Deep within the interior of the dungeon, in a room not at all dissimilar from her usual station in the real fortress of World’s Hope, Erethel Starweaver, Star of Final Night, worked diligently to maintain the various shields that needed to be powered. Not only did she constantly adjust and reposition those magical barriers that both defended her allies and kept the enemy elementals contained, but she also scanned her allies and kept a wary eye upon them. It was well known that there would be traitors in their midst, but also, due to the mechanics of this particular dungeon, there would be another supernatural layer of sinister duplicity.
Although the fighting had already commenced in earnest, she had yet to see any signs of traitorous activity. That either meant that there were currently no traitors amongst them or that those traitors were just that good at being surreptitious in their efforts to undermine and sabotage everyone else. It may be more fair to say that there could be traitors from any number of factions with their own agendas, all of whom are either unaware of each other or are at least not coordinated in their efforts.
Half of her assigned staff reported to one master or another of the goings-on, for the bindings of non-disclosure were more of gentlemen’s agreements than supernaturally imposed restrictions. If she so much as blinked too many times in a short succession, half a dozen [Nobles] or otherwise important powers would know about it by day’s end. As such, she trusted no one implicitly, and with her favorite handmaiden, her Little Dawnflower, now irrevocably entangled with two others and in service of the newest Emperor, she found that there was less joy and satisfaction in her work.
After all, the only reason people at her level of age and power do anything at all is singular in nature: amusement. None can dare dictate terms to her, and few are those who could overpower her. Her wealth remains immense enough that she need not labor to sustain her lifestyle. Only a loose sense of moral obligation and duty to her fellow man prompts her to action, and even then, what means of satisfaction she can derive from the process further directs where she applies her talents.
While she is not the best frontline fighter or [Artillery Mage], she is a powerful [Mage] if one uses the most understated and vague terms imaginable. She can at least hold her own in a fight, and few are her peers in the realms of shields, barriers, and the like. It is the mastery of her craft and the certainty of her own capabilities and limitations that allows her to remain at ease. It also helps that her lifetime of adventure and resource acquisition had enabled her to stockpile a respectable arsenal of items and tools to help her out in a pinch.
And yet, none of her precautions seemed to be enough. The pantheon of her elven gods had been rather chatty of late, with that same level of calm and compassion one reserves for a person on her deathbed. She had been beside enough dying people to know that countenance and bearing, and it grated on her that her gods were not keeping her in the loop. Perhaps they were overly worried, or perhaps they had legitimate cause for concern. As a Diamond Adventurer, her death would not be a mundane affair; the gods themselves would need to do something spectacular in welcoming her to the afterlife. And, with Diamond Adventures being a rare breed, she had her pick of the litter for her time in the hereafter.
All these factors combined honed her attention to the most minute of details. Her centuries of experience had been the crucible through which most of her bad habits and flaws had been burned away, at least when she gave it her all. This dungeon was unknown and untested, and, given the scale and scope of this particular raid, this single undertaking could easily be the most dangerous and foolhardy deed within her portfolio.
And so she studied the others in the room, their patterns of behavior and tics. She memorized their figurative glances and whom they looked at. She observed how fingers clenched on weapons, how their breathing quickened and slowed when someone entered or left the room, and she made certain to burn into memory exactly who came or went and for how long they were absent.
Naturally, there were protocols in place. Bioscanners for their flesh, aurascanners for their magical signatures, passwords that changed each time they entered the room, proper procedures for when and how someone moves around the room and announcements of intent, and so forth were the norm. While such precautions bordered on paranoia, past tragedies had taught otherwise. If anything, they were not paranoid enough. For such reasons, she made damn well sure that none approached within stabbing range of her own person.
However, for those gathered here, even the ten meter radius around her where none should trespass is more of a polite formality. Most are capable of crossing that distance in the time between the lub and dub of the heart - that is, if they could get past her shields. However, all of them have worked with her for quite some time now, and so, they would be very familiar with her shield matrices and resonance patterns, such that they would have had ample opportunity to devise countermeasures. She naturally had her own theorized counters to their counters, and so it would be an ultimate clash of aptitude to see who is left standing and who is dead.
For her, it was not a matter of if that would happen, but when. And Erethel Starweaver, Star of Final Night, has experienced enough assassination attempts to know that quantity has a quality all of its own. Sooner or later, she will lose. Until such time, she remains guarded. Her casual glances that sweep the room, masked by her detached and carefree persona, enable her critical assessment of everyone and everything as she seemingly continues her duties with casual ease and refined grace. The only question was how many would eventually leave this room alive.
And so, another day in the life of Erethel Starweaver proceeded as usual.
“So you declare, so shall it be, Great One.”
