#who was also trying to summon an archdemon of terror

[with-ink-and-quill]

Alone in the Torrent

After traversing the nightmare fog taking over the old graveyard and facing the buried traumas it dragged into the night, the party found the source of the horror and her nightmare protector. Left to fend for himself against the colossal knight and their giant mace, nearly crushed to death in one swing, Nik must now come to terms with the last long day. He may have banished the monster, but it lingered in his mind in more ways than one.

As the door shut behind him, eyes glowing in the dark room, he finally let out a shivering breath. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding it. It had been hours by now and the realization caused his hand to tighten on the glass bottle, claws threatening to mar the surface. Instead he forced his leaden legs to move, trudging to the desk and letting the bottles of his chosen poison clink onto it. With a shaking hand he spilled his journal out as well, ink bottle and pen tumbling after. The bundles of papers and expensive inks bounced to the tabletop as well and he eyed them warily. For once, he felt thoroughly done with magic. He didn’t want to think about it. The feeling of being crushed was still causing his breaths to wheeze, too fast and short. The phantom pain lingered: the earth sucking at his feet, the rock clawing into his back as vicious metal ground his ribs to dust, desperately trying to pull in a breath as the world forced the air from his lungs, choking on his own words and blood to force the magic free. The sheer terror of running for his life, barely escaping the next murderous swing and praying the second strike didn’t steal someone else from him; of being left to fend for himself and knowing that if he failed, someone else would die for it.

He didn’t register falling to his knees, his fingers clutching the edge of the desk so tight it hurt. Forehead pressed to the cold wood, he was gasping for air, vision blurring. The pain and fear of the last day finally sunk in, whipping up inside him violently. He was drowning in it. Magic may have physically healed him, but it didn’t make the experience disappear. Silent, wheezing sobs escaped him, long minutes slipping by. He wanted to bundle himself in the bed, shut away from the world in warm darkness, but the same thought caused his heart to beat wildly. Just the mere thought of being wrapped in anything felt terrifying. And as tired as he was, the buzzing from the Banishment spell ensured it would be a hard won rest. Part of him despaired that night had passed them by, as if the starlight would somehow offer him reprieve from the peculiar affliction. At the very least, he missed the eerie comfort it brought him.

Exhaustion eventually robbed the strength from his sobbing and he scrubbed a sleeve over his face to dry the tears. A grimace curled his lips as he felt grave dirt and rock dust grind against his bloody and sweat stained skin. Long hours of grueling hiking and miserable combat had left him filthy. It wouldn’t be great to try and sleep like this. With nothing left to fuel the emotional turmoil, he let himself slip into cold logic. He was tired, dirty, and beaten up. Sleep would eventually happen, and magic could solve the rest. A simple spell to disappear the detritus, but he could feel the power shoot pins and needles up his arm from the crystal. He had used a lot of magic without very much rest between, and it smarted. Trying to cast anything more complex would be too much, he didn’t have the energy, or strong enough connection, or whatever properly powered his spells. He needed an actual fucking break.

Which brought him to his bed. Apprehensively, he poked the mattress before sighing heavily. It brought back memories of the earth softening under his feet, loamy hands snatching to pull him under. He almost let out a whine at the tragedy of it. A proper bed was always one of the few things he looked forward to most after long days on the road. Sleeping on the floor wasn’t viable, though, unless he wanted to wake up feeling worse. With a heavy sigh, he spread his bedroll out and dragged the pillows and blankets off the beds. If he was going to have a shitty camp out in the middle of a gods damned inn room then he was going to have every other comfort available. Pausing for a moment, he arranged it all much like the nests of one very sneaky and charming little bird. If she found them a comfort, maybe he could eek out some for himself. Satisfied with his handiwork he finally set about removing his gear. Kicking his boots off clumsily, he tugged at the lacing of his arm guards and shrugged off the solid leather. His shawl was pulled over his head and tossed atop the pile of blankets making up his bed as he set upon the leather around his waist. Shedding that he finally removed the rather solid jacket, casting it only a slightly bitter glance for the protection it had offered.

With a sigh he sat unceremoniously on his makeshift bed, fiddling with the silver bracelets before tossing them aside. Next came the earring, then an absent discarding of the silver ring, and finally his hand came to rest on his chest before faltering. His crystal wasn’t there anymore and the habit of clutching it was proving hard to shake. Instead of dwelling on the uneasy somersault his stomach did at the notion, he busied himself with untying his hair. For a moment he just sat quietly, carding fingers through the knots the past day had created and taking long, steady breaths. He was fine, the party was fine. The battle was over and they had won. It was fine.

He fell back into the awaiting embrace of far too many pillows, his tail lashing out in annoyance among the sea of blankets. It wasn’t as comfy as the bed would have been, but he could easily put a hand out onto the very solid floor should he need the comfort. For a moment he missed Thorne. Having a cat to pet and listen to purr would have gone some long way to settle his nerves. The damnable creature was just as likely to claw him for the efforts though, and was charged with giving that comfort to Verity. He felt a pang of guilt at that thought, followed with a wave of anger and bitterness that had his tail thrashing. He knew he wasn’t being fair, but he was upset. She had abandoned him to the hulking monstrosity from the tower and then after the harrowing fight, had proceeded to heal him excessively before passing out from the effort. As if that would comfort him! He was horribly, gut wrenchingly worried about her now. Which was why he had left Thorne in her charge. At least this way he could check in on her himself without having to address all the messy emotions. It didn’t untangle the roiling mess of feelings that had moved into his chest, but it helped a little. He was still mad, still felt betrayed, still worried horribly for her. But it helped.

With a long deflating exhale, he forced himself to close his eyes and curled up under a blanket. First, sleep. He would deal with feeling afterwards. And for some few blissful moments, that plan worked. Until the bed felt too soft and the cloying scent of death had him flailing out an arm for solid ground. It had been too much to hope for peaceful rest. Electing to simply leave one hand resting against the hardwood floor and pulling in a steadying breath, he tried again. This time he got to the hazy half sleep, the border of consciousness bringing the relaxed comfort of almost sleep. Except at the edge of his thoughts he could swear there was a faint voice calling out to him. He knew that voice, so achingly familiar, far too much time passing since he had last heard her, and it twisted his heart with fondness. And then that fondness turned to icy fear, squeezing his heart until it pounded painfully in his chest. She was crying for him, begging for help, she needed him, needed him now, and he wasn’t there. Why wasn’t he there for her? He needed to run, to chase after her, had to reach her before it was too late. He still had time, he had to have time, he couldn’t be too late. He would never forgive himself if he was too late. She would be okay, he would make it, she’d be fine, she had to be fine-

With a gasp he woke in a tangle of blankets, still half fighting himself free of them in the confusion of his sudden wake up. The frustration and fear caused a snarling sob to escape him as he ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. He was so tired of everything. He missed Katya dearly and was terrified that his absence had caused something terrible for her. And for a moment, just the sliver of a moment, he missed something he thought he never would: the simplicity of home. It had been boring, but it was familiar. He knew all the monsters that lurked there, or he thought he did. But it wasn’t his home now, if his last conversation with his father was any indication.

In a flurry of exhaustion and anger, his fingers began the somatic components of a spell, the arcane words muttered under his breath before a stinging pain shot up his arm. He bit his tongue, unaware of his actions before the negative feedback shocked him. His body was suspended in silent hurt, mere seconds of agony before it faded. He couldn’t cast still, not anything meaningful. Not like his father would give him clear answers anyways. What was he thinking? Clearly a magical call in the early morning from an entity claiming to be your dead son after almost three years of silence would be well received. Especially when he hadn’t planned out the message already. What kind of pathetic, juvenile attempt was that?

Clearly sleep wasn’t helping and magic was very much out of the question. His arm still felt like pins and needles, an almost awful resonance radiating from the crystal itself; like the chunk of rock was protesting his stupidity. It almost made him laugh. Well, his pact wasn’t helpful so he might as well try another route. If his father was such a famous entity now, surely it wouldn’t be hard to get a letter to him. It was just as likely he’d burn it once he figured out who wrote it, but it would be better than doing nothing. So Nik dragged himself out of his makeshift bed, a fist tangled in his shawl as he trudged back to the desk. With a heavy sigh he plunked into the chair and set about lighting the lamp to spare his eyes the effort of darkvision. Only partially dazzled by the brighter room he dragged out loose paper and his pen from the pile of spilled goods, settled into his seat, and pressed the nib to parchment. He sat motionless for a long minute, lost.

How was he supposed to open the letter? ‘Hey dad, please keep reading, I know you think I’m a lying abomination, but how’s the new job? You happy?’ Surely a cold open demanding to know if they were dead or not would go over well. Or he could upend the roiling, angry mass stewing in his heart that his parents had lied to him, manipulated him into thinking himself mad, and then disowned him when he left. He could demand answers for so many questions about his life; why they felt the need to keep him afraid, why they couldn’t explain anything when he asked about the voice he heard, why they just covered for the people who hurt him when he was just a child. He could beg them to forgive him for whatever wrong he committed to be cut off so suddenly. Because he was sorry, even in his ignorance. They were his family, his only family, and he loved them dearly. They were his home and the thought of losing that extinguished the rage, leaving him shivering.

The pen left an ugly dark splotch on the blank letter and he let it fall to the desktop, his hand tightening on the shawl. He cradled his head in the other, trying to force himself to take slow, deep breaths. Life would have been so much simpler if he had never left Trestan. He could have been sitting at the kitchen table tucking into the leftovers from the previous night while Katya gushed about her plans about town for the day. Their mother would have been shaking her head in exasperation, smiling while heaping food onto her excitable daughter’s plate. Their father would have been trying to get her to stop at the market for this or that while mixing a bowl of herby dough that would accompany dinner as a savory bread later that day. And Nik would have sat there, listening contentedly, knowing he would have to do the shopping and chores, but that was fine. Because he was home and, if nothing else, at least he had his family. He knew he had love and warmth waiting for him.

Except now he didn’t, because he had left to chase a voice in the sky.

The chair rocked dangerously far back, his face blank as he stared up at nothing. When the legs touched the floor again, he had a bottle of honey mead in hand and was clawing the seal free. He took long draughts as if each one could somehow ground him, would chase away the cold hole opening up in his chest. He had never cared for drinking back in the village. He even had a great deal of disdain for the drunks that staggered out of the tavern late at night to collapse in the streets just to repeat it all again the next day. But they had seemed so insensate after it all and that sounded just fine to him now. When he finally stopped to breathe, he was shaking slightly and the bottle was missing a decent amount of liquid. He set it back down, picked up the pen, and hesitated. And then he wrote. He would jot down long sentences, cross them out, take a swig, and try again. Letters were torn up, crumpled into balls and tossed aside, and left unfinished. When his hand felt too sluggish, the script beginning to dance before his eyes, the bottle was half empty. It was hard to tell how long he had been failing, but then no, he knew how long the sun would linger didn’t he. Well, far too long for a simple letter.

The pen clattered out of his hand onto another abandoned attempt and he reached for the drink again, but he paused. The light glinted off the crystal and from something just peeking out of his bag. He dragged a dagger into the open, turning it over in contemplation. Would it hurt terribly if he carved the accursed rock from his flesh? The area felt rather numb normally and he was right sloshed now, it was as good as he’d ever get without asking someone else to do it. Would it sever his magical connection? If he presented it to his father, would the man forgive him? Could he get his family back if he returned to being nothing special? Would giving up this magic, this life of adventure, this identity return what he lost? The blade clicked against the crystal lightly, held a bit awkwardly in his right hand before he changed his grip for better stabbing force. There really was only one way to find out.

The warlock spread his hand flat on the desktop, standing up and holding the dagger above the offending appendage. It would be so simple. Maybe he’d lose the hand, but he wouldn’t have to hide it anymore. He wouldn’t have to worry about the implications or what mysterious role he was supposed to be fulfilling. Oh, he would be useless, but he’d be free. The blade pressed against the flesh bordering the crystal, cold and sharp. Just one push. A bead of bright red sprung up in response, vibrant and tempting. He pulled the dagger back, paused to shakily aim, and struck. He did feel a sharp sting, felt the blade hit something solid, but as he blinked down all he saw was a shallow cut on his hand and the dagger stuck in the wood tabletop. He had missed. Even this simple task was impossible for him.

He dropped back into the chair, dagger abandoned where it was impaled. His head fell back until it met wood, limbs limp like a puppet discarded, and he laughed. It was soft at first, a huffing of breath that slowly built until it was manic. The whole situation was comical. He was too special for the simple life of a villager, but too normal for the fraught life of an adventurer. What was he to do? So he laughed, because he had nothing else. He laughed until it hurt and kept laughing a little longer even then, before he finally tapered off. In the ensuing silence he simply watched the weak shadows dance in the room to the lamp’s light. He felt so tired and altogether numb now. The night had been a bundle of failures and it drew a heavy sigh from his lips as he sat upright. He was surrounded by a little sea of letters, not a single one viable. The ink stained even his hands and it caused his mouth to twist sourly. He was thoroughly fed up.

The anger bubbled up fast and hot, simmering frustration fueling it. He wanted to scream until his throat ached, tear the room to shreds, somehow vent the helplessness from himself. It was infuriating. He couldn’t talk to his family, likely wouldn’t survive pleading to his patron, and was being a stubborn ass with the woman he loved. He couldn’t write a measly letter asking if his sister was alive, couldn’t tear out the damned crystal that housed his cursed magic, and couldn’t be less of a coward when it counted the most. And honestly, getting drunk was proving to be rather a big let down. There were no numbed feelings, just a shorter path to anger and despair. Useless fucking drink.

“What I would give to cease feeling.” He snarled into the empty air, teeth bared to no one.

He felt it all too keenly, much as he liked to pretend otherwise. Loathed as he was to admit it. What had feeling ever done for him? Lancing agony at the loss, alienation, isolation in his life. It had gifted him simmering anger for his treatment at the hands of others, the pain they inflicted because they could, because he was different. Because he was weak and meant nothing, so it bit deep into his flesh and spread its vile venom to his heart. What was the small warmth in his life to the vitriol of living? Where was the purpose? 

He found himself staring out the window, squinting in the light and hating the headache it brought. If only he could dash the sun out of the very sky, plunge the world back into blissful darkness, bask in the moonlight and lose himself in the stars. He ground the heels of his palm into his eyes, exhausted, before staggering out of the chair. Almost tripping into bed, he clumsily tangled himself under the blankets. He laid flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling for a long minute before his eyes slid closed. He pressed his hand against his chest, just above the collar of his shirt, the crystal cold against his flesh. A part of him wanted to cry out to his goddess, to beg Her to take all the pain away or give him some direction to walk. Instead he thought back to the fountain, of the liquid agony the waters held, and the endless expanse of stars. He held that impossible sky in his mind, the cold comfort it reflected in the mirror surface he had walked. He offered up each ugly emotion roiling within him, all the pain and hope as one, to that sky. And slowly, with each breath, the keen bite of feeling ebbed. