Beneath the Mire

[Osato]

Fear?

Fear is another simple emotion which drives the heart of men. Could I have felt it? Of course, if it had been something more real. As it stood I was to face some unknown “god” in a battle that was to determine the fate and future of an entire group of people. That so many had misplaced so strong an allegiance in a farce, a fickle entity… that so many could be manipulated so easily… that was what I truly feared.

Now, before the pathway that I was ‘destined’ to travel, I viewed the closing of a proverbial door that would affect thousands. I would become the unsung hero of legends at the price of a few thousand lost and destitute individuals. What a price to pay. What a cost…

“Come on then,” I muttered. My words were torn, lost. My normally proud and strong tone, so resolute but moments before, was humbled by the sudden weight of my situation. This was a path not associated with my own fate. It touched the minds and souls of others, why was I apart of this? Was I to be a tool? Or was my blade and meager prowess truly required? “Let’s deal with this nor while our wits are still with us… if they were to begin with.”

~x~x~

The wind, it struck hard. At the entrance it had seemed so inviting, so calm. As soon as I and the prophet crossed the threshold, passing into the void, the shrill winds from the forests started again. Indeed, it had been a wicked spell devised as a means of defense. I, however, was resolutely and singularly opposed to it.

Ranger curled at my side. His hands were crossed over his abdomen. His silver eyes were filled with pain. Cruel disgust played across his face, and through a mask of undeniable anguish I could see his end. I saw the great prophet of the Thayne, helpless and torn. I saw a single man amongst thousands, he alone strong enough to call out his god, powerless and humbled.

Where were his gods when he needed them most?

They were missing – curiously absent in a time of great peril and need. Only I was there. I could do little more than dive towards him, throw him onto his side. His convulsing body caused the rocks to grind against his worn leather jerkin, the studded steel caps screaming in anguish as he moved. At the very least he wasn’t puking on his back, he would at least live through that. It would be pathetic to see someone so powerful die by drowning in his own vomit. But I feared what wicked torture his mind must have been fighting against.

“Ranger!” I screamed, despite knowing that an overuse of emotion could be my downfall. Though the strong wind was tearing at my mind, trying to throw me into fits of rage and sorrow at the same time, it was the void in my chest that I felt the most. Being soulless had saved me, sheltered me from whatever the drow was being attacked by. “Prophet…”

I turned at the sound of a banshee. From the depths of the cave a ghostly face appeared. It was a wizened elderly human, the face easily twice my bodies size. Its mouth was wide, consuming. I could sense wicked magic emanating from it. I could see thin ribbons of milk white spirit being greedily devoured by it. Yet, amidst it all I stood resolute in mind, attempting to keep my emotional composure. Despite it all, my knees quivered and my clenched teeth ground roughly together. I couldn’t even draw my eyes away to care for the drow, nor flee.

[Osato]

“Who are you?” Such command! Such power forced into so few mere words! It felt as if my ear drums were at the point of rupturing, and yet I wanted to hear more. The words boomed and rebounded endlessly through my mind. “It is not but a fearsome individual who can withstand my power. I believe one had not yet assended to my level, nor ever would. Enlighten me petty child.”

He spoke in riddles, confusing me with someone who understood or cared to understand. With the words tearing at me I could do little but ponder. Was this… thing, this spirit, the ‘Pelor’ I was supposedly destined to destroy? Was the power that of a false god? Was the final battle going to come and go so anticlimactically? Even facing the ‘almighty’ farce I let a fit of laughter escape.

“Why do you laugh, nave? This humor is not your mind being split, but your own sense of humor. Explain yourself!” His confusion, his anger, they only made me laugh harder. I turned towards Ranger, momentarily freed. The prophet was still, but behind a miasma of tears I couldn’t tell if his chest was rising and falling. “Stop your laughter!”

Had Pelor truly felled his ex-cleric and thrown me into a titter?

The sight of the prophet sobered me almost instantly. I turned on the ethereal head. “What’s so damned funny? This entire situation!” as my tone become stronger and my words more stolid, I walked towards the wizened man two steps. “I alone am able to ignore whatever magical curse you have created. I alone am standing before a great entity with nothing more than blind pride and a bloody sword!” My words echoed off the smooth stone walls and jagged floor.

“I do not follow; what is so humorous little human?”

“Alone,” I nearly whispered. My voice was quickly being drawn away. “I stand alone against you, a false god, a centuries old hack! I, a simple mercenary on a silly mission for a mage guild I don’t even believe in, much less like. I am forced to fight the ‘almighty’ Pelor!”

“Pelor,” the head snarled. Its eyes, and entire disembodied head, tilted back. It moved to face upwards towards the low roof of the cave. The snarled words twisted his haggard face, contorting his dry and cracked lips. In the presence of such rage I could do little but double over. I collapsed on the ground, my sword clattering loudly. “You see me as that deamon? Your petty mind has decided I be none other than a loathsome intruder, bend on usurping power?”

“If not… that… him, then you… are his lap… dog.” My words were forced through tight lips and grinding teeth. My pristine eyes were being pushed backwards. My stomach was rolling, and I feared that for the first time in my young, adventurous life I would die. It wasn’t the heroic death of honorable combat between equals – astride might warhorses on a field of battle. This was a pure, overpowering of a weaker opponent by a spiritual, impressively strong opponent.

“Lapdog! You insolent whelp! I will personally devour your pathetic soul!” The head leveled with a crippled, broken man. But he had presented a flaw. I had no soul that he could consume. What dreadful shock he would find.

“Hahaha!” I laughed as he sped towards me

[Osato]

“Such a naïve fool,” the spiritual head thought. His all consuming mass had swallowed me whole. Its ghostly teeth had scraped my mind, but I could have been worse for wear. The pain had receded. A lingering headache remained, all but a hazy memory of the encounter. Yet, I still heard him. He sounded almost omniscient, as if he was a god himself. “So simple minded he thought I, a mere trapped spirit, the once great Takaniashi of the White Heron. The demon below, though—“

“Hey!” I yelled, my voice bounded and reflected off the smooth walls. The omnipotent was silenced immediately, but I could feel his mind working. The thoughts were muddles and incoherent, but I could assume he was just as confused. Instead of continuing focus on the gloating voice, I forcefully turned towards Ranger.

The drows eyes were open, but still. His mouth too was open, a thin tendril of saliva dripping from the corner of his lips. I would have instantly thought him dead had his chest not been filling and releasing a steady flow of air. The prophet had lasted, fought through. Only time would tell if he was truly fine.

“Hey buddy,” I spilt through quivering lips. I never had a real friend before, but the prophet actually seemed to have cared. And as my fate worked, he was taken. “Hey, wake up.”

“Who are you?” It was the damned spirit. His voice was hollow, distant. Once powerful, it was his turn to be humbled. “What is this place?” He was disoriented, confused. The prospect amused me, but worried me at the same time. The last I remembered was that he had charged at me, and yet I was uninjured. “It has been far too long,” he said finally, “I have been absent a body for some time.”

Sheer terror played across my face. My arms swung around without my command. My body rose. Sleek fingers slipped through my hair, my fingers! But it all seemed so foreign, as if something else controlled my motion but I retained my senses. “Wha—“my half spoken word came out at a rasp, but was easily cut off.

“Now, now, do not be alarmed,” it was the voice of the ‘great’ Takaniashi, but it was materialistic instead of ethereal. I brought a hand to my still vibrating voice box. The hand was forced back down. “It seems that you are quite the unique individual. First you withstand my spell, then you spit your barbed words in my face despite facing your very death! Now, you house my essence within your empty body.”

“Aww, but I feel you resisting. You play the fool well. After centuries of guarding this cave, after years and years of being forced to protect that deamon for my failures, I am finally free! Dear Osato, fear not, for my intentions rest firmly on the destruction of this false ‘god’ and my own personal liberation.”

But, no matter what he said, I could not focus. Being soulless had saved me the pain and suffering of the spell. Whatever the base element was, I assumed it manipulated and absorbed intruders souls… but for what cause? Perhaps to extend the strength and power of the White Heron mage?

“You are correct,” my split voice responded. Where my thoughts not even my own? Was he able to tap my sub-conscious and have control of my physical body? “Yes I am, and not only that. With the recent, rare flux of soul, I have regained much of my former power. Cease your fretting for your prophetic companion. I can resurrect him better than any divine power granted by any blind, over emphasized religion.”

[Osato]

My arms lifted at the will of the great mage spirit. At the tips of either hand, small yellow-gold orbs began to glow. My fingers were splayed apart. I could feel a rush unlike anything I had ever felt before. My perfect, toned muscles were straining to the point of tearing; bulging as if strained from work. My breaths were heavy – rapid – but it felt as if I wasn’t getting any air. “It’s magic,” Takaniashi said aloud, obviously knowing my thoughts. “And this is but a weak spell, compared to what I know. Let your mind wonder at my power.”

Ranger’s eyes opened, soft pearl like tears rolled down the corner of them to his sharp, angular chin. His mouth was wide open, gasping. Across his face played the picture of a seriously troubled individual. What had he gone through to seem so lost and torn? How much of the mages spell had struck him, and at what great magnitude to force him into a stupefied expression of pain and loss? “You should be thankful that you did not have to endure the spell; you are the first and only to have been able to ignore it. A rare, chance encounter it is that you happened along with this one… and to kill the same daemon that I had as an enemy centuries ago.”

But chance was no longer a factor as far as I was concerned. Chance and coincidence were supposed pieces of Fate; but neither was real. Both were only people’s imaginations; much like good luck or good fortune… karma even. I knew what made the sun move, weather change, or gunpowder spark; to a savage mind it was misunderstood or magic.

I felt thoughts flooding my captive mind. My final sanctity was being overrun by my spiritual aggressor. In some way it was worse than the spell that sapped the soul from the others; this was the conscious, unwilling surrender of my body to an otherworldly host. Was he listening? What did he think of my opinion of him? Did he feel bad about being compared to a complex parasite? Whatever he thought he made no mention of it, instead keeping his focus on the groggy drow.

“Osato?” Ranger’s words were tossed out at a level barely above a whisper. His wide eyes flickered cautiously across my body and face. Through eyes not fully my own I was watching realization dawn. The prophet saw, or sensed something. He looked confused. “Are you doing well?”

“He’s doing fine.” My mouth, my traitorous voice, they worked fluidly for the invading soul. I focused as hard as I could, but only came to find layers of shimmering, prismatic colors blurring my “sight” to my motor functions and all other actions. The bastard’s magic had soaked in quickly, and he was determined to keep his footholds and handholds on me tight. “The question we would rather pose is whether you are doing well? In the years I have maintained that spell I have never once pulled someone back, nor has anyone not died from contact with it.”

Ranger shifted uncomfortably, and for good reason. His concerned expression drew into a fear and worry. “The voice and body before me belongs to the mercenary who came with me, but the words do not. I… feel that you are not an illusion, or masking your appearance… though I do not fully understand the feeling. So, who or what am I speaking with?”

[Osato]

I could feel my lips curl into more of sneer than a smile. The being within was completely in control of my body functions, down to the most minuscule of muscles. It was more than bothersome, yet at the same time felt refreshing. Within me was a soul, a weight unlike anything I had ever felt before, and the warmth that was flowing from it… emotions, feelings… passion. I could not explain the presence of the feelings after they had been nonexistent for so long.

“I am pleased that you asked,” my voice responded. Ranger moved to stand, slowly working his way to his feet. His calloused, worn hands ran across the walls. His nose worked at the smell of the dank, stagnant water that rested in pools further in. I tried to extend my persona to catch a drift of the smell, of the feelings, but was easily repressed and pushed back. “I am glad that you asked that, for now I can finally release many emotions that I have kept pent up for centuries.”

The emotions started to flood, emotions that were so foreign to me. I had not felt, not truly, but only reacted to emotions in the way I thought I was supposed to. It was almost too much…

~x~

Years ago, centuries by now, there was a great horde of daemons that flooded out of their underground abodes. These cave dwelling monsters ravaged the world, pouring through previously unknown portals across the face of Althanas. I, Takaniashi, was one of the elder sages of the Red Bear clan, a subsidiary clan of the Crying Wolves. I was charged with assisting in the defense of our homeland, what you now know as Corone.

The first place attacked was Terria, the supposedly impregnable bastion of the dwarves. It fell without even slowing the daemons approach. But it gave us nomads, barbarians as you perceive us, and the Raiaera elves of Concordia plenty of time to come to a truce. Unsteady terms were drawn between the clans, uniting us for the first time. In the few short days between the fresh alliance and the looming battle at Gisela, I spent my time, day and night, studying with the elven sorcerers. They were the most amazing practitioners of magic I had ever witnessed. But magic takes more than a day, and instead of forcing powerful forces to bend to my will, I watched and meditated.

From within the tree sanctuary we watched the horde move. They split from the great city and flooded the plains. It was a torrent of bodies and cruel intentions. But this great horde could not see us. We were scrying, using the trees of the forests as scouts, a theory I had never considered. I was quickly grasping why the elves hid like cowards behind their forests, why we could never force them to the plains. We excelled in the plains, our combat prowess unmatched, but they ruled the realm of magic with an iron fist. Even the fresh student, having studied only one hundred fifty years, would have been hard to defeat.

We relayed what we viewed to the joint commanders of the soldiers. We told them weaknesses, strengths, numbers, and movements. But all our forecasts were dreary, causing no great cheer for the troops. However, in the short study we were able to isolate certain leaders and more powerful ‘generals’ of the horde. Assigned to each of us magicians were one of them, our plan to eliminate the greater and let brute strength and tactics take the rest.

However, I was given the daemon we assigned the name Aerian. He was a powerful empathy, and from what we could view had control over mental and light powers. His troops were part of the few scattered orderly groups. I was chosen because I, too, was a powerful empathy and my spells catered to the soul. It was their idea that my chaotic empathy would be difficult to follower, and I could magically outwit the rather powerful beast.

[Ranger]

I however… I was afraid. I will admit to it now, after centuries of this twisted imprisonment. I… knew I had no chance against the daemon. He, this Pelor as you now call him, was fully orderly, fully in control of his surroundings. The world’s heart beat to comfort him, as if every blade of grass bowed at his approach. I did something idiotic, and reached out with my limited ability with farsight. The horde was within a day from the battlefields of Gisela, and moving faster than we liked. I… I just wanted a final look at what I would be facing.

The daemon knew my lightest of touches immediately. I could feel his full attention turn on me suddenly, and his thoughts rushed to me, overpowered me. I screamed and clawed my face, trying to wake myself from the awful nightmare. My mistake had proved only one thing, the daemon was far superior to me. I would never best him if his power was so great; he could tear through my mind yes miles away… I went to the great mages of the elven people, pleaded, cried, and eventually was granted my request.

All I wanted was for them to take a look for themselves at Aerian.

When they did, they made no cry, made no scene at all. To them he was less than an equal. To them, he appeared my equal. I did not care. I was not going to fight. So, on the eve of battle, I fled. I ran to this cave, fortified it, made it my bastion from the world. From it I watched the forests burn. From it I saw the world change, time come and go. I was cursed though, for my eleven ‘friends’ had placed one on me. I was doomed to never leave my cave, my castle and keep. Here I would die, and yet live on so… unnaturally…

~x~

As the voice told its story, transposing his will and existence over the young Osato, Ranger shifted and scrambled for a more comfortable position. The cleric listened with patience. His body felt cold, tingly, and almost numb. He could feel it much deeper than skin deep though. Down, somewhere deep, it felt that the healing energies of the mage were toying around something. He assumed it was something metaphysical, a realm he had barely studied, perhaps his soul? He wondered at the lightness of his chest, unsure if he could tell if it was caused by magic of the mage or not.

“A coward caught and trapped by his own magic,” Ranger mumbled as the “great” sage finally finished weaving his tale of his history and lore. The history of Corone was not something he was not familiar with. However, to hear the firsthand account of one from the times, apparently one who was supposed to be a vital part of the Gisela battle. It was almost too much to believe. Ranger absorbed it all thought. The mage was an intricate part of the twisted web, centuries spun, that pulled countless towards Aerian. “I have a question, though,” the drow said loudly. “How did he transition from the daemon general to the ‘Lord of Light’?”

“An interesting story that one is,” the boy responded. But it was not Osato; it was the spirit of the great mage. He had worked so deeply in that he had control over everything, from the mercenaries knitted brows to exasperated sighs. “Though, if you are yet in need of rest after your episode I would care to explain. It is relatively simple, somewhat straightforward and easy to follow.”

[Ranger]

After the defeat at Gisela, the forces of elves and humans fled. Behind them they left the dead and whatever wounded they could not rescue. It was a scene of death that could turn the stomach of even the most battle hardened of our warriors. To add to it, the daemons were devouring the bodies, gorging themselves on our dead and yet dying. By then, though, I was no longer one of them. I had scryed on the battle from this cave, watched the scene day massacre, but had remained aloof and… scared.

I do not doubt that the others watched this land as I did, watching and waiting over the course of years. But not all the daemons were milling about or terrorizing the animal life. Aerian was building, consolidating his power base and cementing his probable rule. If he had wanted to, it would have been little more than a mere thought to transfer power of the army to the beast. It would have been slow but he could have taken mental dominion over half the horde before any trouble would have risen. He, however, has always played a background role, letting others have their immediate fame and power, while he built a legacy.

His small unit was quickly adapted to a different climate and setting. Other daemons were mere monsters, scavengers, seemingly mindless. Aerians worked his will, raising some of the wounded and placing them under his teachings. His name changed to Pelor, and to his humans and elven followers he was a god. Great profit can be made by a deity, not just material either. Cult followings are excellent tools for twisting the minds and remaining rivals from contention. Aerian saw this and enjoyed it; he took little time in losing the followers onto the dwarven caves.

It was not to destroy them, however, for that was a fight that would not be won. He unleashed them in a more devious way. Touching the minds and souls of a person was far more damaging than physical harm. One could, logically, create a devoted slave, expand one’s own power and never have to actually be seen or heard by the vast majority of one’s following. For years of war against the three hidden races, it was more practical than trying to run them out.

When Radasanth the Savior, the Brave of Heart, the Starlight came, it was shouted that the ‘Lord’ Pelor’s light came with him. A daemon hailed the deity behind a savior? It was ludicrous, but I could do nothing beyond hide. If I had feared him before, I was terrified of him by then. He held sway over my country men, people he had fought years ago in the bloodiest battle on Althanas now praised him. They built way stones along the roads as they rebuilt the island. My only reason to rejoice was that the religion had not seeped into the true mythos of the world.

Aerian was never put on the same level as the almighty Thayne, but that did not trouble him. He was not one for fame, instead wielding his will to remain in power and at the hearts of the people. Profit turned to abundance with time. Though the lightbringer from Alerar had helped run the daemons from the island, Aerian was unaffected. He had already retired to his mire, using a passageway within this tunnel. He had moved through me and my wards, taking only a small entourage with him back to Haidia and his home lands.

Meanwhile, he directed his followers through a church hierarchy – nothing is more powerful that a hierarchy of elders within a cult setting. His religious zealots followed his every command, and passed them down to the lower ranks. Places were razed in his name, but good was also done in his name. it was not long for him to shift face and turn to other daemons. The Legion of Light wielded ‘Pelors’ light against the creatures of darkness, demons. These demons hunted down were rivals, others growing in power and closing politically – an all new battleground, one Aerian ruled long before – to eliminate the resting, powerful daemon.

When your opponent can read minds it is difficult to corner him. When his pawns are as deadly as his castles, the tides can turn quickly to his favor.

[Ranger]

Ranger felt as if he was going to release what little contents were in his stomach. Such hatred, bigotry, all because a low daemon was in the business of removing political rivals by twisting the truth. So many lives, so many lives… The prophet could only imagine how many thousands had been touched by the cruel demon in the centuries since. More than ever he held a dire urge to destroy Aerian; no matter what it took. With an unsteady hand on his abdomen he shuffled forward, sparks of light flaring from the ends of his fingers.

Osato winced at the sudden illumination. How long had it been since the great mage had seen true light? How long had he been a prisoner of his past mistakes and untimely cowardice? Time was unaccountable. The elves of Corone had long since changed. The writings on the great woods had long since been burned, or been grown over without constant care. Ranger held the light anyway. He could see in the darkness of the caves, apparently so could the mage despite being in Osato’s body, but it was for the comfort more than anything.

“I see you are prepared to continue?” Takaniashi asked. He let the mercenaries hands fall from his face and looked into the silver eyes of the elf. The two remained locked for only a mere split second, passing intentions and trust; gauging each other. “Then we must move deeper into the recesses of the cave structure. Sentries still stand in wait, guarding what their master told them so long ago. Be prepared.”

“Demons from the past?” Ranger asked. “Then they are either powerful or slumbering. Nothing material could last so long without true nourishment.”

“Prepare yourself either way…”

~*~

The further into the cave the worse it became. It was a macabre scene of centuries of desolation. Piled along the walls were skeletons of hundreds of humanoids in all different shapes, sizes, and races. Easily identifiable were the corpses of multiple dwarves, probably seeking treasure or a new home. There was plenty of treasure, hordes of artifacts and ancient weapons. But it was by far no home to welcome anyone to.

“What is all of this?” Ranger voice was low, cautious. He moved, searching with both hands through the bones. Floating around him were five orbs of light. “Are these previous intruders? Is this almost what I would have become?”

“Indeed. It would do no good to leave them at the entrance.” Takaniashi replied while looking over the bones himself. His face was drawn, almost sorrowful. And odd emotion from someone who’s own spell had taken their lives for his life. He turned to Ranger and grunted. “Oh, yes, plenty of those little creatures wander in,” he commented over his shoulder. In the hands of the drow was a squirrel skeleton and next to it a small bird.

“This is disgusting, yet saddening. How many people have mistakenly stepped into this doom?”

“Do not make it seem that they were so helpless. I have not put down the spell for that wind you forced yourself through. They all felt it too, could have gone around it, or stopped advancing. Instead they moved towards it. It is their own fault.” The voice was so impassive, unforgiving. It was that uncaring tone, which moments ago was pity, that sent a wave of shivers down the prophets arms. “Ah, here we are. It has been a long time, luckily the Thayne were in good dispositions to have timed this all so perfectly…”

[Ranger]

From the pile of dead Osato’s hands retrieved a pair of swords. Both gleamed softly despite the lack of light, their blades forged of unknown material. Ranger could not place it, but it was a mix of some dark black metal and a soft blue metal, swirling around each other. The twin blades were ancient, masterwork weapons wrought in a time long since forgotten, by hands long since lost. The drow watched as the blades were shifted end over end, the great sage testing the weight and balance all over.

He pushed them both firmly into the ground, the tips of the blades piercing the rock without hesitation. Osato bent down again and retrieved a pair of leather sheaths from the dead bodies, which were evidently rather fresh. After strapping on the sheaths, and placing the blades within them, the eyes of the soulless mercenary caught those of the drow.

“These are relics,” he said, as if the ex-cleric was not aware. “These blades were amongst the greatest made, forged by the elves of Concordia. They were meant to be given to the greatest of the generals fighting the hordes… blessed by the great Thayne Hromagh himself it is said.”

~*~

The pair traversed further into the caverns, through corridors long since forgotten. It was like nothing the elven prophet had ever seen before. The walls were pristinely smooth, almost as if something or someone had taken a dreadfully long time to ensure its perfection. From the walls no algae grew, no plant life of any form, something he had not even seen within the busy halls of Pandemonium’s Fist. Furthermore, there was no webbing from spiders, something that even the Fist gathered in the tunnels less used. It was disconcerting, sending more worry through the already uncomfortable drow.

However, they continued anyway, making their way towards the rear of the tunnel system. Ranger questioned whether there was even an end to the path they were taking, and what might be at the end. The prospect of seeing Aerian was still looming in his mind…

~*~

The tunnel stretched before them, widening to a wide chamber. At the end of the chamber were two stone, no taller than waist high, glowing scrawl dancing across surface. However, the ex-clerics eyes did not dwell on them, but along either side of the wall. Bastions of the past waited for those brave enough to venture to the end, those able to pass through the great mage’s spells. They were, however, not demons that Ranger expected.

