Jackal Among Snakes

Argent was a decadent place. The walls and floor were made of silver, polished so as to reflect all within its walls. Just about everything else was an imperial purple—furniture, carpets, curtains. These decorations had gemstones, and though bordering on gaudy they did further the beauty of the place. It was truly a home for a lord, by Argrave’s reckoning. It was a shame, then, that such a pretty place was marred by the heartless bastard owning it.

The moment that Argrave’s feet met the silver ground of Argent, he activated the Blessing of Supersession. It felt like a cork in his chest had been removed—a cork holding back all the world’s oceans. His own magic supply felt meager and useless as absolute power rushed over him. The feeling was growing familiar, and that disquieted Argrave.

After a second of allowing himself to adjust to the feeling, Argrave held his hand out, using the C-rank [Electric Eel]. The magic constructs started to form in his hand, then jumped up into the air. One, four, thirteen, sixteen—their numbers amplified by the second. He threw away notions of the magic debt he’d accrue, focusing instead on one thing—ending this quickly.

“You said it’s on the seventeenth floor,” Galamon said, looking towards the stairs. “Is that up or down?”

“It’s the second highest floor, so up,” Argrave clarified, stepping towards the stairs.

The floor they were on was empty. All within had undoubtedly moved to confront the chaos outside and were on a lower floor—perhaps some who had been outside would be moving to confront Argrave, having seen his flashy entrance, but he doubted they’d make it here quickly.

Argrave kept a steady speed, diverting much of his attention to keeping the ever-growing cloud of electric eels from bumping into a wall and dissipating. He was tempted to send his Brumesingers ahead to scout, but he wasn’t confident he could maintain focus if he accepted yet more stimuli.

The stairs were, fortunately, a straight shot to the seventeenth floor. Galamon led, and Anneliese covered the back, her single Brumesinger trailing closely behind. She held Garm in hand, the severed head fully exposed. He watched Argrave, expression pensive—doubtless he had questions about the Blessing of Supersession. They kept a steady pace for a long while, passing by room after room of varying purpose.

After a time, Galamon stopped Argrave. “People above. A group. They’re scared… not warriors,” he disclosed, voice echoing out from his helmet.

Argrave paused, brain struggling between maintaining and growing the cloud of lightning above and digesting the information given to him.

“Oh,” Argrave nodded, the answer coming to him. “The breeders. It’s how the Lord of Silver maintains their appearance. They’re harmless, but there could be guards—Vessels. Be cautious.”

Galamon nodded, and then stepped up with quiet steps. Once they got far enough up the stairs, Galamon ducked quickly, dodging a burst of water struck the ceiling behind and dented the silver. Anneliese stepped forward, conjuring a B-rank ward with her ring, and then the party advanced upwards.

Jets of water assailed the ward, chipping at it, yet it remained firm—the attacks could not even be compared to Yarra’s. Two bodies of water danced about the luxurious room. A group of people was huddled in the back, but Argrave could not focus on them.

Galamon stepped out from the ward, his bow readied. He fired an arrow at one Vessel. The thing did not bother moving—the projectile aimed at a great mass of water and did not approach its infantile form, so perhaps it did not fear the attack. But the arrowhead was made of Ebonice, and where it touched, great portions of its body were rendered useless.

With its movements hindered, Argrave urged a great deal of the eels swirling above him to pursue the Vessel. It tried to flee, but with a diminished mass it was slow. Near twenty sparking constructs struck the heart of the Vessel, and it immediately lost all purpose, leaving behind only a charred lump. Its water flooded the room, pushing aside beds.

The second Vessel in the room closed the distance instead of playing defensively. Galamon set aside his bow and retrieved his axe, stepping out to receive it. As it writhed along the surfaces of the tower while heading towards Galamon, it peppered them with small attacks.

The Vessel engaged with Galamon cautiously, striking out with non-committal attacks while its infantile form stayed in the back. Argrave looked for another opening, another opportunity to jump in, yet the Vessel remained cautious. Feeling frustrated by the loss of time, Argrave brought the bulk of his electric eels, sending them after the Vessel in a bullheaded rush intended to end things quickly.

The Vessel retreated, fleeing from the electric eels. Argrave’s attacks were fast, though, and soon enough, they managed to hit home. Writhing like a beheaded snake for but a moment, the Vessel died and its water dispersed, flooding the room. Argrave looked about, assessing for any danger. Eventually, he relaxed a little.

Screams echoed out from the back, and Argrave’s gaze was directed towards the huddled people in the back of the room. The majority of their features were snow white—hair, skin, even eyebrows. There were many women, while only a few males in their number. Nearly all of the females were pregnant.

“The Lord of Silver is chosen from these people’s offspring. Their appearance is perceived to embody ‘silver,’ and so they’re kept here,” Argrave explained to his companions with a bitter mutter. “The other lords each have something just like this.”

His voice seemed to spark fear—the majority of the albinos seemed to have a great deal of difficulty seeing properly, judging by where they looked. Argrave continued to use [Electric Eel], intending to replenish the now-diminished supply.

No one took action, and so Argrave realized he’d have to do something. “The Vessels are dead,” he called out. “You should stay here, out of sight. Soon enough, everything is going to be over.”

“Argrave!” he heard Anneliese call out and whipped his head back.

She conjured a B-rank ward as she moved, then pulled Argrave into its cover. A jet of silver liquid slammed into the golden shield. It succeeded in halting the attack only for a second before its sheer power punctured the ward. Argrave tried to pull his head out of the way, but he felt heat on his ear—he’d been cut. The jet hit the wall behind, puncturing the metal and exposing the sky beyond.

The Lord of Silver, Quarrus, stood at the stairs, descending from a higher floor. His white hair danced through the air, almost alive, and his pink eyes were cold. Argrave prepared to cast his own ward, but the lord’s hand reformed from silver water into its physical shape.

“Brium’s mercenaries,” he said coldly, lowering his hand. His body began to bubble beneath his silver robes, expanding. “More capable than I imagined. Yet that ends.”

#####

Battle made Durran forget all else. He’d forgotten his father’s decree that he would be exiled, he’d forgotten the coming confrontation with Titus…

Perhaps that was why Durran enjoyed it so. Or perhaps it was in his blood. He was from the proud southern tribes, incubated in the fires of war.

The wind whipped at his face and he clenched the reins of his wyvern tight in hand as it soared above the city of Sethia. The battlefield had become a site of wanton slaughter. The wyverns of the southern tribes attacked the Vessels, leaving those on Brium’s side alone—for now, at the very least. Durran was nervous with anticipation, having informed his men of the betrayal to come.

And dealing with hundreds alone, fighting boldly on the outskirts of the city, were the southron elves. Durran had heard tales of their terrifying prowess, and that proved to be true—Durran could not count them because of their strange illusion magic, yet perhaps ten of them faced hundreds, dancing through the ranks of the enemy and leaving innumerable dead in their wake.

“Durran,” shouted Boarmask above the whipping wind. “I need you to land. I need you to let me off!”

“What?” Durran returned. “Why?”

“Titus!” Boarmask shouted. “His men—they’re killing civilians!”

Durran looked down to Sethia below. It was difficult to spot Titus’ men. They moved mostly covertly. Yet still, as Durran flew about, he saw archers fire strange, enchanted arrows that seemed reminiscent of southron elf magic. Though aimed at Vessels, the damage caused by each projectile was devastating. People were buried beneath explosions of sand, whipped by sandstorms…

“Alright!” Durran shouted back, pressing down on his wyvern’s neck. Recognizing his command, the great beast descended towards the city. It eventually landed on the walls of Sethia, and Boarmask removed what was keeping him strapped to the wyvern and jumped down.

“What will you do?” questioned Durran.

“Help the people get to safety!” Boarmask shouted. “And deal with Titus, should I find him,” he said grimly.

In the far distance, a Vessel took aim at Durran. A jet of water pumped through the air. Unable to twist his body, he held his hand out and conjured a D-rank ward—it shattered, yet the jet was diminished enough that water splattered his face harmlessly.

“Good luck, pig!” Durran shouted to Boarmask as he pulled on the reins, and the wyvern jumped free of the city walls, ascending once more.

As he flew, Durran noticed something emerge from the top of the tower of Aurum. He thought he was hallucinating—the tower seemed to be growing. Further scrutiny clarified the image. Golden liquid poured out from the windows of the tower, rising up into the sky. It was like the purest honey at points, molten gold at others, and before long, Aurum seemed to possess a golden crown to match its splendor.

“The Lord of Gold…” Durran muttered to himself.

Crislia, the Lord of Gold, took her place atop the tower of Aurum. The sunlight above passed through her form, dappling the black desert and the war-ravaged Sethia with resplendent rays of gold. The mass of metallic liquid contorted, shimmered, as if adjusting.

With nary a sound, spikes of gold shot out, each and every directed towards one of the many wyverns roaming about. The attacks were deadly and rapid, killing dozens in seconds. They tore through the great beasts, the pride of the southern tribals, as easily as parchment. Their prized mounts descended en masse in a fountain of blood.

Durran pulled on his wyvern’s reins, and the beast turned only barely enough to dodge the jet of gold directed at him. It tore through a stone building below, destroying it utterly. Durran felt the fear of death in every facet of his being… and he started to laugh. He spurred his wyvern onwards, flying towards the golden monster.

The Lord of Gold’s form began to shimmer once again, and Durran knew it was preparing for another assault. Durran clenched on the reins tighter, roaring in tandem with his wyvern. Then, from Cyprus, a great blur of copper sprung forward as if launched. Brium slammed into the Lord of Gold, and the seemingly indomitable force was blown backwards.

The Lord of Copper and Gold remained suspended in the air Aurum, both falling ever so slowly, stunned. Liquid gold and copper rained down, scattered from the intensity of the impact. The metallic liquid drops turned to water once they contacted the earth. Durran pulled his wyvern around, trying to assess the situation better.

The two stunned Lords surged to life, both masses of metallic liquid writhing, grappling each other. The battle seemed incomprehensible to a human eye—two masses of liquid contorting, shifting, straining in every direction. The Vessels’ heart—their infantile form—was not even visible. Durran knew only that he saw more gold than copper.

Brium pushed away suddenly, disentangling from the struggle. The Lord of Gold strained out, remaining fixed on the tower. As if coordinated, several purple streaks shot out from the city of Sethia. Durran was certain they were Titus’ men, but he could not confirm that.

The arrows struck the Lord of Gold in tandem, and black sand burst outwards, powerful enough to contest the veritably godlike Vessel. Then, Brium’s assault resumed. The mass of copper liquid collided with the gold once more. A single copper spike shot through the gold form, and Durran barely spotted a flash of crimson on the other end.

Crislia, the feared Lord of Gold, started to sag. Her golden form turned to sludge, it seemed, blackened and rotted as she was inside. Then, it became water once more, and a great deluge of water fell upon the tower of Aurum, flooding all within its outer walls.

Durran, knew, then, that the Lord of Gold had died.