their companions had fallen, to what she couldn't recall. Orcs? Hostile natives? Wildlife? They were dark, twisted figures in the image of her mind. What they were didn't matter, not in this context. The only thing of importance was what reached out to her in that time.

She had been told of ways to defend oneself with the Light. Ways to do harm with it as well. But she had never been taught them. The very idea of using the Light as some sort of weapon still brought a sickness to her stomach. In this case there was no possible amount of healing that was going to save her, and shields were going to only last so long. At that moment she had known it. In that other life she knew that soon she was likely to find herself in need of a burial, rather than delivering the sermon to go with one.

But then there was the voice.

Before it was impossible for her to claim that the Light had spoken to her. That any sort of deity had spoken to her before. Yet the voice called. And oh the things it whispered. Every single thing it said, all it promised, was terrible. But in such times of desperation terrible things can be the most useful. Her hands raised as her attackers had drawn on her. Beyond that she struggled to recall. Such memories were the first to be dismissed from her mind.

In the time since, she still drifted into such points. She knew as much. Far as she could still remember she had been kept on the front lines. Most memories of stuff were kept to times spent in tents, comforting the dying or attempting to prevent such. Still there were the flashes. Times outside of such encampments where the Dark returned to her life.

Even now having returned from such memories to Stormwind, it was impossible to escape it. Her attempts to return to normal were stilted. She could return to the routine, but in the back of her mind it ate at her. It still gnawed when it had already taken so much. The smiles were still warm, and the warmth of the cathedral still made her smile, but every action felt as though it conflicted with another.

Worse were the times when that gnawing turned to cutting. Cutting ways into her mind, filling it with voices. When there were not voices there was the Dark, and through those cuts the Dark bled in. The things it said, the claims it made. Again they were terrible but the way they were said made her believe them just as strongly as she believed in the Light. At times the only thing she could do to keep the thoughts at bay was to retire early, and scribble.

Scribbling helped. It was as though she pulled a plug on her brain and allowed that which had filled her mind to drain out. Often she could toss her journal aside when such was finished and return to what she had been doing prior. Other times she could not help herself put peer inside, to see what this other side of herself had been told. Not all that she wrote could be deciphered, but that which was likely haunted her dreams the night after.

The most terrifying thing they told her was what remained with her the longest, the idea that crept into her mind even when the whispers did not. The thing that created so many nightmares, even if it only made up a handful of the whispers.

"You will need us."

Circle of Life, Cycle of Death

DARK SOULS 3 SPOILERS. AS IN. LATE GAME DARK SOULS 3 SPOILERS.

There's some saying about knowing your enemy. I assume the idea behind it was always that knowing your enemy meant that you knew how to deal with them which made the fight easier for you. At least part of that is wrong, far as I can tell. Because I know my enemy, and he still beats me into the ground without remorse.

By this point I know my enemy really freaking well. My enemy is an asshole in a pointy hat, who's about three times my height, has two giant swords, one that's coated in magic and the other in fire, and has a health bar that would make some of the undead entities I fought on the way here blush. Considering he's stationed in a giant cathedral in the center in a town full of them, I can only assume he's a religious figure. For the past three or more hours he and I have been getting very well acquainted.

Closing my eyes as I type this I can still see the cross shaped room this particular jerk sits in every time I walk through his door, with him waiting at the center of it. It's only once I cross a few of the pews that are stationed in there that he actually stands up, ignites his weapons, and comes to slash my head off. I know that my little pings of magic chip off of little chunk of his massive health bar, even though their 124 hits of damage would cut mine by at least a fifth. His attacks on the other hand can kill me if two manage to land, if I'm not wise enough to dodge through them.

These are some of the many constants running through this fight every time it's attempted. Like some hellish version of Groundhog's Day, we both go at it with the same tools, with the same arena, and with the same result. I even run past the same idiots on the way to the boss's room, which happens to be guarded by another idiot with a scythe, who ended a few runs prematurely with the fact that he could take out about 90% of my health bar in one swing if I didn't dodge it.

It's a classic David and Goliath thing. I think. Big person versus small person. Me versus big religious swordsman. Me in this case being a robed idiot armed with nothing more than a shield that's almost no use to me, and a giant magic stick. Constantly doomed to be knocked into the ground. That is until I get the fight down, at which point I'll get my reward of a few more level ups, a new quick travel point, and access to the next area, at which point the cycle starts anew.

Getting the fight down isn't that easy, on account of things changing up on you. Because once the boss hits half health he decides that one of him isn't enough. No. Now there's a clone of him that copies his moveset, which is widened to include such thrilling things as a ranged attack that will wipe out half of my health on its own. At which point things to go hell. For now.

Because that's how Dark Souls works. Or rather that's how the Souls series works, or the Soulsborne series as some like to call it. That's how Demon's Souls (which is one of the most odd titles to say in full, just give it a try), Dark Souls, Dark Souls 2, and Bloodborne all worked before this. And that's not just how the bosses work. That's how the entirety of the games work.

The areas even leading up to the bosses are trials in their own right. Making slow progress towards your next big foe is a long span of area you might be seeing time and time again. Or it might be something that you get right on the first go, at which point you might hit the next little warp point, or unlock shortcuts that lead to previous ones that let you scuttle on through ten times faster. It's these little rewards, on top of the gear you find and the levels you gain, that make it easier to keep going.

Just on the way here I crossed through a warehouse, a sewer, some kitchen, a church, a small decorated room, and an eerie city street. Along the way I had to conquer creepy half-invisible people, some armed with swords, others with magic, knights in armor, rabid undead dogs, and something that I can only describe as what happens when the girl from The Ring has sex with a spider.

All of that, just to get access to an elevator that takes me back to where I started. But an elevator that at the same time cuts down that run to the boss from an hour, to about thirty seconds. Which makes it much easier to fall into a "one more try" sort of rut, of just slamming your force into a boss until it goes down.

Not that there aren't easier methods. If I wanted, I could "summon" another player, or even an NPC if none were available, to assist me in my plight. It's an option that's there for everyone, and it's one that makes these games a bit more bearable for those not willing to waste their time as I am, and at the same time it's one way to build camaraderie in an uncaring world or spend some time with struggling friends. Except I happen to be stubborn and play these things as that I never summon people, because this is my fight and I'll finish it on my own.

I wanted to be able to end this thing by saying that I won. I've been typing it every time I hit a load screen, which happened to be my method for getting the reading I needed to get done tonight finished. But it really just isn't in the cards. Because despite knowing so much, really that's only part of the fight. Know your enemy all you want, if you aren't up to task you're not going to get the job done.

At some point, he'll be dead, and I won't be. But that still comes with the caveat that somewhere beyond him is another ruthless monster, probably more than a bit eldritch in nature, that's ready to eat me alive again.

At which point the hours of my life following that moment become forfeit.

Fishy

No one had ever said such a thing had existed, but no one had stated the contrary either. Which left him firmly with the conclusion that, though possible for such a thing to be it certainly was not yet. But if such was the case in this instance, what stopped such from being the case with everything?

              He brought a hand up to stroke his face, fingers tapping away against the desk as he considered the possibilities. If such things were true, then there were numerous things that might exist, but had simply not been found yet. In fact, nigh anything was real, and could simply be extremely skilled in matters of stealth and sorcery. How many things had escaped the grasp of documentation because of their quick wit, or agile speed? How many things had been too strong to be recorded, and let into the annals of history, and how many more would remain in the realms of the unknown?

               Part of him was tempted to pick up his quill, which sat at the corner of his desk, and begin penning the numerous possibilities that had yet to be seen. There would be more supplies required for such a task, of course. Numerous pages worth of paper would be needed and easily filled, pots upon pots of ink emptied, candles to burn throughout the late night hours as the ideas came, and foodstuffs to keep him well fed and able! His hand moved as if on instinct, grabbing for the colorful feather, so carefully crafted from some exotic expedition, forcing him to grab it and hold it at bay until he could collect his thoughts further.

  

             This was no time to begin such a project, not when his thoughts were so muddled and confused. Of course not! If anything, the fact that he had even considered engaging in such was just a sign of how far he had forced his mind to wander, and how desperate it had become to rest. Clinging onto such high fantasies of being able to just create things out of thin air, just because they had not been disproven in existence!

               A chill crept its way down his spine, closing in swiftly on his lower back, forcing him to twitch. How had he even managed to consider such blasphemy? His hands shot to his lips, shielding them, lest he let loose so much as a stutter of the cursed ideas. Even alone in this cramped office someone might hear him, as they wandered down the hall and past his long darkened door. From there it was only a matter of time until word had found its way to the hierarchs, and not long after he would have just been dismissed entirely!

              The very words they would spit at him, the very poison in their voices rang in his head. Lines of how the Historium was not a place for such nonsense, of how if he were to even consider such he might as well be nothing more than a storyteller in a village, cobbling together useless tales to amuse and appease some thirsty crowd. Perhaps an actor who spewed dramatized lies to an audience of idiots.

              He shuddered again, the same chill working its way back up to his brain. These were the things nightmares were made of. Things meant to wake one up in the middle of the night, sweat still beading down their face as the realization of reality slowly swept over them. A hand ran back across his head, though unlike when he had done so in his younger days it found much less hair. This was the work of ruin, and the work he could never commit to, and yet, these thoughts remained.

               “Curses upon you boy,” he muttered to himself, biting his tongue before his lips leapt into a frenzy and brought yet another possibility of undue attention.

