Captured Sky

In ever-tightening circles, the many-eyed owl hovered above. The sack between its talons dangled in the wind of its aviation. Staring up at the owl, two things were apparent. The owl was the same as the one encountered within the fungal forest. Wherever Havoc had gone, the owl was not far behind. In truth, it had always been ahead. Considering his second revelation, that was no surprise, for the omni-sighted raptor surely belonged to Annalise.

The bird glided lower. Its multiple eyes danced between its feathers before focusing on Havoc. To say the sensation was peculiar was to make a mockery of words. For certain, feeling the cold gaze of the creature bearing down tingled his spine and pulled his hair to attention; yet there was something more. With the bird of prey ever in motion, he only caught it a few times and each time briefly, but he swore there was something... someone else looking through those eyes. They were not peering through all, but they could see through any.

The owl’s flight tightened further until only Havoc was within its ring. It expelled a hoot and the sack was released from its grip. Without a thought, Havoc outstretched his hands and the bag landed between his arms.

It’s soft, he thought before returning his sight skywards. Where he expected to owl lingering, there was empty space. Scanning the horizon, he caught a final glimpse of the raptor as it crossed a cliff-face his eyes could not follow.

He turned his attention to the sack. Woven of straw, tied by string at its opening, there was nothing concerning the pack that to entice the eye. Yet, within, he felt power. A power he had not experienced since The Chamber of Inheritance.

‘A remnant…’ He whispered. His heart spiked and his hands trembled. He had been sure he had reached the second step. Nevertheless, he welcomed the confirmation. Having peered into his own soul, where once there was a single link connected to his anchor, he had long started to perceive the phantom of a second entwined with the first. Unlike the first which was uncannily solid for a spiritual and metaphorical concept. The new link in the burgeoning chain was shadowy and illusive. It phased in and out of perception. Blinking in and out of being so rapidly it could hardly be said to exist at all.

It was no great mystery to Havoc. The difference between the two links was clear. One contained The Thirsty Edge, and the other… It would soon hold the remnant held within the sack.

With a tug at the drawstring, the mouth of the bag parted. He reached inside. A silky fabric met his fingers. Soft and smooth, it rolled within his grip.

‘A cloak?’ His speculation was confirmed as he pulled the remnant clear from the sack. It was a deep azure. Lighter shades of blue and dashes of silver formed patterns on the back. Stretching from the shoulders to the fridges, they seemed almost like wings shimmering under the moss-light. On closer inspection, the patterns themselves were a composite design. Needled together from runes, spreading into a grand design.

The front, in comparison, was a modest affair. At the head, it was cowled. Eschewing the traditional open style, the fabric elegantly rolled down. Gracefully, it draped in overlapping layers. These layers seamlessly converged down the torso, creating a cascading effect that ceased at the midsection.

Despite the softness of the fabric, there was a firmness to the material. With all his strength. the cloak could not be torn. Neither could it be cut by the stroke of The Thirsty Edge.

As an armour type remnant, whatever ability it endowed, it was bound to provide a level of physical fortification. Though the full shredding fury of The White Temptress’ claws would likely overcome its defence, Havoc was thankful for any protection afforded him.

“Behind my illusions, your enemies shall see only that which you desire them to see.” The cloak whispered into Havoc’s mind.

Grinning, he carefully scouted the marshland chamber. Registering no threats, he kneeled and began drawing the remnant into the second link of his fledgling Spirit Chain.

When the process was completed, no longer was the link ephemeral and ghostly. Rather, it had all the solidity and permanence of the first.

***

A hooded figure sprinted across rocky terrain. In his wake, a great lizard followed. Its skin, alabaster white, the six muscular legs of the beast beat the ground and its spiked tail thrashed left and right as it rapidly gained on the cloaked boy. Standing no taller than five-foot-seven inches, the gargantuan reptile towered the boy. As it drew closer and closer, the disparity in their statues became more obvious. The lizard’s tail alone could have been ridden. From its snout to the ground would have been a lethal fall to most humans.

The figure’s azure cloak billowed behind, and shimmered under the soft light of the luminous moss. He picked up his pace, but the lizard was not far behind. Once the reptile was close enough, it parted its jaws and launched its head down. The cloaked figure leaped to the side and rolled to his feet ensuring the lizard tasted only rock with its first attack. Making a hybrid noise between a croak and a roar, the lizard staggered, rattled its head, then continued its chase.

‘Just... a bit further.’ Havoc said, his voice staggered as he strained against his exertion.

Ahead of the hooded figure stood an arch. Composed of rock and a crystalline substance, it reflected the dim light of the cave and magnified its glow. Like the night-sun at dusk, it was a guide, a beacon. It drew the figure towards its sparkling visage.

He was close, so very close. He quickened his step. The lizard followed suit.

The shadow of the archway lay ahead. Its arch, too narrow and low for the full hulking form of the lizard to enter, offered sanctuary to the hooded boy. Once beneath the structure, he need only go further than the lizard’s neck could extend, and his safety was assured. Panting furiously, the cloaked figure dived into the shadow. The lizard dived after him. Jaws wide, teeth bared, Its head pierced the opening of the arch.

