Post by Leonida on Jun 5, 2023 8:13:11 GMT
What Leonida saw in Enlace was a fucking mess.
The soldiers are at abysmal morale after months of losing numbers to the Vazroques’ onslaughts, whilst getting no help from the locals.
The Crystal is no closer to being healed since the last time she saw it.
Mary the Revenant thinks the Vazroques will soon gain control over the Crystal. They’d be able to teleport all over the fucking continent. As if they weren’t hard enough to find already.
And yet. Her idiot colleagues would rather waste time focusing on a vapid love triangle between themselves and Ziha Tozotro. A Keeper of the Crystal, whose emotional state is tied with the Crystal’s stability.
Leonida knew they were all fucked even before that damned cretin demonspawn assaulted Ziha.
The ritual to heal the Crystal was postponed for another day. It’s on the brink of fucking fracture.
At least the air-wasters, the terrible excuses for adventurers she came with today, had the decency to look ashamed.
These can’t be the same people who repelled invasions from Avernus and the fucking gith.
She stormed off back to Port Ffirst in seething silence, thinking that, once again, she has to take things into her own hands. What she’s always been taught rings true once again: never rely on others to get what you want.
“Welcome back, young mistress. We have been awaiting your return.”
Leonida is surprised to see the figure standing on the porch of the dark, abandoned townhouse. An older tiefling gent wearing an impeccably crisp black suit and a solemn expression on his statuesque features.
“Henricus,” she greets him back. “Seer saw me coming?”
“They did, young mistress.”
“Guessing they know what I’m here for, too.”
“Indeed, young mistress.”
“Good. I don’t gotta explain myself then.”
She brushes past him to step into the house and heads straight for the stairs. He turns around to follow her, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. The quiet rhythm of his footsteps on the creaking stairs is immediately in sync with hers.
“Young mistress, if I may…”
“What is it.”
“The master thinks that there is prudence in not rushing to make decisions you may regret later, and I’m afraid I share his opinion on the matter.”
“Your opinion has been noted, Henricus.”
He says nothing more. A good servant knows when to hold his tongue.
When they walk towards the master bedroom, the door is already slightly ajar, flickering candlelight from within creating shadows on the carpeted floor of the corridor — the only source of light in the whole house, apart from the moonlight filtering in through the large stained glass windows. Leonida stops in front of the door, not bothering to knock. He already knows she’s there.
“Your impatience will be the death of you, my child,” a thin voice rasps from inside the room.
“I know what I’m doing, Father. I know the risks. But if I can hasten my Awakening, I’ll—”
“You’ll die.”
The shadows on the floor shift and morph as the word echoes through the halls of the old, empty, lifeless house.
Leonida inhales sharply. She must stand her ground. “I live. I die. I live again. That is what the Seer and you yourself have told me.”
“And what if you fail to return, my daughter? You’re too important, I cannot allow—”
“That’s not your call to make.” Subconsciously, she has begun to grind her teeth. “I’m sorry. I respect your wisdom, Father, but I know what I’m doing. It is what I want. Please, call the others here. I want it done, and I want it done tonight.”
A dead silence follows. And then, a final, weaker rasp from behind the door:
“As you wish. My precious girl.”
Within the unlit, dusty parlour, its once-lustrous furniture covered almost permanently with white sheets, they have gathered. They stand in a circle around Leonida.
“Agamemnon, Bojan, Anissa, Persephone, Donaar, Henricus, Seer,” she greets each of them. “Thank you for coming here tonight.”
The large, muscular minotaur in the golden masked battle-helm nods in reply. The red dragonborn wearing the five-headed amulet of Tiamat stares wordlessly at Leonida, scepticism glinting in their yellow reptilian eyes. The human in well-oiled leather armour has an eyebrow arched, whilst the aerotaur archer has an unreadable expression on her face.
“I cannot see what lies ahead in this path.”
Leonida turns to the speaker, a hunched-over figure dressed in black robes that hang from their bony shoulders, their face hidden behind a matching black veil.
“The current thread of your fate is being spun into conflicting tales,” they say. “You may come back to us, you may not. Know that there is no harm in waiting for your destiny…”
“Zariel favours the bold, not those who lie in wait,” Leonida declares to the room. “I have faith. I have faith the Fallen One will recognise what I’m striving for and Awaken my true self.”
The Seer, sensing no further recourse, bows their head reverently. “As you wish.”
She gives a curt nod back at them, then looks at the circle around them, her fiery gaze smouldering as it moves from person to person. She takes a deep, long breath.