               He could still see the child’s smug face, sitting so peacefully at his desk while his instructor wailed on and on about how improper such accusations were. It was beyond his realm of knowledge to assume the boy’s intentions, though. Perhaps he had meant the question innocently enough, wondering if somewhere in the world fantastical creatures could exist. Fish the size of men, who stood with a tall stature and were spotted, wandering this way and that with no need for the water. Birds with puffed feathers colored by rainbows themselves.

              But yet he could not bring himself to cease at the conclusion at the boy’s goals were so noble! He had been standing right there, watching as his own student, the boy’s instructor who was getting so much use out of his vocal cords. Just a few feet away, so it would have been so easy for the young lad to see the looks of horror upon his face as he considered the prospects presented before him. That there was somehow the chance that such things could be.

               His hands found their way to his face, smothering him for a moment, the only source of comfort he could give himself. His thoughts were bound to cycle as such for some time. Any prospects of sleep were bound to be in vain, and any hope of breaking away from this circle now was all but abandoned.

               There was just too much of a chance for him to lay them to rest entirely, yet there was no reason for him to cling to them as he did! Things were discovered all the time, yet prior to their discovery what was the chance they would have been scoffed at! If one were to describe half of the concepts and creatures in the Historiums libraries to those who were alive prior to their induction, they would have received the same cold, disgraceful greeting he would imagine for a playwright.

              Another idea found its way onto the center of the stage of his mind, to which he nodded furiously, as though it were a friend who had just appeared in his chamber to deliver a wonderful package. To banish these thoughts from his mind, they needed to be captured. To be captured, they needed to be written, and illustrated.

               He stood, approaching the door with the stance of one who meant to pick its lock, opening it as though he were a rogue sneaking through the halls. Soon enough, he would return with what he needed, ink, paper, and more. Once these things were banished, perhaps burned even, he could finally let the matter rest.

Highs and Lows

Written while listening to:

She slumped forward against the kolto tank, squinting at the controls slightly. Regardless of anything she had said prior to this point, whether it be to whoever had set her organs straight, the droid in the taxi, or even a few passersby on the way back to Harbinger, there was no way in hell she was okay. One of the multiple reasons she knew that was by the sheer amount the ship seemed to be rocking, even though she was next to certain it was still grounded.

“Harbinger,” she muttered, when she finally managed to process the thought that there wasn’t much of a chance that she was going to manage to operate the tank on her own. “Start evaluation process, prep kolto tank, heavy damage.”

Overhead she could hear some instrument start whirring until it had apparently finished its assessment. Elsewhere some speaker crackled to life, the ship’s deeper tone coming throw, “Tank prep underway. It is assumed that you did not complete capture of present target.”

Resting her head against the top of the panel, she let out a short cough, jerking her head left and right, “No, Harbinger, I didn’t.”
-----

“And it really doesn’t matter either way, now does it?” she rolled her eyes, reaching up into a cabinet, hand patting around until it found its way around the familiar neck of a whiskey bottle.

Plucking the bottle from the cabinet, she shut the door, turning to look back to her companion once more, popping the top off and taking a swig. Once she had downed a fair share from the bottle, she looked back to him, continuing, “I am perfectly fine. It weren’t nothing but a fight. That’s what happens.”

His face happened to have been beet red by this point, whether because he had been hitting the bottle prior to her showing up, or he was getting too worked up. It got rather hard to tell sometimes, depending on how bad he was feeling by the evening, not that she had any room to talk in the alcohol consumption department.

He pointed to her armor, where any number of patches had been recently sewn in, her best solution to the problem of having holes in her armor until she could get someone to properly attend to it. Which only served to remind her that she needed to make that appointment with that tailor. Blinking, she looked back at him rather than through him, raising a brow until he got to his point.

“Gettin’ stabbed ain’t never been ‘just a fight’ in my book,” he said, frowning when he apparently realized she wasn’t going to explain herself as he hoped she would. “Neither’s looking for a fight, and getting in trouble with Imps.”

Daeria couldn’t help but smirk, bringing the bottle up to her lips again for another pull, “Didn’t get in any trouble with Imps. I mean. Ain’t like they’re hangin’ me for treason or anything, now is it?”

“Yet,” he muttered.

She waved the idea away, even though in reality she had considered the possibility a number of times. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had decided to cut loose ends at the end of a contract, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Me? I’m fine. You? You’re fine. We’re fine.”