For an eternal moment all that could be heard was the harsh grind of rock as the reptile’s neck swag wildly. Its tail beat the ground, and its six legs tore into the terrain clawing its way deeper into the arch. The moment passed with a thunderous roar. Seemingly frustrated, the beast began to squirm its head from the rocky passage.

‘Right where I want you.’

With The Thirsty Edge in hand, Havoc lurked atop the arch. Peering down, he watched as the reptile slowly loosed itself from the rock and crystalline structure. Bit by bit, the lizard snaked itself free. Slowing his breaths and tightening his grip on his blade, he waited. When only the front of the creature remained beneath the arch, he walked the edge, cast aside his hesitation, and leapt.

Landing on the gargantuan head of the beast, he wasted no time plunging the tip of his scarred blade into skull of the reptile. With all of his considerable strength, he dug deeper. Like an erupting volcano, sapphire blood gushed to the surface. The violence of the geyser bursting from below was so great, it threaten to eject him.

The blood drained from his hands as he gripped his sword to hold himself in place. The slip of the creature’s life-fluid challenged his hold on the hilt but he would not let go. Not as lizard thrashed its head from side to side, bashing itself upon the arches, not as its spiked tail whipped from behind.

‘Just die!’ He screamed. He twisted the blade and with a gut-lurching, crack, the wound widened. Shifting to one knee, he released a hand from the blade. Balling his hand into a fist, he began pummelling the skull of the beast.

One strike, that is all he had planned for. One strike and the beast would fall. As he clung to his hilt and continued to slam his fist into the lizard, hysterical laughter began to intersperse his determined cries.

There was an old saying. So old, its origins were not of the Dungeon World, but rather, Aarth. Humanity’s native land.

No strategy survives contact with the enemy.

His certainly had not. Having tested the limits of The Cloak of Mirrors, he was confident in its ability to lure the lizard to his hiding place. Allowing him to cast an illusionary image of himself as far as his sight would permit, drawing the reptile’s attention was a simple affair. From there, luring it from its lair towards the arch followed naturally. In retrospect, he now believe that is where he grew greedy…

His goal had never been to kill the beast, but to plunder its lair. Luring it away would have sufficed. If so needed, he could have returned with his loot to dispatch the monster with greater ease. But in what he could no longer deny amounted to gross and outright hubris, he had opted for battle. Once his choice was made, the Dungeon confirmed him in that choice.

Wrestling to stand, he lifted the sword from its grisly sheath only to thrust down once more inches away from his initial incision. The cry of beast was not one of pain. It spoke of an unquenchable fury. A rebellion over the indignity a mighty creature, such as it was, being undone by its prey. It was great and noble. The land trembled at its feet. All lesser beings were to honour and fear; noirish and serve. Havoc could hear its aggrievement clearly, but he did not care. Not when he plunged the blade in for the forth time nor when he twisted it for the seventh.

His fury was every bit as palpable as that of the lizard’s. It tore through him. Fuelled by years of destitution and disrespect; tempered by his endless trials. He would not be looked down upon. Not even in his imagination.

‘You’re just the first!’ He screamed, smashing his mangled fist into cracked and bloodied scales of the great reptile. ‘I will drag the mighty from their high places and bring them low! I will tear down their bulwarks and raze their lands to the ground! You who are great, know that I’ll be greater, and despair!’

His passion passed through the enemy before him and extended towards the true target of his ire.

Of the events which brought him to Stone Garden, Havoc remembered very little. He was young. Younger than he could recall. But he remembered a home. He remembered green fields. A strong father, a loving mother, and fire. So much fire. As if Hell had opened to swallow his world, they came. The men were slaughtered. The women, those who could not end their own lives, were carried away. The children were hunted and tossed into the flames. Only he and his sister survived.

Many years later, his memory of his life before Stone Garden was like a dissembled puzzle of which he could never quite find all the pieces. Nevertheless, the ferocity of the lingering rage, it was subcutaneous; ever-present. Never far from the surface. Always moments from ignition. Ready to consume all which stood its path.

It was the rage which would not allow him to die on his execution. When his body lay shattered in the Chamber of Inheritance, it gathered the pieces and forced him to move. Against the first of the Dungeon Spawn, it charged his frenzy, and atop the damned reptile, it was burning still.

He did not care of the lizard’s umbrage. His rancour was by no means inferior, and as his blade cracked through scale and skull for the countless time, spilling more reptile blood into the river cascading below, his was the fury that won out.

Silence consumed marshland cavern. It was deafening. Then with a final croaking roar, the lizard fell and grew still.

Laying atop the oozing wounds of the slain reptile, he panted heavily. Hand loose around his blade, he felt his face flush. His was a strenuous battle; lost in the heat of the moment, the grandiose words he screamed sounded courageous and defiant. Having secured such a victory from a powerful foe, he could not have anticipated the first emotion to follow would be embarrassment.

For the time, he only wished that Annalise had not been watching.