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Round 3, The Final, will begin January 31th, 2022 at 10:00pm EST.
Round 2 will end February 16th, 2022 at 10pm EST
The only prompt is to write as well as you can to continue the story of the AC so far. Whoever wins will impact the future of Alerar, so please write as if an entire region depends on it.
With the cold winds blowing in his face, the wizard had made it nearly three miles from the dwarven encampment before the first volley of projectile fire landed some twenty feet behind him, shattering the hard crust of the Tular Plains like ice on a pond, broken by a falling tree. Hard shards of rocky earth zipped about him, a deafening boom clouding his train of thought as he tried to run from certain death.
I suppose diplomacy wasn’t much of an option. These dwarves didn’t seem to have much an appetite for compromise. Little bastards.
Indeed, the dwarves had offered Storm Veritas and Elite Optic an incredible opportunity. Storm was to be the power behind a device that afforded Elite the ability to command demons. The dwarves had planned to no doubt use this magnificent power to harvest demons from the newly opened gate, driving them south to Etherea, Ettermire, and overwhelm Alerar. Once and for all, the dwarves would use the demons as pawns to overwhelm the elves of Alerar, killing them all and freeing the dwarves of this rivalry once and for all.
They hadn’t expanded on what happened following that coup, but the electromancer surmised it included disposing of their “guests”, as ruling all of Alerar would require a minimization of witnesses. Demons wouldn’t comply forever, so it was likely they would be eliminated following the great elven genocide. Storm considered it wildly unlikely that either he or the great Skeleton would be of value to the dwarves without the demons to command. He had whispered his plans to Sorian (Elite’s familiar) as the evening wound down. After a feast, Storm had taken his horse and broke south in the dead of night, guided only by starlight and the wisdom of several tall glasses of dwarven ale. He was alone now, as Sorian and Elite had forged an eastern path from the gates.
“Ride! Ride! Hyah! Pound those hooves, you dumb shit, or I’m toast and you’re glue!” Storm had his knives at his hips and satchel over his shoulder as he tucked tight to the great auburn steed, lilting to the right haunch to vomit as the brave horse drove hard into the darkness. They shifted from a jog to a hard run, the horse seemingly uninjured by the nearby impact.
Could have been just as convincing without two or six fewer drinks, stupid. Focus. Drive.
There were several large explosions behind him again, although now the catapults seemed to be striking further back. The cold air and sheer terror had a terrific sobering effect on the magician, who strained over his shoulder to see the silhouette of the chasing army behind him. How many of the dwarves had woken and given chase? He heard the trumpets sound as he mounted his horse; he was likely out of camp before anyone save the lookouts were rolling from bed. He had no real idea what time it actually was; somewhere near two hours after the last of the revelers had packed in. Two AM? Four?
Doesn’t much matter. If they rolled the catapults out, this is no simple scout chase. They are coming full force now.
A few more minutes and he allowed the horse to break to a trot. The explosions were some ways behind them now; it appeared he has stolen a quick ride. In the darkness, the dwarves would push ahead carefully, pushing him south to the gate and certain death. Storm Veritas had other plans.
In his original journey north, he had used a dust storm multiple times to hide himself and his small band. The iron-rich soil served delightfully well for his abilities, and he could create enough mobility and charge amongst the grains of earth to leave them suspended for quite a while, obscuring from the stupid demons that had kept wide of his supernatural clouds. Here, he conjured a cloud, a small offering that looked as though it could obscure him. Rather than charging forward, he used the constellations above, focusing on the great dragon in the stars to point westward, buying him some time and allowing his horse to rest a few moments. The hard packed earth wouldn’t carry hoofprints in the winds he had conjured; this ruse would likely bring a respite from the charging army behind him.
“Not much time, boy. We’ve got five minute before they reach here, so we’ve got to keep moving. Rest those legs a moment, we’ll taste some water, and we’ll pull them south.”
To the south lay the demon gate. They had skirted around it to the east on their original sojourn; now there would be no escaping. The demons had been spreading for a few days now, and the scouting parties he had seen at first were no more. Since they weren’t moving north, the ocean lay west, and to the east lay only mountains, there was no doubt in Storm’s mind that the demons were moving south (or southeast). They’d be moving to the ports, where the wizard’s ship lay. They’d be marching to cities, to kill and destroy and overtake.
Would have been a hell of a lot easier to just have them on your side, stupid.
He smiled in spite of himself as he continued to ride, feeling the brave, speedy little horse beneath him steel himself and trot forward with the confidence only a truly stupid beast could enjoy right now. Fortunately for the courageous little stallion, he had no idea the suicidal plan Storm Veritas had mapped out for the two of them.
Everything had come together far too quickly, and Storm felt violent tugs from within regarding a lack of planning. This wasn’t poker or some boardroom negotiation; no clever calculations on return or reading of his adversary’s eye would bely right from wrong. This was a simple matter of raw instinct. Had he stayed the plan, there was a very real possibility that he, Sorian, and Elite Optic could have quelled the demon uprising, and possibly driven them back into the gate, leaving the dwarves without the numerical advantage they would have relied on to overthrow the elves and tip the balance of power.
Or, Elite and/or Sorian get a taste for the power and enjoy it, rolling through Ettermire.
Hell, or YOU do.
