Chapter 131 - Two Blades and a Tail XII
“What do you think, Beck?” Zelos rubbed his temples and heaved a sigh as he spoke. His daughter and her friend had returned shortly after their initial departure to serve as bearers of bad news. Alfred had, one way or another, caught onto their plan. All four members of the Relic Hunters had demanded that the girls provide more details, but they had none to give. The scant bit of information that they managed to get out of them was effectively inconsequential.
“It isn’t ideal, but we’ll manage,” said the cat. “We just have to stall for time.”
The deadline was non-negotiable. The artifacts that Sylvia had installed in Alfred’s atheneum needed roughly three days to arm. Without a full charge, they would be incapable of deactivating the library’s defenses and laying its contents bare. As much as he wished otherwise, it was a necessary step. The bookcases were lined with not just historical accounts otherwise lost to time, but also a series of vials accessible by none but the head librarian himself.
“Archibald, do you think it’d be possible for you to install a large barrier around the citadel?” asked the priest.
“It isn’t impossible, but it’ll take more mana than we have as a group.”
“We’ll have to ask the others to pitch in,” muttered the hairless feline.
“I don’t know if we should. We’ll be in trouble if they don’t have enough to defend themselves,” said Zelos. “Every death makes him stronger.”
Those that died in Llystletein would have their souls harvested by Alfred. After infusing them with his power in life, he would distill them in death and convert them to ether, and store them in the vials that cluttered his shelves.
Beckard stretched out his arms and rested his face on top of them. “This would have been far easier with a warden among our ranks, but there’s not much that can be done. We’ll just have to play with the hand we were dealt.”
“You’re worrying too much,” Archibald scoffed. “My artifacts are far more effective than some fresh soul warden.”
“I hope so,” said Zelos.
Impure ether was frequently concocted outside the labyrinth’s confines. Alchemists and apothecaries would often craft it by concentrating their magic into a thick, viscous substance with incredible stability and a long shelf life. It could be consumed at any point to restore one’s mana or fed as fuel to all manners of magical devices. Automatic lamps, barrage wands, and castle-sized barriers were all customary applications employed most commonly by members of the upper class.
The pure ether crafted by the celestial was something else entirely. He used not mana in his process, but rather the source thereof. Each soul he captured was wrung of all its worth to generate a product capable of providing a temporary but substantial boost to one’s magical potential. With enough pure ether, the demigod would be able to challenge a true deity, just as how the paladins would be able to challenge him. Of course, such a miraculous drug was not one that could be produced with no consequence. The soul used as material would be destroyed in the process. And that therein lay the problem.
A soul that was erased was one that could no longer return to the cycle. The destruction of one’s essence was by no means a novel concept. Those that greatly bothered the pantheon’s members in life would have their puny existences obliterated in death and consigned to the great void beyond. Though Flux was dissatisfied by the behaviour, she often refrained from speaking out and allowed the various deities to do as they pleased, but only because they knew not to abuse their authority in excess. The average god would smite only three individuals once every hundred years. Some centuries would see more than others, and some divines proved more strict or petty, but even with the odd bit of fluctuation, the number of souls taken from the system typically hovered within acceptable parameters.
Alfred, however, blatantly ignored the unspoken limitations. He pillaged from the flow over a hundred souls a year, all to create the copious amount of true ether he would require to overpower Flitzegarde. That was why their goddess had commissioned them. She had warned them of his plans and asked that they be put to an end by way of the celestial’s premature demise.
“Rally everyone, me go.” With a grunt, the goblin pushed himself off the ground and hobbled over to the doorway. “Tell all fight or hide.”
Zelos grimaced. There were maybe ten others that would be able to join the fray. Most had been effectively crippled when even their racial class’ skills were taken, and those that weren’t were lacking in other areas. The Relic Hunters were the only group that had retained all necessary components, courtesy of their goddess’ advice.
