As Wolfram of the White ran across the ruined ground, carrying del Sed in his cupped hands, he wept bitter tears. In the end, he hadn’t been able to do anything.
He’d been there for the entire fight between Belias, del Sed and that Charon woman… and all he’d done was watch. He’d thought he was better than that, stronger. He’d thought that he was a grown-up. Belias had been cut to bits, and he’d just stood there shaking in his boots.
"You should stay here, kiddo," Miss Lily had said, back on Hexkay, before he’d stowed away on their ship. "Grow up a little first, yeah?"
He should have listened. He should have listened. If he wasn’t going to be any help anyway, why had he even bothered coming here?!
Wolfram looked down at del Sed, resting in his palms like a doll. They hadn’t managed to get far after their fight with Charon before collapsing from exhaustion and pain. He knew he had to get them to a doctor soon, or else they might die. Where could he find a doctor? A dic or whatever? Wolfram was sure soone had said, but he hadn’t been listening. Stupid. Stupid!
He’d have to be careful, too. To make moving del Sed easier, he’d used his Guardian Entity -- Byakko -- to shrink them down to the size of an action figure. Wolfram didn’t really get it, but apparently when sothing tiny turned big all of a sudden, there was a big explosion of force from all the space that suddenly got taken up.
Wolfram had tried using that against Paradise Charon, unshrinking a rock and a glove to hit her with the blast of force, but he hadn’t had the guts to do anything more. He’d just watched while his friend got cut to pieces. He should have done more. He could have done more.
In the distance, Wolfram could see another pod coming down -- the first in a while. He ignored it: he understood now that he wasn’t cut out for this thing called war. In the end, all a coward like him could do was run away.
The vermin kept crawling up one after another.
As the Hanged Man plunged its fist down, the Baron Lunalette de Fleur leapt backwards, a single pitchfork half-protruding from his back to pull him along. As he skidded to a halt on the ruined ground, the pitchfork retreated back within his spine -- returning its power to him.
He didn’t have ti to relax.
While his attention was focused on the Hanged Man, the skin-dragon swooped in behind him -- its wings of epidermis sweeping up everything in their path. Lunalette barely had ti to fire off a pitchfork up into the sky before he was enveloped by the blood-moistened blanket.
It was an awful sensation. The skin wrapped itself around his body, squeezing tight as a vice, even as it tried to force itself down his throat. For the few seconds he was restrained, it was utterly unbearable.
Damnation Invidia!
The flash of red was barely visible from within the cocoon of skin, but the Baron vanished -- and a second later, reappeared up in the sky, taking the place of the pitchfork he’d shot out. That, too, had been anticipated: the mont he teleported, the Hanged Man threw a titanic punch at him, clearly intending to sar him with a single blow.
As if that could ever happen.
Lunalette writhed in the air, and kicked the incoming fist -- instantly obliterating it, huge chunks of liquid tal flying in every direction. At the sa ti, he swiped his arm behind him, generating a wave of air pressure that sent the skin-dragon flying away. Breathing room was difficult to co by these days, but so long as the Baron could hit his opponents, he had no doubt he could kill them.
The Hanged Man staggered back, the stump of its arm high in the air -- but then lunged forward again. The arm changed shape as it was thrust towards Lunalette, stump sharpening into a blade, tip pointed towards the glowing hole in the Baron’s chest. That only made sense: it was the closest thing to a weak point he possessed.
Damnation Ira.
An explosion of heat and light burst forth from Lunalette’s body, slowing the incoming blade just a fraction -- and Lunalette used the opportunity well. Landing on the hesitant limb, he began running along its surface, towards the head. Spikes sprouted up from the forearm beneath, trying to impale him, but his speed and maneuverability were such that he was able to weave around them. Even as he did so, though, his mind raced.
Again, it was two enemies. The person piloting the Hanged Man -- one of the Arcana Automatics -- and the man with the skin ability. Lunalette recognised the latter: one of the Oliphant Clan, the criminal simpleton Roy Oliphant-Dawkins. To think even they were involved in this madness.