Without so much as a dismissive wave to officiate his departure, one nameless kobold hurried to obey. If anything, it bothered him that he did not get to employ any degree of sniveling as he tried to bow and scrape. He had been practicing his subservience, but the ogre cared little for such things. As soon as the kobold entered the room, the ogre spoke. As soon as the ogre spoke, the kobold was expected to depart. That was the way of things, for the strong led and the weak followed. The kobold did not have any qualms with such an arrangement, but it still chaffed to not showcase his skills at groveling and uttering empty platitudes.
While such skills and indeed Skills found little use here, he had plenty of opportunity to scurry. Boy, was he good at scurrying; he could scurry with the best of them! A damn-fine scurrier, that one! Biden to obey, he scurried as fast as his little legs could carry him, past the wounded who were bleeding out on the floor, which was really inconsiderate, seeing as how those who scurry do not appreciate the slipping hazards posed by prone bodies and slick pool of blood. Why, it caused him to need to merely shuffle past them instead of scurry, which was a whole different skill set that he had not practiced as much.
However, he persevered despite such obstacles. Even that one guy that was busy stabbing his compatriots did little to slow the kobold down, nor did the need to dodge and weave through the fray as all hell broke loose due to the stabbing guy doing stabbing things ultimately delay the kobold overly much. Said kobold did nothing to interfere, for nothing in his job description said anything about needing to prevent infighting. With pride, he ignored and avoided the one gurgling guy who reached towards him, the intent most likely akin to begging for medical treatment or a witness to a final testament.
The kobold didn’t get paid for such distractions. Well, he didn’t get paid at all, but interns have standards. The experience and exposure of this gig would surely pad his resume for a cushy position elsewhere. Surely, if he just showed his unwavering devotion to the institution to which he gave his loyalty, it would remember him kindly in his own hour of need.
Such optimistic ponderings were best left for later, for some of those pesky elementals had breached this particular section of the hallway. No wait, this isn’t a residential area, so it must be a corridor instead. Yes, that is it, a corridor! A man being burned alive screams something incoherent, which the kobold imagines to be praise for his own mastery of terminology for basic architectural features of buildings.
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“Excuse me,” he begins as he tugs at the hem of a tabard on one of the knights that is busy fighting off an earth elemental. It really is a difficult undertaking considering the knight is fighting for his godsdammed life and the elemental is not discriminatory in its attacks, but what can one do? “I am trying to find Captain Kant. Could you point me in the right direction?”
The knight pays the kobold little mind as said knight blocks an earthshattering blow from the bulky elemental. Well, it would be earthshattering if they were on normal ground, but dungeons tend to be made of studier stuff, and this one is no exception. Perhaps the blow is earthshattering on an emotional level instead. Yes, that has to be the case, otherwise the knight would have politely responded.
Another gentleman appears to be a better target for inquiry. Most of him is crawling across the floor while leaving a bloody smear in his wake. The rest of him, including his legs and much of his guts, remains where he left it. Still, this one isn’t being attacked, so the kobold considers that there is potential for a straight answer here.
“Excuse me, same question. Do you know where I can find Captain Kant?”
“Can’t you see I am busy dying here!” the man screams in outrage and agony.
The man is big, tall, muscular, and green. Given that fact that he was coherent enough to answer in some way, combined with his physical features and unwillingness to simply lay down and die, why, he had to be an orc. With all that armor, it was difficult to be certain, but the kobold’s guts (and the orc’s) provided a reasonable degree of proof.
Then it dawned on the kobold. Maybe the orc was making a pun about “Can’t” and “Kant”. Yes, that makes sense! The kobold slammed one fist into the upraised palm of his other hand as understanding overtook him. This orc’s commitment to the bit could make him an honorary kobold! Such devotion would surely be noted in his quarterly performance review and looked upon favorably. Inspired by such a demonstration, the kobold continued his inquiry.
“So,” he drawled out with uncertainty, “Is that a ‘no’ or…”
The orc feebly reached his fingers for the potion pouch of another fallen comrade. Before his grasp could withdraw some measure of sweet relief or salvation, his traumatic loss of blood and, well, most everything else, caused him to expire. And a destroyed earth elemental crashed down upon the orc’s body, crushing what little remained of both to a pulp.
“Some people…” the kobold chided as he continued on.
It was just another day at the office for him.
“Stay with me!” Healer Hearthwort commanded as he laid his hands upon a comrade who was bleeding out. “You are going to live; just do your best to stay conscious and to lower your resistance to my healing.”
Such was basic knowledge for any soldier, that one’s own magic would resist foreign magic, especially to the body proper. However, the panic and desperation of the moment could override the training that had been drilled into them, and so, a reminder never hurt. Unlike that chemical burn from some sort of acid; that certainly would be causing pain.