The problem wasn’t so much a lack of power as it was its distribution. Each of the party’s members was powerful enough to stand their own, but they were four, and the horde was many. It was possible, likely even, that they would reach the limits of their stamina before the time was up, and it was unlikely that they would be able to guard the citadel on their own. It was far too extensive an area to cover, and there were no buildings large enough to house its whole population in the case of an emergency.
“I’ll get started on the barrier.” Archibald followed the goblin out the exit, stretching his half-mechanical neck with a click.
The only two men that remained stayed silent, each lost in his own thoughts.
“Be honest with me, Beck. Can we really make it? Three days is… a long, long time.”
The cat tapped his paw on his desk as he looked up from the page where he had scribbled his notes. “We’ll be fine. We can use the key to run and stall for time if we really have to. The problem… is keeping everyone else safe.”
Though he knew that Beckard’s judgement was often on point, Zelos wasn’t entirely confident in the priest’s assessment. It all depended on how willing the celestial was to bend his rules. If the lords he crafted were not out of the ordinary, then they would have little to no trouble repelling them, but he had recently learned, from a certain lyrkress’ experience, that the foxes could easily adjust them to their liking, and enlisting their aid was not a true violation of his parameters.
The concern was brought up earlier in the discussion, but the cat-sith had dismissed it on account of his belief in the goddess. Flux had warned them every time there was a notable threat to their mission, but she had yet to provide any revelations detailing the celestial’s assault.
“Have faith, old friend. Have faith.” Beck retrieved a large sack from one of his drawers and threw it across the room. “Take these, if you’re that worried.”
Looking inside the bag he caught, Zelos found three familiar charms, covered in symbols he recognized well, marks made by a people long past.
“Are these the ones from the Tav’garon Ruins?” he asked, his eyes wide. “I thought we used all of these when we fled the beacon.”
They were defensive wards, each of which was capable of negating a single blow, regardless of whether it came from a feral dog or the leviathan that guarded the entrance to the Beacon of the Sun. They had acquired fifteen during one of their adventures, but the majority had been expended, used in the long, grueling battles that their goddess had often commissioned.
“I haven’t had to use mine,” he said, with a small smile.
“Keep them,” Zelos tried to hand the bag back. “We split them four ways, Beck. It’s my own fault for using all of mine.”
The priest shook his head. “You’re free to do with them as you see fit. Maybe give one to that daughter of yours. Whatever gives you peace of mind.”
Zelos frowned, but slowly retracted his arm. “Thanks, Beck.” He tucked the bag inside his cloak and got up from his chair. “I’ll go help Archie. Shout if you need me, and the wind will carry it my way.”
“Of course, old friend.”
Zelos left the office as the cat got back to scribbling away. He walked down both flights of stairs, offered a quick prayer before the altar, and proceeded to follow Archibald’s tracks.
___
Claire yawned as she slowly rose from the bubble-covered log that had served as her bed. Her night had, unsurprisingly, been plagued with all the usual lucid dreams. She had gone from wandering around the manor to leveling her artifact mastery with the mysterious ghost to running from a giant lyrkress-eating lion, all in one night. Flux was the only thing missing from the formula, but her nonpresence came as no surprise. The goddess’ appearances had never exactly been consistent.
Rather than sleeping within the citadel’s confines, the bloodthief had returned to the safe zone that she had set up atop the floating prairie. She wasn’t confident in the authority skill’s ability to hold when exposed to a group of lords, but at the very least, its location was out of his line of fire. There was no telling what Alfred had meant when he said ‘tomorrow.’ If she were him, she would have launched her assault in the middle of the night, or perhaps even as the clock struck twelve; he had no reason to leave them any room to breathe.
“Get up.” She grabbed the bubble floating next to her and gave it a quick shake.
The fox within slowly opened her eyes and yawned, only to close them again shortly after. “Just five more minutes,” she said, with a stifled giggle.
“Make me wait that long, and I’ll take a bite out of Marcelle.”
“H-huh? Wait, no! You can’t do that! Don’t hurt Marc!”
“Marcelle.”