He narrowed his eyes, finger coming up again, this time to point to himself, “I sure as hell ain’t fine. I went to some black market lookin’ to see if anybody knew you where you mighta been, ‘cause you decided to wander off an’ get caught, and couldn’t check-in to tell me everythin’ was fine, so I get to go into a panic over the fact that maybe we’re gonna get some sorta hammer brought down on us.” She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off as swiftly as possible, “I got manhandled by a guy dressed like a banana. And I kept lookin’ ‘cause I was startin’ to fear that eventually I’d just be getting’ visited by the folks in shiny suits to be hauled off to some prison camp or somethin’ to do whatever the hell you do in a Zakuulian prison camp.”

Daeria tossed her arms up, walking to the other end of the room to find some couch to crash down onto, drinking yet again from the bottle when she had settled in, setting it off to the side for now. “I don’t get why you’re getting so pissy about this. It’s my kriffing job, idiot. If you haven’t gotten that part thus far, I seriously don’t know what to tell you, besides grow up.”

Red frowned, following, “Then where the hell was this job in the past half a kriffin’ decade, huh? All that time where it was just bein’ creepy ‘round folks, starin’ at ‘em and reportin’ on ‘em, or crawlin’ in their windows to stab ‘em in their sleep? Not this stalkin’ and ambushin’ crap. Nothin’ of the sort.”

“I got bored,” she said, resting back and shrugging, “Gotta keep busy somehow. Zakuulian contract’s a great way to do that.”

He stared at her for a moment, “You got bored. Well, next time you ‘get bored’, lemme know so I can try and stick my head under the dirt somewhere in the hopes of hidin’ out.”

She shrugged once more, “I got no idea what the hell you want me from me. So either spit it the hell out, or get over it.”

“I want to know why you got stupid all of the sudden,” he muttered, falling into a nearby chair, apparently prepared to drop the subject.

The Chiss stared him down for a moment, before leaning forward, “I do shit like that because I have to.” She held up a finger to stop him from talking, knowing full well the sort of comments such a statement would bring on, “I had to do somethin’ like that. I had to. ‘Cause I have no idea if I can anymore. All this time of sitting on my ass and playing fly on the wall and ‘crawling into somebody’s’ house to off ‘em, for five kriffing years, instead of doing the stuff I’m good at.”

With a sigh, he just shook his head, allowing his head to fall backward to stare at the ceiling, “I figured the other stuff qualified for stuff you were ‘good at’.” She just frowned. It was by this point in any conversation involving this subject that he checked out, probably because he didn’t want to consider it in his own realm, or didn’t want to think about her in such away. Either possibility made her want to punch him, yet in some sort of endearing way, were such possible. Perhaps because she hated both thoughts, but also knew that they were necessary, lest this ‘safe’ house become nothing but talk of dark things.

“I kill people,” the Chiss said, almost in a whisper, taking her own opportunity to lean back to stare at the ceiling, “I used to be good at that. For the longest time that was just.” She paused, considering, “That was it. I killed people. And it felt, and feels, so good.” There was no need to look at him to imagine the mortified face he was making, “And sometimes, I just need to remind myself that I can still do that. That I can hit that high at some point. And that means getting stabbed, or shot, or punched, or kicked, or any other thing.”

-----
Her armor clattered to the ground with a number of clangs as she unlatched it. With a few feats of what strength she still had, she finally crawled in the tank. Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the top of the inside of the tank, forcing her breathing to slow as the tube closed itself. It had taken quite a bit of convincing herself to come this far, not least of which was the thought of how long it would take her to recover without it. Even having managed to come this far she still wasn’t okay with it.

She hadn’t been okay with it the first time she’d had to use the freaking kolto tank, and she would probably never be okay with it. It was cramped, and enclosed, and the air was so thick, even if the moments she was conscious in it were short. The thought of it just malfunctioning and not opening crossed her mind, potentially choking to death on something that was meant to heal her. How ironic would that be.

No panic attack this time. That wouldn’t be good. As the kolto started pouring in, that thought seemed harder and harder. No panic attack. Focus on something else. Put on the breathing mask and focus on something else.

She wanted to kill that bastard.  She was going to kill that bastard. Or do whatever happened to be worse, which would probably involve just collecting on the bounty. Screw whatever idiot woman he’d managed to scrounge up, screw every idiot Mando in that kriffing bar.

The kolto was working its way into the tank at a steady pace.

Couldn’t just act so stupid the next time. No acting like a jackass. That had never worked in the past. That was something she had done something like a decade ago when she was still green. There would need to be something more to this, that wasn’t acting like an idiot in a bad holovid.

She closed her eyes, nearly entirely encased in the green stuff by this point.

Of course it would mean another fight, one she was just as likely to lose. So wait, and recover. Don’t go in with armor patches. Take hits on the punching bag again. There was a rhythm to be found here. Something to be recovered from where it had gathered dust.

There was the threat of death, of course. Not that she wanted to die. But if she were to die, what would it matter? Better to go out on that high, than crawl into some corner and let it rot. Better to have to crawl back into the Hell Tank than to never hit those high notes again.