In the end, though, it didn’t matter who they were. They would die. That simple fact had been set in stone since these two had chosen to make the Baron Lunalette de Fleur their enemy.
Three.
Lunalette threw himself to the side right before a branch would have lanced through the hole in his chest. A spear-like tendril of wood had suddenly erged from the omnipresent fog -- and as Lunalette backed up, he saw three more writhe forth, pulling their master along.
Lunalette’s eyes narrowed. This was impossible.
He was absolutely certain he’d taken Morgan Nacht out of the fight.
Four flexible branches cracked and clicked in the air, protruding from Nacht’s back where they’d burst free, blood dripping from their roots as they carried him along like spider-legs. At first, Nacht seed like so kind of puppet, hanging limply with his head low -- until he looked up. If anything, though, that was worse. So kind of moss had grown over his eyeballs, turning his gaze green and blank, and similarly green veins seed to be spreading all under the skin of his face.
A horror to behold.
"What devilry is this?" Lunalette snarled.
By way of answer, Nacht did two things. First, he opened his mouth -- and an unearthly, incoherent groan poured forth. Then, he attacked -- branches pumling at Lunalette with all the speed of a machine gun. The Baron was able to block the blows each and all, of course, but the speed of the bout was such that he had no chance to counterattack.
The tal beneath them shifted, and before Lunalette could react he’d been struck by a punch from the Hanged Man’s other fist. The damage was superficial -- cracks across his stone skin -- but he was sent flying all the sa, body flipping end over end from gravity’s cruel whim.
He didn’t go far.
At the mont Lunalette was struck, Nacht thrust one of his branches forward -- and with a spark of green Aether, that branch instantly grew into a mighty tree, engulfing and constraining its target. The Baron’s body was held tight between mighty roots, strong as iron, closely packed enough that he couldn’t even wiggle his fingers. The only part of him visible was his head, eye glaring from between a parting in the foliage.
No, no no no. This isn’t happening. I refuse! This is not happening!
Morgan Nacht’s mouth cracked open as he looked up at Lunalette, and -- with an obviously great effort -- he roared out: "NOW!"
Next to him, the Hanged Man moved to crush him between its palms. Above him, the skin-dragon was twisted into an epidermal spear, and hurled down by its rider. All around him, the branches tightened, choking his life away. Death knocked three tis…
… and then a miracle occurred.
Behind the Hanged Man, the pyramid at the center of the battle suddenly erupted into flas, an explosion consuming it utterly -- rubble flying in every direction. Lunalette knew not the cause, nor did he care. The only thing that mattered was that the attention of the three killing him was diverted for a single mont.
That single mont was all he needed.
The tree around him was still attached to Nacht, wasn’t it? The source of it was still erging from his back. He was its master, its father, its birthplace. It was a part of his body.
And so it was the simplest thing in the world.
With a click of his tongue, Lunalette released another pitchfork from his body -- and it impaled the tree the second it erged from his form. Imdiately, he saw Nacht freeze, green eyes wide… and at the sa ti, he felt a new surge of power rush into him, felt new spaces and capacity opening up.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringent.
Aether battery.
The last one he’d needed.
Among the Special Officers of the Supremacy, there were three people said to be closest to the power of the Contenders. Dorothy Eiro, who could Command the world around her with a word. PALATINE, the inhuman leftovers of an Aether Awakening.
And the Baron Lunalette de Fleur, who wielded strength overwhelming.
Crimson Aether scread.
Roy Oliphant-Dawkins felt it, a chill running down his spine as he rode the spear down, giving him warning enough to pull back and keep his distance.
Ionir Yggdrassil felt it, but was powerless to react as an alien consciousness took hold of it -- all it could do was watch as the Baron was consud by flooding red energy.
Scout Oliphant-Dawkins, within the cockpit of the Hanged Man, felt it -- and as that red light surged over everything, he raised the arms of the Arcana Automatic defensively.
Ruth Blaine, next to him, slowly opened her eyes…
…just in ti to see a nightmare flood into her brain.
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