“Whatever!” Sylvia got to her feet and popped her bubble. “Wait… where’s Marc?”
“Marcelle.”
“Ughhhh! Claire! Stop being so nitpicky and answer the question!” The fox reached for the lyrkress’ ears, but her paws never reached them. She was slowly pushed further and further away by the finger pressed against her forehead.
“I don’t know where Marcelle went. She left before I woke up.”
“Oh…” Sylvia yawned. “Then I’m going back to sleep.”
“No you aren’t.” The lazy fairy was lifted by the cheeks and suspended in midair.
“The sun isn’t even up yet!”
“We’ll be too late if we wait until the sun is up.”
Having spent the previous night pondering the best possible approach, Claire had greeted the morning with a simple but effective plan of attack. Concerning herself with Sky Lagoon’s monsters would be a pointless endeavour. She had yet to kill the lord of the chains, but while its first kill bonus was enticing, she didn’t think that dealing with the obnoxious bird was worth the risk. It was too annoying, and it would maybe provide half a level at most. Adding further to Sky Lagoon’s list of demerits was how open it was. Fighting within the archipelago’s bounds meant having to watch her back at all times.
What she needed was a chokepoint, a tunnel through which she could funnel the monsters she fought, and it just so happened that Alfred had been kind enough to provide one. The spiraling corridor was the perfect spot. Any monster that wanted to travel from the marshy meadow to the citadel would have to pass through a relatively small door.
As tempted as she was to set up shop within the subaquatic tunnel, she knew better than to hole herself up. Borrok peak had already proven that fighting off an endless swarm was more tiring than it was worth the effort. She needed to be able to retreat at a moment’s notice, if anything went awry.
That was why she selected the area outside the lower entrance. In the case of an emergency, Mirewood Meadow was by far and away the safest place to be. The undergrowth provided plenty of cover, all of which could be easily exploited for the purposes of an escape. Even more important than the availability of its contingencies was the malleability of the soil. Unlike the beach, the dirt that made up the forest’s floor would hold its shape when she dug through it. It would take little effort for her to establish a network of underground tunnels, large enough to isolate whatever it was she wanted to drag underground and kill. The only condition was that she would have to arrive before the swarm.
Upon finally convincing the fox and navigating over to her destination, Claire found that she had been beaten to the punch, but not by the ancient demigod. The marshy meadow was filled to the brim with golems. The duck-shaped machines waddled to and fro with large piles of stone dragging behind them, while larger platypus-shaped models slaved away at the construction of a keep.
It was already half done; the outer wall was fully built and reinforced, and it was impossible to move between the two floors without passing through a newly constructed gate. Standing right in the middle of the construction site was a familiar pair of faces, one furry, and the other completely devoid of anything that even remotely resembled a hair.
She was noticed as soon as she exited the space between the beach and the marsh. Both craned their necks towards her, with one twisting his face into a hostile scowl and the other nodding his head.
“Hey guys!” Sylvia stood up on her hind legs and waved, but the friendly response was not returned.
Claire furrowed her brow as they got closer. Something was off. Archibald kept a hand near the quiver strapped to his wrist, and Beckard seemed tense and jumpy. His breathing was shallow, and his heart rate was high; she could hear it thumping even before she got close enough to see the solemn look on his face.
“Wow, you guys seem really on edge,” said Sylvia. “What happened?”
Archibald stepped forward and opened his mouth, but the cat raised a paw and silenced him. His magic circuits lit up and removed all the sound in their surroundings. Because he was furless, the conduits were visible beneath his skin, glowing with a vibrant orange light. Noise didn’t return until the light receded, after the dog-faced artificer stepped back into position.
“Sorry, he’s a little too worked up,” said the cat. His lips were twisted into a dark, grim frown. He took several deep breaths and clasped his hands together before raising his voice once more. “I take it the two of you have yet to hear the news?”
“What news?” asked Sylvia. “We were the ones that told you Alfred caught on!”
“No, not that.” Another deep breath. “It’s Zelos, your father. He went missing last night.”
Chapter 131 - Two Blades and a Tail XII
“What do you think, Beck?” Zelos rubbed his temples and heaved a sigh as he spoke. His daughter and her friend had returned shortly after their initial departure to serve as bearers of bad news. Alfred had, one way or another, caught onto their plan. All four members of the Relic Hunters had demanded that the girls provide more details, but they had none to give. The scant bit of information that they managed to get out of them was effectively inconsequential.
“It isn’t ideal, but we’ll manage,” said the cat. “We just have to stall for time.”
The deadline was non-negotiable. The artifacts that Sylvia had installed in Alfred’s atheneum needed roughly three days to arm. Without a full charge, they would be incapable of deactivating the library’s defenses and laying its contents bare. As much as he wished otherwise, it was a necessary step. The bookcases were lined with not just historical accounts otherwise lost to time, but also a series of vials accessible by none but the head librarian himself.
“Archibald, do you think it’d be possible for you to install a large barrier around the citadel?” asked the priest.
“It isn’t impossible, but it’ll take more mana than we have as a group.”
“We’ll have to ask the others to pitch in,” muttered the hairless feline.
“I don’t know if we should. We’ll be in trouble if they don’t have enough to defend themselves,” said Zelos. “Every death makes him stronger.”
Those that died in Llystletein would have their souls harvested by Alfred. After infusing them with his power in life, he would distill them in death and convert them to ether, and store them in the vials that cluttered his shelves.
Beckard stretched out his arms and rested his face on top of them. “This would have been far easier with a warden among our ranks, but there’s not much that can be done. We’ll just have to play with the hand we were dealt.”
“You’re worrying too much,” Archibald scoffed. “My artifacts are far more effective than some fresh soul warden.”
“I hope so,” said Zelos.
Impure ether was frequently concocted outside the labyrinth’s confines. Alchemists and apothecaries would often craft it by concentrating their magic into a thick, viscous substance with incredible stability and a long shelf life. It could be consumed at any point to restore one’s mana or fed as fuel to all manners of magical devices. Automatic lamps, barrage wands, and castle-sized barriers were all customary applications employed most commonly by members of the upper class.
The pure ether crafted by the celestial was something else entirely. He used not mana in his process, but rather the source thereof. Each soul he captured was wrung of all its worth to generate a product capable of providing a temporary but substantial boost to one’s magical potential. With enough pure ether, the demigod would be able to challenge a true deity, just as how the paladins would be able to challenge him. Of course, such a miraculous drug was not one that could be produced with no consequence. The soul used as material would be destroyed in the process. And that therein lay the problem.
A soul that was erased was one that could no longer return to the cycle. The destruction of one’s essence was by no means a novel concept. Those that greatly bothered the pantheon’s members in life would have their puny existences obliterated in death and consigned to the great void beyond. Though Flux was dissatisfied by the behaviour, she often refrained from speaking out and allowed the various deities to do as they pleased, but only because they knew not to abuse their authority in excess. The average god would smite only three individuals once every hundred years. Some centuries would see more than others, and some divines proved more strict or petty, but even with the odd bit of fluctuation, the number of souls taken from the system typically hovered within acceptable parameters.
Alfred, however, blatantly ignored the unspoken limitations. He pillaged from the flow over a hundred souls a year, all to create the copious amount of true ether he would require to overpower Flitzegarde. That was why their goddess had commissioned them. She had warned them of his plans and asked that they be put to an end by way of the celestial’s premature demise.
“Rally everyone, me go.” With a grunt, the goblin pushed himself off the ground and hobbled over to the doorway. “Tell all fight or hide.”
Zelos grimaced. There were maybe ten others that would be able to join the fray. Most had been effectively crippled when even their racial class’ skills were taken, and those that weren’t were lacking in other areas. The Relic Hunters were the only group that had retained all necessary components, courtesy of their goddess’ advice.
The problem wasn’t so much a lack of power as it was its distribution. Each of the party’s members was powerful enough to stand their own, but they were four, and the horde was many. It was possible, likely even, that they would reach the limits of their stamina before the time was up, and it was unlikely that they would be able to guard the citadel on their own. It was far too extensive an area to cover, and there were no buildings large enough to house its whole population in the case of an emergency.
“I’ll get started on the barrier.” Archibald followed the goblin out the exit, stretching his half-mechanical neck with a click.
The only two men that remained stayed silent, each lost in his own thoughts.
“Be honest with me, Beck. Can we really make it? Three days is… a long, long time.”
The cat tapped his paw on his desk as he looked up from the page where he had scribbled his notes. “We’ll be fine. We can use the key to run and stall for time if we really have to. The problem… is keeping everyone else safe.”
Though he knew that Beckard’s judgement was often on point, Zelos wasn’t entirely confident in the priest’s assessment. It all depended on how willing the celestial was to bend his rules. If the lords he crafted were not out of the ordinary, then they would have little to no trouble repelling them, but he had recently learned, from a certain lyrkress’ experience, that the foxes could easily adjust them to their liking, and enlisting their aid was not a true violation of his parameters.
The concern was brought up earlier in the discussion, but the cat-sith had dismissed it on account of his belief in the goddess. Flux had warned them every time there was a notable threat to their mission, but she had yet to provide any revelations detailing the celestial’s assault.
“Have faith, old friend. Have faith.” Beck retrieved a large sack from one of his drawers and threw it across the room. “Take these, if you’re that worried.”
Looking inside the bag he caught, Zelos found three familiar charms, covered in symbols he recognized well, marks made by a people long past.
“Are these the ones from the Tav’garon Ruins?” he asked, his eyes wide. “I thought we used all of these when we fled the beacon.”
They were defensive wards, each of which was capable of negating a single blow, regardless of whether it came from a feral dog or the leviathan that guarded the entrance to the Beacon of the Sun. They had acquired fifteen during one of their adventures, but the majority had been expended, used in the long, grueling battles that their goddess had often commissioned.
“I haven’t had to use mine,” he said, with a small smile.
“Keep them,” Zelos tried to hand the bag back. “We split them four ways, Beck. It’s my own fault for using all of mine.”
The priest shook his head. “You’re free to do with them as you see fit. Maybe give one to that daughter of yours. Whatever gives you peace of mind.”
Zelos frowned, but slowly retracted his arm. “Thanks, Beck.” He tucked the bag inside his cloak and got up from his chair. “I’ll go help Archie. Shout if you need me, and the wind will carry it my way.”
“Of course, old friend.”
Zelos left the office as the cat got back to scribbling away. He walked down both flights of stairs, offered a quick prayer before the altar, and proceeded to follow Archibald’s tracks.
___
Claire yawned as she slowly rose from the bubble-covered log that had served as her bed. Her night had, unsurprisingly, been plagued with all the usual lucid dreams. She had gone from wandering around the manor to leveling her artifact mastery with the mysterious ghost to running from a giant lyrkress-eating lion, all in one night. Flux was the only thing missing from the formula, but her nonpresence came as no surprise. The goddess’ appearances had never exactly been consistent.
Rather than sleeping within the citadel’s confines, the bloodthief had returned to the safe zone that she had set up atop the floating prairie. She wasn’t confident in the authority skill’s ability to hold when exposed to a group of lords, but at the very least, its location was out of his line of fire. There was no telling what Alfred had meant when he said ‘tomorrow.’ If she were him, she would have launched her assault in the middle of the night, or perhaps even as the clock struck twelve; he had no reason to leave them any room to breathe.
“Get up.” She grabbed the bubble floating next to her and gave it a quick shake.
The fox within slowly opened her eyes and yawned, only to close them again shortly after. “Just five more minutes,” she said, with a stifled giggle.
“Make me wait that long, and I’ll take a bite out of Marcelle.”
“H-huh? Wait, no! You can’t do that! Don’t hurt Marc!”
“Marcelle.”