No time better than the present.
“Let’s begin, then.”
It is Bojan who steps forward first, the lowest ranked in the group. The half-ogre half-man grips a coarse-looking machete in a meaty hand, and he glances between it and Leonida with uncertainty written all over his face.
“Don’t think about it. Just do it,” she commands.
He mumbles something in assent. She does not move when he shoves the machete through her exposed stomach with a single, strong motion, the chipped blade protruding out of her back.
One.
The pain rips through her whole body, and the blood fills up her throat faster than she expected. She wobbles, but keeps herself standing through sheer will. Bojan lets go of the machete and steps away.
Anissa comes forth next, sleek rapier in hand. “Hang in there, hun,” she says.
It hurts less than the machete initially, but the pain lasts longer, setting all of Leonida’s nerve endings on fire. The thin blade must have skewered a kidney or something. She couldn’t keep her groans down any longer.
Two.
She spits blood onto the floor as she doubles over. Her breathing has become laboured and wheezing, yet still, she looks up at the rest with glaring determination. “Don’t stop now!”
Gone, gone, gone to the other shore…
Henricus draws a stiletto dagger from his sleeve and nods to his fellow cultists, as if to give permission, before walking calmly towards her. Each of them follow dutifully.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Leonida is on all fours on the ground. The blood seeping from the stab wounds and pouring in a thin, continuous line out of her mouth pool on the woodboards. She can feel all 8 blades inside her body move around in her flesh as her chest heaves in and out with each struggling breath, growing weaker and weaker by the second with blood flowing into and flooding her lungs. She feels heavy. Her vision is clouded almost entirely by black and red spots, and the only sight she can see now is a pair of old sabatons walking to a halt in front of her.
Gone, gone, gone to the other shore…
“Go to the other shore, my child,” Sir Damien murmurs softly. She hears the telltale, long, scraping noise of a longsword slowly being drawn from its scabbard. “And come back to me.”
The sword is plunged between her shoulders and the tip of its blade pierces through her sternum to nail her to the floor.
Nine.
As Leonida’s final breath drifts out of her crimson-stained lips, her body going slack on the ground and the light departing from her wide-open eyes, the fingers on her left hand curl to form a tightened fist, like gripping a weapon.
Awakened on the other shore never having left.
The soldiers are at abysmal morale after months of losing numbers to the Vazroques’ onslaughts, whilst getting no help from the locals.
The Crystal is no closer to being healed since the last time she saw it.
Mary the Revenant thinks the Vazroques will soon gain control over the Crystal. They’d be able to teleport all over the fucking continent. As if they weren’t hard enough to find already.
And yet. Her idiot colleagues would rather waste time focusing on a vapid love triangle between themselves and Ziha Tozotro. A Keeper of the Crystal, whose emotional state is tied with the Crystal’s stability.
Leonida knew they were all fucked even before that damned cretin demonspawn assaulted Ziha.
The ritual to heal the Crystal was postponed for another day. It’s on the brink of fucking fracture.
At least the air-wasters, the terrible excuses for adventurers she came with today, had the decency to look ashamed.
These can’t be the same people who repelled invasions from Avernus and the fucking gith.
She stormed off back to Port Ffirst in seething silence, thinking that, once again, she has to take things into her own hands. What she’s always been taught rings true once again: never rely on others to get what you want.
“Welcome back, young mistress. We have been awaiting your return.”
Leonida is surprised to see the figure standing on the porch of the dark, abandoned townhouse. An older tiefling gent wearing an impeccably crisp black suit and a solemn expression on his statuesque features.
“Henricus,” she greets him back. “Seer saw me coming?”
“They did, young mistress.”
“Guessing they know what I’m here for, too.”
“Indeed, young mistress.”
“Good. I don’t gotta explain myself then.”
She brushes past him to step into the house and heads straight for the stairs. He turns around to follow her, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. The quiet rhythm of his footsteps on the creaking stairs is immediately in sync with hers.
“Young mistress, if I may…”
“What is it.”
“The master thinks that there is prudence in not rushing to make decisions you may regret later, and I’m afraid I share his opinion on the matter.”
“Your opinion has been noted, Henricus.”
He says nothing more. A good servant knows when to hold his tongue.
When they walk towards the master bedroom, the door is already slightly ajar, flickering candlelight from within creating shadows on the carpeted floor of the corridor — the only source of light in the whole house, apart from the moonlight filtering in through the large stained glass windows. Leonida stops in front of the door, not bothering to knock. He already knows she’s there.