Like alcohol or nicotine, power was a dangerously addictive drug. Storm didn’t trust himself with it; certainly not in the vast quantities the dwarves were talking. His thoughts flashed back to Shinsou near dead in Tylermande, or the ashes of Whitevale, a city leveled to cinders under his watch. Power was something he had sought his whole life, until he had it.
It was a few more moments of riding slowly when the adventurer realized how cold it was tonight. He had been sweating in the rush, adrenaline driving his heartbeat as the dwarves had momentarily come in firing range. Now that they were lost (for now), the cold air rolled across the plains and cut through him, the beads of sweat burning cold.
“Easy boy. Smooth, quiet, easy.” Storm rubbed the neck of his horse, whose name he hadn’t learned. He had taken well enough to “Boy”, and broke easily for the wizard, listening well to commands and driving forward dutifully. Had he not needed the speed, the graying electromancer would love to release the horse, sending him back north to the dwarves, and relative safety.
His nose still burned from the sulfurous fumes here, he couldn’t enjoy the pleasant odor of tobacco as he lit his pipe and moved slowly. The little orange flicker remained within the pipe – an advantage afforded to pipes when trying to move stealthily. Riding forward, there were still moments where the starlight failed them, and the wizard was forced to conjure white light from his hands to guide the path. He tried to be judicious; with each little cast he expected a torrent of trebuchet fire.
Not yet. Not till we reach the gates, or damned near them.
He was going to draw the dwarves to the gate, and make them fire upon him and the demons alike. It would trigger war, likely razing the demon gates and hopefully obliterating the uprising of demons, decimating the dwarf army in the process.
A perfect plan except for the stupid asshole in the middle.
He had resolved himself to die here on the plains tonight. It was a sad form of actualization, but an inevitability he was forced to embrace. His story would go untold, and unknown, but remain impactful all the same. The smooth taste of tobacco filled his mouth as he enjoyed what may be his last smoke.
“You’ll be off as soon as I see them, boy. Let you ride home, let you out to stud somewhere. I made this bed; you deserve better.”
It wasn’t more than a few minutes before the horseman moved in the dead of night. Pressure from the dwarven north wasn’t about to stop, and he had to pull them in without being struck by their range. The painful reality sat in his stomach like a rock, an undigestible fact that endangered the whole, half-thought “plan”.
And what if the dwarves let you go early? Or if the demons are already on the move? How do you guarantee that they actually engage?
It was painful and undeniable, but he had to accept the risk at this point. If the dwarves had let him roll away, they’d still have the demon army coming to them. Perhaps they’d let the demons thin the elven numbers first, but based on the massive camp he had just left, they were prepared for war. Conversely, if they had released him, then he’d be able to beat a path east of everything down the mountain ridge to Etherea. Maybe some humans and elves still lived there. Maybe they could get him the hell off of Alerar and home to Corone.
“No safe bet any way we want to wager, boy. Just keep beatin’ south until we find what we’re looking for. You’re almost home, boy.” The horse seemed to bray gently as he marched ahead, obedient and docile.
The stars lit a path for them that became more pronounced, until the tandem came upon the first orange flickers on the horizon. The demons had set fires about small camps, dozens of them scattered about the plains. Storm instantly halted the horse at the first sight of one some four hundred yards off, squinting in the darkness to assess the situation. No demon chatter could be heard above the blowing winds, which offered a perverse whisper and steady cold.
Dismounting, the wizard felt his hips ache in the cool as the slowly led his horse forward by the reins. He took a long drink from the flask in his satchel, pouring more water into a hard packed divot on the plain, a puddle which the horse eagerly consumed. Squatting and staring, the first camp ahead was bizarre and terrible. Four large rocks had been torn from the earth, positioned about a fire to limit the air and block the winds. Three large abominations lay by the fire, and a fourth figure to their side – one of those horrible wolves – sat on his haunches, head in his massive front paws. The beast was demonstrably larger than the horse that Storm guided, a fact not lost on him.
To both the right and left side of the first camp lay other fires, some two hundred yards between each other. From here, only the flicker of flames and faint outlines of rock formations could be discerned, each promising something terrible.
This far north and they’ve got scouts packed this tight? Gods, there must be tens of thousands of the awful things. It’s over. It’s fucking over.
“OK, boy. Time to go.” The magician turned his horse to face north, and slapped him firmly on his right haunch. The horse galloped ahead some ten yards, turning to gaze back at the wizard. Frustrated, Storm pulled a thumb sized rock from the ground and whipped it forward, harmlessly scaring the horse with a strike to the ribs. The aging electromancer felt a tug at his heart as he watched the horse run away northwards; his last friend in the world was gone. The dwarves were still a good distance back, or had left his trail entirely.
Gods, so this really is -IT-, then.
A strange sense of peace filled the wizard as the goosebumps upon his flesh subsided. Alone, he stared down the small camp dead ahead. His fingers pulled his hair back taut against his head, managing a few straggling tendrils of a white color he pretended he hadn’t seen. The eyes of Storm Veritas were a distant gray, so light that they nearly appeared white. Walking slowly, he lifted his hands high and wide to the sides, his body forming an exaggerated “T” as he instinctively used his ability to float his daggers from his hips to his hands. He was alone, the echoing sound of his metal soles clicking on the shale like surface of the plain marking every step. His face transformed, moving from placid and tranquil to focused and hawkish; a sneer scoring across his face finally as the wizard deliberately walked to the mouth of the beast.
“Come and get me, you bastards!”
The first head to raise was unmistakable, the wolf hopping to alert from a dead stop within a moment. The camp ahead was now under two hundred yards away; Storm could clearly see the demons roll up from slumber to an irritated state quite quickly. The monstrous demon seemed to roar to his left and right, but from here the wizard could not see if the adjacent camps were stirred.
There’s only three and the wolf. Old Man Sorian waxed three of these pricks back at the port town; you’ve got this.
His legs only trembled a bit as he broke into a light jog towards the camp. He decided he didn’t want to buy time for the other camps to come investigate; it was far safer to just forge ahead at this particular set of deathbringers and roll the dice. Notably, he felt no more steeled as he drew closer, seeing the vastness of the three demons, their heavy armor (which mercifully held metal, but also what he surmised to be bone) and large, stone weapons.
Stay calm. One at a time. Focus on the wolf.
Fortunately, the demons didn’t take time to talk strategy of plan out their surest course of action, one mounting the great black and red beast and darting ahead of the other two oafish fools, running headlong behind him. Like a wink from the gods themselves, the metal harness atop the wolf glistened under starlight, calling to the wizard. Storm Veritas was all too happy to oblige. He stopped in his tracks, his right hand pulsing a faint white as a modest bolt of electricity gathered at the tip of his knife.
Precision. We need the wolf. Wait.
The wolf and the rider bore down on him, some thirty yards away now, and
Wait.
he could see the great, dead black eyes of the beast, with fist-sized canines dripping with ravenous saliva, ready to
Wait.
gore him into a lifeless state, serving as merely a midnight snack. The wolf was no more then fifteen feet when Storm hopped hard to his right, pointing the dagger and firing a focused blast of current into the harness of the wolf, who stopped with a horrible high-pitched yelping sound, rolling over his right shoulder away from the wizard, tumbling over the demon rider in his track.
With absolutely no hesitation, Storm propelled himself forward to the felled rider, using an electromagnetic pulse beneath his shoes to rocket ahead with horrific speed. The supine rider flailed wildly at his own terribly broken left leg, not noticing his assailant before a dagger carved a deep ravine across his exposed throat. Black blood spurted and poured immediately, Storm turning his attention to the rising wolf again behind him while two terrible demons charged forward, now more angry and resolute than ever.
Come and get it, you filthy sons of bitches.
The demon on the right was truly horrific, at nearly eight feet tall and bony protrusions emerging from his shoulders like spiked pauldrons. There was no metal on this one, nothing to target or rip. It didn’t matter; the mage needed a moment or two to recover his own wicked powers.
The demon’s face looked black and dead, no details available behind a large mask of bone that seemed to come from the head of a massive bear. His speed was incredible, and Storm was unable to formulate a plan before a simply enormous black axe whistled through the night air from the looming goliath, a horizontal slash that left Storm immediately leaping and out of control.
Shit shit shit shit shit
A great, terrible laugh boomed as the demon pivoted and swung the axe broad side at Storm, the hard surface batting him through the air like a child’s ball. He crashed incredibly hard into the ground, rolling away and finding himself in front of both remaining soldiers, with the wolf behind them. The tantalizing metal collar beckoned, but it was too far back for him to make any use of. He scrambled to his hands and knees as the two demon soldiers marched toward him.
What do we have here, little fella?
The smaller demon wore a large, tightly-woven metal chain mail! Storm could barely control his excitement as he saw it, and lifted his left hand in the direction of the smaller demon, taking hold of the mail from ten yards back. An exasperated glare overwhelmed the face of the terrible, snarling monstrosity as Veritas lifted him from the ground, creating a puppet on strings. Like a focused fisherman, he then snapped his hands to the left, casting the mail (and the body within) at the larger demon, their bodies smacking with a terrible, vicious crack. A leg of the smaller fellow had come clean off from the impact, and the bone armor and body of the massive demon were similarly shattered. Two heaps, pouring a deep burgundy vileness upon the plains, fluid seeping into the ancient Alerarian cracks.
The wolf.
The wolf was barking ferociously following this terrible display, and Storm had to buy time with pomp and a showcase of his own power. He stood as tall as he could as the terrifying mount walked to the wreckage, sniffing at the bodies collected on the ground with some combination of anger, fear, and confusion. Veritas loomed close, his right hand pointing the dagger at the animal, knowing full well it would be useless if it tried to pounce before he had recovered.
“Settle. Settle. Settle.” His words were likely useless to the wolf, which had its lips curled back awfully from its long, savage teeth. The wolf was unimpressed, and began to circle laterally about its next piece of prey.
A second gift from the gods arrived as the wizard quickly felt his energy pulsing through his fingers. He couldn’t explain away the quick recovery, but it was never more needed. His body was beginning to ache from the terrible axe battering he recently caught, but it also surged with power once again. Smiling, he was more than willing to take the good with the bad.
“Down!” His command was joined with him manipulating the massive collar, driving it to the ground with a thud. With it went the wolf, who was now pinned down despite his struggles. Storm circled the beast, which snarled and snapped with a brutal futility, before hopping up on his back into the harness, which he was far too small to fill completely. He -slowly- relaxed his control on the collar as the wolf rose, holding on desperately as he tried to turn and rip and shred the rider. Hind legs kicked and flailed, striking the old adventurer and reminding him of the torrid headache that a night full of bad decisions had wrought.
Gods, no…
The wolf gave a magnificent fight, thrashing and snapping and snarling. With each turn, Storm rocked in the saddle, pushing away the head with a sharp pulse of magnetic energy, hurting but not wounding the wolf. The idea of pushing a dagger into the back of the terrible thing’s head was not lost on the wizard. With each electromagnetic push upon the collar, the wolf eventually became more reticent to flip back and bite.
Within an eternal minute or two of battling, the wolf had ceased trying to eat his rider, and Storm Veritas had dramatically upgraded his own means for scouring the plains. Storm was sweating, cold, and pallid, an exhausted wraith of a man barely hanging onto his bearings. Sitting taller in the saddle of his now minimally tamed mount, he wiped his face try and looked to his flanks, both camps on either side of him now stirring with increased motion.
Now was not the time to succumb to his exhaustion, or bemoan his alcohol fueled dehydration and malaise. Once more, the warrior in him had to rise.
The tides were turning.
Storm treated himself momentarily to a deep breath, and another, and another. He took a long pull from his skein, emptying what water he had left. The next encampment was stirring, this one without a large and abominable wolf to parade them into combat. They were running, the little one in front blowing a large horn of twisted bone.
Good, you fucker. Blow that horn and get all of you flaming assholes up. Come and get it, time to ring the dinner bell.
A long, terrible trumpeting noise reverberated far and wide across the plains, and Storm’s good fortune once again dawned on him. Had this been the first demon to spot him, he’d have been caught without a mount, and no dwarves behind him to fire. He’d have just died here and now, a fool that decided to dance with demons.
And if the queen had balls, she’d be king.
He sneered again at the sexist joke, kicking with joy at the ribs of his foul new ride. The wolf yelped with anger before charging ahead, and the mage tugged on the large chain that was bolted to the thick collar. Dutifully, easily, the wolf turned smoothly as he ran. The speed of the great beast was breathtaking, and Storm quickly learned to lean into the turn as he steered the monster around the upcoming camp. This wolf was so quick, so nimble, and so powerful that Veritas found himself toying with the camp of foot soldiers, who threw rocks and hurled a large axe as they futilely gave chase.
“Come on! Pick it up!” He taunted the demons as he charged at another camp, picking up more trailing demons along the way. It wasn’t until his fifth rocky outcropping that he found another wolf, and he sagely gave it a wide berth as he continued forward towards where the stars indicated southeast should be.
He offered a few quick, weak bursts of lightning to camps that lacked sufficient vitriole on his ride, growing a sizable following of enraged, snarling demons perhaps two hundred deep within a few miles.
Finally, mercifully, a massive army of demons on the march appeared on the horizon. There were large, rhinocerous sized mounts, hundreds of wolves, and thousands of small fires packed densely around a towering gate, a portal of black and purple that was surrounded by thick stone. Storm turned towards the right edge of the huge encampment, mindful of the smaller pack he had assembled behind him. His mind quickly lusted for the horn, when two or three quick trumpets greeted his convoy. The lookouts had spotted him riding in.
Even better.
Another significant hole in his cunning plan was exposed as a battalion of demon archers marched to the front line. They only took a few minutes of obviously trained maneuvering to form three long lines packed taut, a trumpet burst followed by a sky-filling swarm of fire.
Metal tips. Really fucking need some metal tips on these arrows right now.
Holding his right hand aloft as he clutched desperately to the wolf’s chain, Storm emanated a large burst of repulsive force to an area above him. The gods had favored him once more, as the smattering of arrows due to impale him and the wolf largely changed course as if deflected by an invisible barrier. Two arrows softly struck the wolf in the haunch, generating a painful and annoyed yelp.
“Sorry buddy. We’ll show them.”
Lilting forward once more, Storm Veritas fired a powerful bolt of lightning directly at the gate. Towering over one hundred feet tall and standing forty feet wide, the gate was truly tremendous in size, easily offering quick passage for all these vile cretins. The wizard relished in the idea of destroying it.
From this distance – perhaps a full half mile – the magical portal absorbed the energy and redirected it outward, shattering several pieces of stone in a thunderous explosion that showered the mass of demons below with shrapnel, causing an uproar of protestations among the enormous camp. Without wasting another moment, Storm and his new steed pivoted northwards, running away to the gargantuan horde of enraged demons.
A hellacious blast of trebuchet fire exploded just behind him, a sound which was chilling and familiar. The large pack of demons that were once chasing were running now, prey in the foreground of the tremendous dwarven army.
Although he had been in battle multiple times, Storm Veritas had likely never felt the “fog of war” more clearly. The taste of acrid soot filled his mouth as his relentless wolf drove, an ensemble of explosions, screams, groans, and howls were scattered beneath the undercurrent sounds of his wolf charging and his own heart racing within his chest.
Hang on. Just hang on. Get them closer, get the gate in the crossfire.