With practiced efficiency, Healer Hearthwort laid his hands upon his patient, the magic from his Blessing workings its… magic, to fix the man’s body. Healer Hearthwort is no poet, and so his way with words had been insufficient to woo that one girl from the tavern at World’s End. Not that he had the courage needed to make such an approach, even with the plethora of liquid options available to him to bolster his resolve. He could wade through the blood and gore of enemies and allies alike, but asking a girl out was a bridge too far.
A scream of pain pulled his focus back to his patient. Any musings of word choice for his internal thoughts of a linguistic or romantic nature would have to wait for later. [Nature’s Balm] had been his reliable Skill to heal the injured, but it was causing great pain to his patient while also doing very little to actually mend wounds. These elementals have rather corruptive attacks that leave lingering effects akin to some toxin, acid, or other ailment. They are just a little different each time, and this time, that distinction was proving to be significant enough to require him to change tack.
Different Elements of magic tended to provide certain advantages and disadvantages to certain Schools of magic. In terms of the School of Healing, Nature tended to be best for enhancing and accelerating the body’s natural means of recovery from injury. When faced with such corruption, Fire would work best to cleanse the wound. It also excelled at cauterizing wounds in order to stabilize a patient so that proper healing could take place. While Healer Hearthwort had ample talent for Nature, his Fire was a little lacking. As such, he would need an incantation for something more complex than cauterizing wounds.
“The fire that burns also provides warmth on the coldest of nights,” he began as he chanted out the required words. “The flame that devours all can also cast out impurities. From that first spark to the final ember, I call upon the Fire that dwells within us all to burn away all that should not be.”
With his incantation finished, blue flames covered Healer Hearthwort’s hands as he set about the process of purification. Everyone knows that blue flames are for healing. Well, unless they are the super hot flames used for killing or melting things, but these are magically blue flames, and thus, different.
And so magically imbued, the flames purified the body of the patient as a blue glow enveloped the man’s body and radiated out from him, bathing the immediate surroundings of both patient and healer in a light blue glow. Such illumination incidentally provided a visual cue to attract one of the many kobolds that scurried about.
“Excuse me,” started the kobold while doing his best to appear detached from the suffering around him. “Would you kindly direct me to Captain Kant?”
Dual tasking is the purview of any [Healer], and certainly anyone with the title of “Healer”. If anything, during the middle of treating a patient seems to be the time when most people tend to voice their inquisitive thoughts. With a tired sigh to which he is due, Healer Hearthwort jerks his head to the right as a gesture.
“Over there. Short guy. Fancy armor. Perpetual scowl. Can’t miss him.”
The kobold scurries off without another word, least of all one of thanks. Such is the nature of things for a Healer: the lack of gratitude and polite civility being the norm rather than the exception.
With his work done, his patient has sufficiently recovered from his wounds to be fit for fighting again. Now comes the mandatory lecture.
“You are all patched up,” he started by rote. “Try to avoid using healing potions so as to not build up healing saturation. Take five minutes to meditate and to use your Skills or Banner Boons to recover your lost blood and stamina, then report back to your squad.”
The patient, still covered in blood, nods and rises to the sound of an angry and disturbed Captain Kant barking orders. The anger of their captain’s voice is nothing new, but the tint of some other emotion does raise a few concerns. Is that a hint of dismay or perhaps grim acceptance?
Healer Hearthwort doesn’t know for certain, but he also doesn’t like that sound in his captain’s voice.
Two members of their order are called over to the captain. Two members of their order are summarily executed by their captain before they can even react. Two former members of their order are dragged away, their bodies to be food for the hydras. No one questions it. No one doubts that their captain was simply following orders. They are all elite veterans. None of them need to be coddled. There is no time for an explanation as to why two seemingly innocent and competent members of their order were struck down. And, as the bodies of the fallen crumble to sand as strange wisps of air and vapor disperse from within, the answer is there for all to see.
They were traitors, plain and simple. Perhaps they were actually stationed elsewhere and these were imposters. That is what everyone likes to think. Occasionally, the bodies of such unlucky individuals would be discovered in a storage room somewhere at some later point, and that was assuming that such information ever became dispersed through the rank and file. More often than not, the true circumstances remained unknown and real bodies were never found.
While these elementals may not be directly of The Devourers, the underlying tactics and the accompanying blow to morale were just the same. With a heavy and desensitized sigh, Healer Hearthwort relocated to his next patient, a woman who was well on her way to needing to learn how to clap with one hand if that dangling scrap of meat holding her arm to her shoulder were any indication. With tired and practiced precision, he began to administer treatment.
Such was another day in the life of a frontline [Healer].