“Your impatience will be the death of you, my child,” a thin voice rasps from inside the room.
“I know what I’m doing, Father. I know the risks. But if I can hasten my Awakening, I’ll—”
“You’ll die.”
The shadows on the floor shift and morph as the word echoes through the halls of the old, empty, lifeless house.
Leonida inhales sharply. She must stand her ground. “I live. I die. I live again. That is what the Seer and you yourself have told me.”
“And what if you fail to return, my daughter? You’re too important, I cannot allow—”
“That’s not your call to make.” Subconsciously, she has begun to grind her teeth. “I’m sorry. I respect your wisdom, Father, but I know what I’m doing. It is what I want. Please, call the others here. I want it done, and I want it done tonight.”
A dead silence follows. And then, a final, weaker rasp from behind the door:
“As you wish. My precious girl.”
Within the unlit, dusty parlour, its once-lustrous furniture covered almost permanently with white sheets, they have gathered. They stand in a circle around Leonida.
“Agamemnon, Bojan, Anissa, Persephone, Donaar, Henricus, Seer,” she greets each of them. “Thank you for coming here tonight.”
The large, muscular minotaur in the golden masked battle-helm nods in reply. The red dragonborn wearing the five-headed amulet of Tiamat stares wordlessly at Leonida, scepticism glinting in their yellow reptilian eyes. The human in well-oiled leather armour has an eyebrow arched, whilst the aerotaur archer has an unreadable expression on her face.
“I cannot see what lies ahead in this path.”
Leonida turns to the speaker, a hunched-over figure dressed in black robes that hang from their bony shoulders, their face hidden behind a matching black veil.
“The current thread of your fate is being spun into conflicting tales,” they say. “You may come back to us, you may not. Know that there is no harm in waiting for your destiny…”
“Zariel favours the bold, not those who lie in wait,” Leonida declares to the room. “I have faith. I have faith the Fallen One will recognise what I’m striving for and Awaken my true self.”
The Seer, sensing no further recourse, bows their head reverently. “As you wish.”
She gives a curt nod back at them, then looks at the circle around them, her fiery gaze smouldering as it moves from person to person. She takes a deep, long breath.
No time better than the present.
“Let’s begin, then.”
It is Bojan who steps forward first, the lowest ranked in the group. The half-ogre half-man grips a coarse-looking machete in a meaty hand, and he glances between it and Leonida with uncertainty written all over his face.
“Don’t think about it. Just do it,” she commands.
He mumbles something in assent. She does not move when he shoves the machete through her exposed stomach with a single, strong motion, the chipped blade protruding out of her back.
One.
The pain rips through her whole body, and the blood fills up her throat faster than she expected. She wobbles, but keeps herself standing through sheer will. Bojan lets go of the machete and steps away.
Anissa comes forth next, sleek rapier in hand. “Hang in there, hun,” she says.
It hurts less than the machete initially, but the pain lasts longer, setting all of Leonida’s nerve endings on fire. The thin blade must have skewered a kidney or something. She couldn’t keep her groans down any longer.
Two.
She spits blood onto the floor as she doubles over. Her breathing has become laboured and wheezing, yet still, she looks up at the rest with glaring determination. “Don’t stop now!”
Gone, gone, gone to the other shore…
Henricus draws a stiletto dagger from his sleeve and nods to his fellow cultists, as if to give permission, before walking calmly towards her. Each of them follow dutifully.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Leonida is on all fours on the ground. The blood seeping from the stab wounds and pouring in a thin, continuous line out of her mouth pool on the woodboards. She can feel all 8 blades inside her body move around in her flesh as her chest heaves in and out with each struggling breath, growing weaker and weaker by the second with blood flowing into and flooding her lungs. She feels heavy. Her vision is clouded almost entirely by black and red spots, and the only sight she can see now is a pair of old sabatons walking to a halt in front of her.
Gone, gone, gone to the other shore…
“Go to the other shore, my child,” Sir Damien murmurs softly. She hears the telltale, long, scraping noise of a longsword slowly being drawn from its scabbard. “And come back to me.”
The sword is plunged between her shoulders and the tip of its blade pierces through her sternum to nail her to the floor.
Nine.
As Leonida’s final breath drifts out of her crimson-stained lips, her body going slack on the ground and the light departing from her wide-open eyes, the fingers on her left hand curl to form a tightened fist, like gripping a weapon.
Awakened on the other shore never having left.