His head throbbed and felt heavy as his body moaned atop the fur covered vehicle. Sweat continued to pour as he weaved between charging demons, summoning whatever energy he could to scatter lightning across the battlefield. The dwarven army had charged and was forging ahead, a long row of horses leading a charge, topped by hysterically dangerous little bearded warriors. The span between the wizard and the dwarves was closing quickly, and with demons hot on his heels, he was about to be in the mix of a hellacious crossfire.
The only entity in this entire goddamned universe that both armies definitively want to kill. Hell of a web you’ve woven, stupid.
Peeling hard to his right, the rider prayed his next gambit would work. He would try to ride to the outside of the two waves of horror about to crash into each other, skirting to safety as everyone was distracted by larger concerns opposed from them. It was impossible to miss the countless clashes of blades and armor behind him, the yielding flesh from both armies and the lives departed. The horror was terrifying, and drove the rider forward. The wolf was heaving now, a lurch from the chest as a long, black tongue curled grotesquely over finger-length teeth.
Fortune smiled upon him once more, as he found himself nearing the edge of the battlefield in spite of countless whistling arrows and crashing projectiles. The horde of demons had closed the gap now, the battlefield a completely helter-skelter warzone. Swords met great axes, metal cleaved flesh and bone. Demons howled and dwarves screamed as death claimed its endless count of bodies around them.
Body aching, wolf gasping, head ringing, the electromancer was fixated on an open span of plains ahead, charging violently toward breathing room and a chance to escape the all out madness.
He was ten yards from temporary sanctuary when he felt the arrow pierce him, ending his journey here and now.
In fact there were two arrows, one hitting the wizard above his right knee, the other puncturing the wolf somewhere around his ribs. The beast fell to a slide on his own right side, sending Storm Veritas sailing off in a terrible skidding role, body battered and beaten. A second terrible scream of pain roared from his leg as he felt the arrow snap, leaving four or five inches of thick wood protruding from his lower thigh as he slid to a stop. Immediately, he was forced to roll as a familiar black axe came smashing down towards his head.
Fast. Be fast.
Without hesitation, he conjured a small plume of magnetic energy at his feet, sending him backwards some ten yards roughly, every nook and cranny about his body howling for the sweet release of death. His head rolled as he struggled to focus, cold sweat dripping from his hair and obscuring his vision as a single massive demon approached menacingly.
Shit. Bad draw.
Great lower fangs extended up a full inch from the lower jaw of this nine-foot hulking goliath, a scarlet-skinned nightmare which seemed the visage of evil itself. His barrel chest was littered with long, serpentine scars; a could-be map of countless battles apparently won. His eyes glowed black, an awful image that would be seared in Storm’s brain long after he was freed from the Tular Plains or mortal plane. A long, saw-like bone sword hung from his hand like a carving knife, and he strode forward upon thick legs with confidence and decisiveness. Storm raised a dagger in defense, and the monster effortlessly batted it away with a single swipe. The blade bounced away harmlessly, and Veritas found himself unable to conjure the energy required to recall it. With his barrage of magic, he was completely exhausted.
“Pride goeth before the fall”, as the saying goes, and the famous Serenti Champion no longer hung taut to foolish pride. He flopped lifelessly to his left as the blade came by, narrowly averting bisection. The bone sword crashed and shattered the ground, and was dragged from the rocky soil in his direction, quickly slashing across his chest and shoulder, a foot-long wound that felt to cut clean through his torso. Flailing backwards, Storm felt the pain in his leg once more as he landed on his side, the arrowhead twisting and tearing through the flesh on his right leg as the shaft struck the ground. He kicked himself back once more, retreating into gods-knew-where.
Undeterred, the great vile monster made two strides forward again, closing the gap between them effortlessly. He hoisted the sword high overhead between both hands quickly as a snift-crack sound whispered through the air, cutting above the countless bedlam noises.
A perfectly placed arrow had struck the demon in the side of the head, sailing clean through behind the eyes and into the brain. The left eye pulsed out of the dead skull and the goliath fell, his own bone sword crashing down to the ground. Storm slid desperately to his dagger as he spun his head to the direction of the arrow.
Charging at him now atop a familiar auburn horse was a fierce elven warrior with a shock of wild silver hair.
“Cazri!?”
Whether it was delusion, hallucination, or concussion, the wizard neither knew nor cared. Cazri was riding dead ahead at him, a horse strikingly similar to the one he had dismissed pulling her forward. In the mayhem, she mouthed something as she leaned from the saddle, reaching for him with an outstretched hand. He discerned exactly zero of her words.
Fuck it; let’s go!
Despite horrible protestations from his injured leg, the magician took her forearm and leapt up upon the charging horse. He was dangerously close from sliding off the large muscular ass of the tremendous stallion, but clutched desperately to the waist of his elven savior, his head still buzzing and a ringing sound in his ears. With his ear pressed to her back, he could essentially feel her words through vibrations in her lungs.
“The hell have you done!? I didn’t know their plans, but they beat the hell out of inciting armageddon! And you stole MY gods-damned horse!” She moved forward hard towards the demons, using her elbow to create space between her and the wizard. “Turn around, back to back! Cover our flanks and earn your goddamned keep!”
His body still felt weak, but she had made a cogent point. He struggled to sit up, bleeding from the leg and chest while his ribs, back, and shoulder moaned from obvious injury. His head spun even more now, his peripheral vision cloudy and field of view narrowed. Each bounce of the horse shot a fresh twinge of agony through his body; he wanted the moment to extract the arrowhead that of course was not afforded.
