An Age of Mysterious Memories

If Terrorzin himself is on the move, then likely all of his remaining forces will soon be joining him, if they haven’t already. The entire might of all of dragonkind on Rayileklia save the Onyx Dawn aimed at Mount Solace. It’s unthinkable. Kinzul’s Dragonforce, and that of all those who’ve sacrificed for her, or at her behest, is tied up in the Worldstorm, so even she would needs must quail in the face of—really Reggie? Needs must quail?—the encroaching horde. Erm, gimme a break. My brain’s going whacky with the sudden influx of dread.

Oh, hey, looks like I’ve been spotted. Is this one of those, “go down making a valiant last stand against insurmountable odds” moments Reggie? Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t even scratch the surface of this horde at this point. And, sure, I mean, I’m good, maybe one of the strongest fighters in the Onyx Dawn, but our strongest, pulling out all the stops, are winded going up against maybe twelve foes at a time.

Scribbling a note, I check in with the security center, a hastily scrawled, “Are you seeing this!?”

A reassuring voice soothes me, “Sure am Schism, good news is, where you’re at, it’ll take those forces over a week still to reach us even at their fastest forced march,” and it continues, “What’s your play?”

Play? My play? Sure, way to put me on the spot and under pressure. Like I have any sort of play against anything this massive. My play is hoping that I can somehow move something like thirty thousand innocent civilians away from Mount Solace, while the thirty of us who are mostly-uninjured fighters hold back dozens of thousands of troops simultaneously.

Wait, evacuation. The ‘Twixt. I have to survive. I can’t pull something stupid here. Shaking my head, I sigh. I make certain I’ve got my best gear on, including my psi-blocking circlet. Whatever happens, I can’t afford to let myself get taken out here.

Still, it’s good news that their traversal speed is going to be so slow. I guess I was right about having a week before having to face a more significant portion of Terrorzin’s forces. I just didn’t think it was going to already be on the move, bottlenecked, and all coming at once.

Even surviving, and getting away, and getting home safely with Ixeyla seems like a longshot at this point. There are a few dozen foes taking wing in my direction. I can outrun them until the point that I need to ascend above the Worldstorm, then I’d be risking my dragonforce to try to climb while outpacing them. Even if I’m faster than them, I’d be risking leading them to Ixey.

I can’t know if any of my pursuers know of secret tunnels through any of the nearby mountains to aeries above the Worldstorm. If they do, they could beat me above the storm, see Ixey, and harm her. Casting out my senses, it seems pretty likely that there are tunnel structures in several nearby mountains. I’ve walked into a kill zone, like The Gap trap the kobolds had set up.

Since I’m unlikely to get away scot-free, I may as well make a show of it. It’d be a shame to not do as much damage as I can while I make my escape. So, as I’ve so often done in the course of this war, I recite my titles, not that any of Terrorzin’s horde can hear me, but it allows me to manifest my Honoris Causa. Hah, yep, that sure got their attention. I suppose that’s to be expected after all. They were probably ordered to slay anything that moves, especially any dragons that don’t fall under Terrorzin’s sway, or align behind his banner or whatnot.

Sigh. Yeah, I can think of at least one dragon who’d be in that category. I can’t help thinking of Qlaxianna, and how she’d probably be defying Terrorzin’s forces to the end. At least, if I hadn’t ended her. Qlaxi had no love for Terrorzin. His forces are probably expecting more holdouts like her, rather than anyone with an Honoris Causa, since there’ve been so few of us over the centuries, and only Kinzul seems to know how to bestow them. Oh hey what’s—.

Whoof! Koff, koff. Ouch. No time to reminisce or lament Reggie. Heh. Yeah, fatal flaw of mine, y’know? Distractibility. Distractability? Something or other. I’m able to be distracted, duh. Maybe stop distracting yourself attempting to describe how easy it is to distract you to get it grammatically correct? Hm, fair point. Dodge!

Whew, thanks. Wait. Am I thanking myself for warning myself to—let’s just forget this whole thing and focus on the fight, shall we? Speaking of, the fight isn’t too bad to start with, as they’re all assuming small enough forms to speed along after me to cluster up trying to catch up to me to take me on. Who launched the freakin’ ballista bolt that clipped me a second ago though? I can’t even see where it came from.