“Gargoyles,” Takaniashi said, stoic and still, as if reading the drow’s mind. “They are the guardians of the once great daemon. They are the slumbering servants, forever trapped and locked into his service. A century has passed since they traded their mortal coils for an everlasting servitude to the devious ‘god’. Now they wait…”

Before his final words were spoken, with that unsettling double voice flowing from the thin lips of the mercenary, the first two on either side stirred. Like watching a statue come to life, literally, the two opened their eyes. Golden orbs were given sight to the world below. Wings once stone faded to a soft gray color and stretched. Claws dug into the shelf, pushing heavily into the perch they had been waiting on for so long. The two stirred, shifted, heads cocked to the newcomers. Ranger held little doubt that they were the first to ever traverse so far, and that the gargoyles were more than a willing adversary.

“Now they stir,” the drow responded with an unsteady tone. “I assume we will have to deal with them before being allowed to move further on our path?”

The first of the two to move leapt towards the chamber’s roof, flapping its heavy wings. The second was not far behind. Overhead the two circled, cries of ancient anguish screeching and bounding from wall to wall. Ranger began twirling his spade, the titanium head whirling. To his flank the body of Osato shifted away, giving both enough space to fight unhindered and not too much that they could not still assist each other.

[Osato]

My body shifted into a stance I had not ever assumed. My hands rose before me, and in them the glow of magic began to form. I despised it, feared it, and yet my body was an avatar for one of the most powerful mages to live. I pushed, I prodded, I attempted to force my hands down and to grasp the swords that were around my waist. They were comfort, they were what I wanted to hold in a fight… not some amalgamation of some ancient mages will and hope that the spells cast would not simply fizzle out and die before cast.

“Damn your magic,” I screamed at the spirit, but his power was overwhelming. It surged through my body, pulsed through the soul that was not my own. In a split second the hands that were raised before my eyes were engulfed in a heavy glow of purple and black. What powers the mage had summoned I did not know; his mind was overpowering mine, his thoughts aloof from my own.

“Remain calm child,” the voice of the man settled my fears, as if his will overtook my own. I looked through my eyes, watched the scene unfold as if I was a third party, a simple observer standing along the sidelines. But it was my body that was being threatened. “I have not been out of practice so long that I cannot yet best these simple threats. Your body will come to no harm, vain child.”

Vain? I was not allowed to dwell on the thought before the first of the two reanimated creatures dropped towards us. He side stepped, allowed the razor sharp claws to miss my flank by mere inches. The hand closest to the beast lashed out and struck it against its lower back. The glow that had been summoned faded and surrounded the beast in a ring, tightening down instantly around its scaly wings. The screech that resounded in response was deafening.

The great sage twisted around, watching as the ring wrapped its victim tightly. With the wings of the gargoyle immobilized it was helplessly suspended above the ground. Unable to flap the bat like wings it fell and clashed with the ground, sliding and bouncing as it struck the hard stone floor. It was not dead though, and I could feel another rush of power flood through my body, again unsure what it meant.

Instead of finishing the reanimated creature, however, my body shifted towards the second one that was threatening Ranger. In the time it had taken for Takaniashi to remove one from the fight, the prophet had torn open a wing and forced his own to the ground. It was not without the ability to fight though. It struck at the drow as he spun the staff with a grace I could hardly ever hope for. The clash of titanium and claws echoed and rebounded through the open chamber.

The great sage opened his other hand, pushing the magic that danced like a flame towards the assailant. In a blur a streak of purple flashed, striking it around its shoulders. The blur formed another tight circle and close around its arms, holding not only its wings but its arms down as well.

“Prophet,” my voice called, “Do not destroy them, for if you do the next string will be summoned. We must crush those yet on the walls, break the rock before they take form and have the ability to fight.”

The drow looked to the walls. Three more gargoyles were stoically perched on either side, their stone faces drawn and still. Ranger instead turned his vision to the two that were struggling against their magical entrapment. He extended his own hands and let the light that he commanded so effortlessly wrap both in a brilliant cocoon. They would not be moving anytime soon, and it would allow both myself and him to focus on those yet stone…