You’ll rest when your dead; your choice if that’s thirty seconds from now or thirty years.
Clenching his teeth, the electromancer exhaled deeply, his eyes watering from the pain of it all. For his physical weakness, he could feel his magical prowess returning with a great fury, pulsing through his hands now and rife with power, like the flicker of light before the burst of a bulb. He turned his torso to reach around Cazri, holding her torso as he struggled to turn atop the horse. In fifteen or so strides he had managed the feet, still clutching to her waist for dear life until he could hook his feet with hers. Leaning back, he could squeeze into the back of the saddle while clinging to her, stable enough to sit up and lay down fire.
“Not a lot of lead left in the fucking pencil over here. Get us out of here, for the love of gods.”
Cazri drove the horse ahead, and Storm could feel her torso torque as she moved to fire her bow twice more. She didn’t respond aloud to him, opting instead to pull the horse further right, back into the fray.
Behind her, Storm was moving his head to the left and right, finding a charging wolf with demon rider atop. He could see the demon using power steering – a short sword was lodged into each side of the wolf’s neck, and by pulling on either blade he could direct the beast to turn its heading. The beast yelped terribly, and the wizard afforded mercy. A singular, awful blast of white hatred spewed from his free hand instinctively, striking the burgundy monstrosity square in the chest and sending him rocketing backwards into the air. One hand and arm still clung to the sword of the rapidly stopping wolf, smoke pouring upwards from the break point.
Holy shit. We’re some kind of juiced, baby.
Cazri didn’t so much as turn her head to acknowledge this; she instead chose to deftly maneuver the amazing horse around a battlefield of absolute chaos. Explosions rocketed about them, arrows sailed around, and they sailed around advancing nightmares left and right. One of the larger rhinocerous-like mounts was less than fifty yards before them when it was struck broadside by a massive, flaming arrow, a scorpion bolt as long as a man that sailed clean through, pouring bile and blood from both sides of the enormous beast as it groaned a final roar, thundering to the ground with a crash.
“Where are we going? Get the fuck out!”
Cazri charged, undeterred. She continued to switch from grasping reins to firing arrows, pulling shots from a quiver mounted to the horse’s mane, acting with amazing speed and precision. Her overall attitude was guided towards a singular target.
Cazri was racing towards the massive, stony gate.
Despite his fatigue, pure adrenaline drove the wizard to defend the horse from oncoming attack. The sweat still dripped from his face; the headache still rolled in the back of his brain, but the pain from his leg had steadied to a dull, terrible ache; each stride was no longer a fresh shot of pain. Moreover, his stamina had come surging back in relentless fashion; he was a living vessel of magic energy unlike anything he’d enjoyed in his life.
Not paying attention to their terrible destination, Storm focused instead on pure preservation. Blast after blast of lightning lit the plains here deep in the night, sending packs of demons and dwarves alike spiraling away in rivulets of blood and char and horror. A few of the wolf riders were dismounted summarily; one of the large, armored, rhinocerous looking things was bewildered by a burst of electricity and turned off course, shaking its rider and stomping him to death underfoot.
There was no time for the magician to enjoy his fortune, as the assault about them was relentless. Volleys of arrows were consistently and rapidly deflected with his magnetic fields; his senses sharpened as his vision was clear again, the sounds of approaching envoys becoming more clear, and the scents of sour sulfurous air, smoke and death even permeated through the fog. He could feel the cool sting of the air again on his skin as he scanned the battlefield and fired left and right.
“Good riding. Steady as you can, I can keep them off for a bit more; just watch for the big shit.” His crude reference to the oversized arrows and catapult fire may have even a small laugh from the beautiful elven rider, although her focus remained forward and resolute.
The demons and dwarves were warring horribly, killing each other in hundreds of small and bloody skirmishes. Creaking war machines were torn asunder by large wolves of hell, while other vehicles fired horrible death upon overwhelmed demons. The plains were being overwhelmed with thick black smoke and fire, the surfaces stained terribly with blood and bile. Explosions continued to rock the slate ground, a tinging noise always followed now, quickly replaced by a groan of death or morbid energy.
Storm scanned to his left and right, breathing for a moment as his hand glowed white, waiting and ready for another torrential blast. The tandem rode a brief respite forward, as all of those chasing them were preoccupied in the myriad opportunities to die.
Good; keep on killing each other. Pay no attention to the horse that’s going to bring it all down.
“Gods, no! Now, Storm, now! Hurry!” Cazri skidded her horse to a halt, sending their bodies together as she neared the looming stone archway surrounding the portal that was the Demon Gate.
In the unknowable distance, Storm could see it. Time was fast running out; hell was coming for them all.
The horrors of the battlefield could not prepare him for what was charging at them from the swirling blackness behind the gate. As demons approached, it was common to see their form emerge before stepping through the portal, generally their details discernable through a dark cloud or mist. This time, the portal appeared altogether empty, with the exception of a lone rider rolling forward towards the end of days.
Even the experienced and traveled wizard’s mind ran blank at the sight before him.
Holy shit. Holy shit..