Ah well, focus Reggie, focus. Their breath weapons are at odds with each other, and they’re crap at teamwork. All that spells a decent spell of luck for me. Uh, bit, time, a short period of time, a spell. You know what I mean me. I know I know what you mean, what I mean, I mean, argh, shut up, busy. Anyway, fire breath is evaporating and warming the frost breaths, poison breaths, and acid breaths, while lightning breath is electrolizing, aerosolizing, and igniting the acid and poison breaths, meaning the only thing that really rolls out my way is a harmless, lukewarm massive fireball. Well, that and a lot of lightning.

Too bad for these goons that both of those are things I can control. Grinning, I try not to be too smug about my suite of abilities which I utilize to direct lightning and flame around me in a slingshot maneuver launching a spiralized volley of their own powerful breath weapons back at them. Huh, if only all fights would start out that e—don’t even think about it. Right, true. Let’s keep our mouths shut, shall we? I mean mine. You know what I mean. Shut up.

Anyway, that buys me a few seconds of—Meep! So much for a few seconds! Casters! Okay, okay, calm down. Just shuffle back and forth constantly between the Necrosteel chestplate, and Wyverium chestplate, because they’re mostly necromancers it seems. Quite a few seem shocked and surprised that their spells failed to have any effect on me.

Tough luck numpties, I’m not going to announce out loud that fire, frost, lightning, psi, and poison—well, at least inhalation based toxins—all do pretty much bupkiss to me. Oh, wait, huh. I wonder if that’s an offensive term. I dunno its etymology offhand. Err, anyway, right. Probably not the time to try to satisfy internal linguistic curiosities Reggie. I need a plan, a good one, and an escape route in the right direction.

A plan, a direction, a plan, a direction. Well that sure brings back memories, and not great ones either. Oof. Gods, when I thought I lost Teuila, I was so broken. All I could do was keep following one direction, keep hoping that my plan would pan out. Gotta plan for the plan not to pan, y’know? Pft. Really Reggie? Maybe focus on the fight instead of being silly. Oh, right. Holy motherforking shirtballs. That’s a lot of foes.

They’re starting to spread out in the hopes of encircling me. That’s absolutely something I can’t let them do. Time to be a little unpredictable. Let’s go ahead and take a deep breath and get up in their faces Reggie. Gods, just look at this mess. It’s like the world is suffering video lag and stuttering, there are so many wings flapping behind other wings that the horde looks like stop motion photography in the flashes of lightning from the Worldstorm.

It doesn’t help that it’s like a silent film due to being drowned out by the constant thunder. The visual cacophony should be accompanied by equal auditory dissonance, instead of this eerie pall in which the only sound is the constant thunder of the Worldstorm. So, what type of film do you think you’re in Reggie? Is it a horror film? A suspense thriller? A big budget action blockbuster? What does it seem like?

Well, let’s parse it. I’m outnumbered, outflanked, and these jerkwads have all the subtlety of Leatherface or Jason Vorhees. Wait, who and who? What? Erm, anyway. They’ve got magic I can’t predict, so every shadow could spawn into yet a new nightmare to add to the pile of problems I’m facing. It definitely feels like I’m the final victim in a slasher flick, not one with a happy ending mind you. More like one where y’know, you root for the final survivor to best the baddie, but, yeah, well, you know the ending.

Yeesh. There’s also the intrigue and suspense going on. How could we be so woefully underinformed that so much of Terrorzin’s forces have already mobilized? How can they be so many steps ahead? What if they even planned for me to specifically find out about their mobilization now, and end up here? Which of my moves aren’t yet accounted for? A hell of a suspenseful thriller.

But then again, I’m me. Almost everything I do is over the top. I’ve glassed beaches, plural. I’ve frozen over hundreds of square miles of lava. I’ve driven back Damnations, or destroyed their gestalted subordinates. I’m definitely capable of pulling out some stops and wrecking things, but wreaking havoc here is small potatoes against such overwhelming forces.