“Whatever!” Sylvia got to her feet and popped her bubble. “Wait… where’s Marc?”
“Marcelle.”
“Ughhhh! Claire! Stop being so nitpicky and answer the question!” The fox reached for the lyrkress’ ears, but her paws never reached them. She was slowly pushed further and further away by the finger pressed against her forehead.
“I don’t know where Marcelle went. She left before I woke up.”
“Oh…” Sylvia yawned. “Then I’m going back to sleep.”
“No you aren’t.” The lazy fairy was lifted by the cheeks and suspended in midair.
“The sun isn’t even up yet!”
“We’ll be too late if we wait until the sun is up.”
Having spent the previous night pondering the best possible approach, Claire had greeted the morning with a simple but effective plan of attack. Concerning herself with Sky Lagoon’s monsters would be a pointless endeavour. She had yet to kill the lord of the chains, but while its first kill bonus was enticing, she didn’t think that dealing with the obnoxious bird was worth the risk. It was too annoying, and it would maybe provide half a level at most. Adding further to Sky Lagoon’s list of demerits was how open it was. Fighting within the archipelago’s bounds meant having to watch her back at all times.
What she needed was a chokepoint, a tunnel through which she could funnel the monsters she fought, and it just so happened that Alfred had been kind enough to provide one. The spiraling corridor was the perfect spot. Any monster that wanted to travel from the marshy meadow to the citadel would have to pass through a relatively small door.
As tempted as she was to set up shop within the subaquatic tunnel, she knew better than to hole herself up. Borrok peak had already proven that fighting off an endless swarm was more tiring than it was worth the effort. She needed to be able to retreat at a moment’s notice, if anything went awry.
That was why she selected the area outside the lower entrance. In the case of an emergency, Mirewood Meadow was by far and away the safest place to be. The undergrowth provided plenty of cover, all of which could be easily exploited for the purposes of an escape. Even more important than the availability of its contingencies was the malleability of the soil. Unlike the beach, the dirt that made up the forest’s floor would hold its shape when she dug through it. It would take little effort for her to establish a network of underground tunnels, large enough to isolate whatever it was she wanted to drag underground and kill. The only condition was that she would have to arrive before the swarm.
Upon finally convincing the fox and navigating over to her destination, Claire found that she had been beaten to the punch, but not by the ancient demigod. The marshy meadow was filled to the brim with golems. The duck-shaped machines waddled to and fro with large piles of stone dragging behind them, while larger platypus-shaped models slaved away at the construction of a keep.
It was already half done; the outer wall was fully built and reinforced, and it was impossible to move between the two floors without passing through a newly constructed gate. Standing right in the middle of the construction site was a familiar pair of faces, one furry, and the other completely devoid of anything that even remotely resembled a hair.
She was noticed as soon as she exited the space between the beach and the marsh. Both craned their necks towards her, with one twisting his face into a hostile scowl and the other nodding his head.
“Hey guys!” Sylvia stood up on her hind legs and waved, but the friendly response was not returned.
Claire furrowed her brow as they got closer. Something was off. Archibald kept a hand near the quiver strapped to his wrist, and Beckard seemed tense and jumpy. His breathing was shallow, and his heart rate was high; she could hear it thumping even before she got close enough to see the solemn look on his face.
“Wow, you guys seem really on edge,” said Sylvia. “What happened?”
Archibald stepped forward and opened his mouth, but the cat raised a paw and silenced him. His magic circuits lit up and removed all the sound in their surroundings. Because he was furless, the conduits were visible beneath his skin, glowing with a vibrant orange light. Noise didn’t return until the light receded, after the dog-faced artificer stepped back into position.
“Sorry, he’s a little too worked up,” said the cat. His lips were twisted into a dark, grim frown. He took several deep breaths and clasped his hands together before raising his voice once more. “I take it the two of you have yet to hear the news?”
“What news?” asked Sylvia. “We were the ones that told you Alfred caught on!”
“No, not that.” Another deep breath. “It’s Zelos, your father. He went missing last night.”