Indeed, the rider was the lord of the demons himself, never seen but known in all whispers. “Diablo”, “Satan”, “Lucifer”, “Beelzebub”, “Mephisto”, and “Hades” were all names bandied about in different tales told over cold drinks by irrational drinkers, and every single one of them were wrong. What charged here was altogether different.
The sheer enormity of the rider was enough to weaken the knees of the magician as he dismounted, slowly stepping from the horse and taking a few steps in the direction of the gate. The rider was visible from his mount up, and from his hips to his head seemed to be twenty feet as best Storm could surmise. Beneath him, a charging lion carried, his fur replaced with fire, a brightly glowing orange that contrasted sharply from the void of black. The mane of hellfire shrouded the Demon Lord’s legs, but did nothing to hide the impossibly thick and seemingly endlessly muscled torso. His black body wore no armor, but appeared entirely unharmed, with unmanageable piles of thick mass stacked perfectly as though chiseled from obsidian. His shoulders sloped sharply to his head, his neck obscured by enormous trapezius muscle. His face was obscured by an ornate, ghoulish helmet, a face of horror carved before a ring of fire. Behind the mask, the glow of orange suggested the terrible thing was actually one of flame.
The Demon Lord clutched a chain of lava to serve as reins in his left hand, and hoisted the large, glowing sword that the Crown had mentioned in their initial foray. The weapon was a two-handed claymore in the hands of a man larger than Storm; to the Demon Lord it appeared no more than a dagger.
Aside him, Storm noticed demons stopping to kneel before the portal. Wolves would stop to lower their heads, disengaging from combat. A few were slain by Machiavellian dwarves, but more of the dwarves simply stopped to gaze at the marvel of misery that rode towards them. Catapult fire was now bouncing off the perimeter of the gate; flecks of stone chipped and fell, but the portal remained seemingly untouched.
“Fire! Fire already, gods!” Cazri was exasperated.
Absent mindedly, Storm used a tiny pulse to pull the arrowhead from his thigh at last, a roaring wave of pain awakening him from the fear-induced stupor. A small flicker of blue-white light sizzled across his upper leg as he cauterized the wound without thought. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t even thinking now. His body had taken control of his train of thought. Grimacing, he set his feet wide in a deep squat holding both of his arms to the skies above.
Nothing gets left on the table. Clear the deck. It all ends here.
One of the most magnificent journeys of Althanian legend was set to end. Partnerships, friendships; love and loss laid bare. Championship glory, mythical wealth and fame set to blaze. Storm conjured every singular ounce of magical energy that his soul could generate, his entire body humming a dull tone and pulsing bright white as lightning flew from the skies to his body. The charging lion paid no heed, barreling ahead towards the gate with avarice.
A sizzle-crack, and a thunderous boom. A pillar of pure white twisting and exploding upon the gate. Storm Veritas fell lifeless to the ground.
There was silence.
Soft, warm light woke him as he floated, drifting in air on what felt ethereal. Fortunately for the traveler, he knew himself not to be in the afterlife, but rather being carried across the Tular Plains. The rancid odor of sulfur overwhelmed him, snapping him from a pleasant rest. He struggled to open his eyes, the sun now high above them, and noticed he was being carried in netting that was very comfortable, almost a hammock. His mouth was horribly dry, tongue feeling coated with stone dust. His entire body ached terribly, a countless barrage of sharp pains screaming for attention from all of his extremities. In front of him, a large, lithe, athletic figure was marching, ebony skin shining in the sun as he silently strode ahead.
Elf?
Indeed, the dark elves were moving him. Was he assumed a co-conspirator with the dwarves? Being carried off to execution? The possibilities flooded his brain as he attempted to gather information. To his left, debris and wreckage; plumes of soot-heavy smoke twisting harmlessly to the skies. To his right, another elf, this one very familiar.
“Cazri!” His voice was weak, his attempt to call out muffled as though through a thick mask. Her eyes caught whomever or whatever was carrying the back end of the hammock, and returned to the wizard with a very telling shut up don’t say a word type of gaze. Fatigue hung over her like a veil; she, too looked dusty and battered, but could walk.
“Rest, human. You’re lucky to be alive. You’ll have answers to provide at camp.” The carrying elf marched ahead, speaking in a baritone voice that lacked empathy.
Saddened, confused, and still very much aching, Storm felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. Perhaps the complete ringer of fear and regret he had just endured simply broke his spirit. Perhaps the embrace of death, followed by survival, and now near-certain death, was the end of the road.
You’re alone. We saved the gods-damned world, and now I’m being carried off for slaughter.
Silently the electromancer suffered, his body screaming and spirit broken. He prayed to the gods his parents had once taught him of, long before the gifted mage had been blessed with talents that rendered the gods typically unnecessary. At some point in the silent march his body yielded once more, plunging him into a deep slumber that offered him very needed rest.
“Good, you’re awake. Here, sip slowly and listen, don’t talk.”
Cazri, the beautiful dark elf, sat at the flank of his bed. She laid a small tray of chicken broth at his side table, steam pouring ever so faintly as she offered him the first spoonful. She whispered with her deep, sultry voice, her gorgeous appearance marred by a litany of bandages and myriad stitches, scrapes, and salves. It was good to see her clean again; the sexy glow of her dark skin surprisingly healthy with all conditions and considerations in play. Storm didn’t remember her being so ravaged from the carry here, but then most of the details felt fuzzy.
“Forget what you think happened. Don’t say anything to anyone until our story is etched in stone together if you want to survive.” She smiled as she leaned over him, gently brushing his cheek as a lover would. They were in a burlap-wrapped tent, and from the metal trays and instruments about him, it was a mobile hospital of some sort.
“We wanted to take the sword. You were paid a handsome bounty by the Radasanthian Council to retrieve the sword from the Demon Gate, and I was your liaison. Together, we marched with Emi, Leoric, Elite Optic, and Sorian towards the gate, but were met with countless demon bands, that separated us all.”
Her whispering was broken by a kiss on his forehead, as a tall Ettermirian soldier came to check on Storm’s bandages. One check on a bandage about his head, the affirmation that he had received broth. A shake of his left leg that responded with a horrible yelp, the splinted leg obviously broken in an injury from which Storm had literally no recollection. A temperature check and assessment of his eyes. With all the pleasantries of a crocodile, the elf turned and left the bed, pushing through a hanging strap of leather that separated each mobile bed area.
Quite the welcome wagon. Gods.
Cazri was unfazed, opting to continue to whisper to Storm.
“Sorian and Elite were some of the lucky ones, best I can tell. I was told they cut through the entire eastern front of the demons, with Elite using a mystical helmet to overwhelm and dominate the demons. It was destroyed in battle, but both survived. They boarded the large boat that you all arrived in, leaving behind the smaller vessel for you when you clear your name.”
Sons of bitches!
“We were caught in a terrible crossfire; dwarves from the north, and demons returning from their march to Ettermire and Etherea on the other side of the gate. A terrible battle, with virtually no survivors. We were both buried alive in the rubble of the great demon gate, felled by the mighty war machines of the dwarven soldiers.
“Had they not so bravely sacrificed themselves, we’d surely have been torn apart by those savage demons. Sadly, virtually all the dwarves, and every single one of their war machines were destroyed in the battle. The elves rode north hard and fast to pinch in the remaining demons, driving whatever dwarves remained back north to the mountains.”
What?
Puzzled, Storm glared at the elven guide, pleading with her to tell the truth of what happened out there. His head throbbed terribly, a familiar pain. How long had he been enduring the concussion? What had actually happened on the battlefield? How much of this was delusion and dream, and how much was reality?
“Cazri, what the hell are you talking about?” His dilated pupils suggested a terrible injury, one that doctors would later explain to him could very well create severe hallucinations as the brain tried to heal. Still, hallucination would better explain the incredible luck, the wild visions, and the untold power he had never before experienced.
Her eyes softened, looking at him with what appeared to be either sadness or pity. Brushing his hair behind the bandaging, she spoke again in low tones.
“I’ve already told you what happened. You were brave, and we were lucky. But this is the tale I will tell anyone that will ever ask me. With no other survivors following the fall of the Demon Gate, there simply is no other truth beyond the babbling, selfish hysterics of a brain damaged old wizard. One who would suggest I could betray the elves, which is of course objectively absurd. A wounded old man who would claim he single handedly saved the world. Best of luck with your tale, my friend.”
With another kiss on the forehead, Cazri rose and left the tent. Pulling at a seam of leather by his head that marked the tent wall, Storm watched her mount a beautiful little auburn horse and ride away. As he released the fabric, a terrible ache resonated from his right thigh, where matted blood was pushing through the cotton bandages that he hadn’t noticed. A second bandage covered his otherwise bare flesh, a long ruddy color staining the clean white cloth.
The wizard Storm Veritas had not claimed the sword. He was isolated now, with a spectacular story that no one could corroborate. No money, no friends, and no path.
He had saved the world, and things had never looked worse.
Judgment: Storm Veritas
Congratulations on getting to the Final’s of the 2021-2022 Adventurers Crown! I am excited to read your submission and compare it with your peers in this solo based round. If you have any questions, concerns, or would like to reach out to me please feel free to do so!
Plot - 21The overall plot of the thread was solid. It made sense and flowed well. I think the highlight was the pacing you set, which was very smooth. I chose this as the highlight of the overall writing for this section because of the instant ability to follow your combat based posts. It is rare that back and forth action flows so well. The overall setting was relatively well done as well.
Character - 23You have a knack for understanding Storm’s character and writing it fluidly. There are certain characterizations that come through with your narrative that work very well. Additionally, the dialogue that he has is fitting - though at times comes off as a little cliche, but kinda fits the character.
Prose - 23There were a few errors here and there with sentence structure, tense agreement, and general misspelling. The posts were very clear and easy to read. The only negative I have for this is that the writing felt a little flat and matter-of-fact. There were certainly portions of the writing that were given life, but at times it felt toneless.
Wild Card - 10
Score: 77
Rewards
5365 exp | 2700 gold
Exp and GP added.
As discussed, the following item has been awarded. You can rename it, but if you would like to change the properties, please let me know for review:
Demonic Mount Trinket: Storm was able to keep a memento ((you can decide the object)) from his interaction with the demonic mount. With it, he can summon the creature to him once a day or once a battle. It will remain with him for up to 10 hours, unless it is destroyed during combat. If slain during its summoning, the creature cannot be summoned for a full day. The demonic mount is X feet tall by X feet long, weighing X pounds and can run at a speed of 30-40 mph.