I think the greater play, the more demoralizing, confusing action, is for me to escape as undamaged as possible. Even just doing a tiny bit of hassling to the horde will be exponentially more effective if they realize whatever segment of their forces couldn’t catch me or pin me down.

Plus, I’ve got Ixey to think about. She could be almost directly above me right now. Gulping, my heart hammers rapidly as I imagine what it looks like up above the storm at the moment. What if there’s a host of dragons and riders waiting on some aerie near this horde, that spotted Ixeyla? I could never forgive myself if she got caught or killed.

That tears it. It’s time Reggie. Lil’s counting on you to bring her home safely. Everyone’s counting on you to make it out of this safely and put more plans into motion. One thing you can do though? You can move mountains. You can work a miracle.

My brain fritzes into a BSOD, a blue screen of death momentarily. Why does that phrasing sound familiar? Rattling my skull, I shake the thoughts loose so I can focus. I’m going to head southeast, into the edge of the horde, and break through them, and break down their route towards Solace and Mahruke.

Even if the estimates are correct that we should have a week at their current capable pace, I’d rather hassle them as much as possible to slow their pace as much as I can while I’m here. To do that, let’s collapse a friggin’ mountain down atop the heads of the front of their forces, and ruin the easy path through towards the valley that leads to Mahruke.

Deep breath Reggie, puff it out. Don’t get too reckless. You’re going to be using yourself, FFS, Zorro, a giant dire shadow weasel, and a giant elemental to topple a mountain. Picture the topography, and pick the best route. Dodging aside some sort of nearly-invisible lance of telekinetic force magic, I snarl at my foes.

Doing my best cornered-animal impression, I bare my fangs and those of my Honoris Causa as more foes close-in on me. Deep breath, hold it, wait for the moment, wait for it Reggie, wait for it. Wait. Wait for it. Now! Coiling every bit of myself and my Honoris Causa for a leap unlike any other, I rocket forth into the head of the pack closing in on me.

Spiraling as I zip headlong into the fray, My leap takes me parallel to the ground relatively close to the storm. I’m wreathed in lightning as I’m constantly swapping between my lightning-cursed leg guards and glacial greaves. Letting lightning flow around me, I turn myself into a drill of pure energy.

Tearing through the ranks of Terrorzin’s forces closing-in on me, I break through their lines in order to lead them away from where I imagine Ixeyla to be. In fact, it should appear as if I’m trying to take the quickest escape route towards Solace, which is fine by me at this point. Come on Reggie, analyze the terrain, the topography, the geology.

Dammit Reggie, I’m a cryptozoologist not a geologist. Pft, snrk. Shut up doofus. Focus. There. Hm, damn. I’m going to need a couple minutes to set this up. That… might be a bit of a tough ask. Well, give it everything you’ve got goober, and go from there.

Passing a breath out through puffed cheeks and pursed lips, I narrowly avoid being skewered by chained harpoons. Ah, yeah, those could put a damper on my day. Seems there are a few powerful Spellknights riding some of the dragons around here. I hate the tiny bit of myself that glances around for Radiant Spellknight Ahliyui. There’s no friggin’ way she’d suddenly turn, well, turncoat, uh, again, with her brother in our infirmary at this point in the war.

Scratching my forehead, I do begin to doubt the motives of anyone who has accepted our mercy suddenly. I can’t really afford this distraction though. We’ve got as much security in place in Solace as can be to handle such deceptions. Come on Reggie, breathe, tunnel through this pack of dragons and riders. Dodge!

Interrupting my spin, I fling myself to the side as something monstrous passes through where I’d just been. My stomach lurches from the sudden jarring impact of my evasive maneuver. Blinking several times, I can’t tell if it was a conjured spell attack, an illusion, or some horrific necromantic monstrosity. On the, um, plus side, accidentally interrupting my spin loosed the lightning I’ve been trailing as part of my mobility boosting drilling.

I snort with unintentionally cruel laughter at the various forces of Terrorzin sent spasming out of the air towards the ground from the absolutely massive lightning bolt that I just sent clockwise out through the far arm of the horde. I’m moving away from the cold spot far in the distance that distorts my thermal senses. Hey, Reggie, quick question. Uh, yeah, what? If a Shellcracker thundershouts in a Worldstorm, does it make a sound?

What? Oh. Heh. Like some twisted dark baroque painting, such as The Fall of the Damned into Paradise Lost, or The Last Judgment, I’m ascending while trailed by Legion. The dragons are more like a flight of imps from Hell itself grasping at me as I ascend through a world that has become little more than a grim palette of ash and shadow.

My ascent is a desperate struggle through these demonic figures grabbing at me, these Hellish hordes that are equally desperate to drag me down into their infernal pit. Each taloned hand is a grueling obstacle I struggle to overcome that could be virtually clawing free of Rodin’s “The Gates of Hell,” or the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno that seethes and writhes beneath me. Legion swarms, their physicality equally amorphous as the silent outcry of what should be a cacophony of shrieks and growls that are swallowed by the rage of the unending storm.

I clad myself in a skin of stone, marking myself the Earthen ambassador to the heavens seeking salvation. Every motion feels jerky and deliberate when lit by brief intense flashes of lightning. Our scene is akin to a low FPS video reel of Bosch’s most nightmarish triptych, or Bruegel’s Fall of Rebel Angels.

The scene’s illumination is sharp, blinding flashes of lightning, outlining the draconic hordes flying beneath me in long shadows cast below. The flashing followed by inky blackness casts illusions of harsh, exaggerated forms like an unfiltered overexposed daguerreotype. Everything is stark contrasts and haunting clarity simultaneously. What would normally be a rainbow tableau of chromatic dragonkind instead is at best a black and white copy of reality.

Then I reach forth to the storm like it were some heavenly savior, and nestle myself within its deadly embrace only momentarily. I revel in the thundrous vibrations and draw forth a deep breath while I start loosing one of my remaining cones of cold. Within this nestled stormy embrace I’m under the pressure of the entire Worldstorm, or so it seems at least.

It’s funny how loud my ragged breathing and pounding heart are within my head, the pressure of the howling winds about me feels like it forces my internal noises to fight forth from within me with more ferocity than ever before. Conversely, the snarling, flapping, and roaring of the encroaching horde’s cries are swallowed whole by the unending tempest of the Worldstorm.

Here goes, well, everything. Crystallizing even this small fragment of storm is a feat in and of itself. My thunder breath boils, burbles, and bubbles up from within me through my organ. Koff. I’m glad no one else is in my head at the moment. Obviously I mean my breath-weapon organ.

Regardless, my electrokinesis and lightning Spiritswarm converge, coalescing around my throat to massage my organ as it swells to seemingly Brobdingnagian proportions. My jaw is leveled, aimed downwards at a still-forming glacier amidst the Worldstorm. I’m reapplying my stoneskin, conjuring forth the granite protection that lasts only the merest fraction of moments against the fury of the tempest meant to hold dragons at bay.

Barking a shout, I can’t help it as I call out, “Fuzz Rodah,” for some reason. My eye twitches as a minor BSOD passes through my cranium, but I’m too engrossed in reality to let myself slip long into any distraction. My glacial cone had coalesced beneath me quite nicely, the stinging wet becoming a heavy solid chill, a mountain of ice toppling free from the sky. That in turn is shattered by the greatest shout I’ve ever unleashed. Turning crystallized storm into a shrapnel tsunami with the loudest thunder-shout I’ve ever attempted is, well, let’s just say we’re off to a good start at pissing off Terrorzin’s forces.

Now, divebombing through bodies in disarray, I try not to sympathize with dragons and riders loosing silent wails of agony as they scrabble to dislodge sharpened chunks of frozen acid from wounds before they melt in more ways than one. Plenty have had their wings decimated and torn to shreds, sending them tumbling to Rayileklia’s muddy soil far below us, in a freefall that my memory says is too slow, yet still surely fatal for most.

Keep it up Reggie, just a few dozen more steps to your plan before you can try to escape and meet up with Ixeyla. No pressure, right? Pft. Sure. Right, no pressure.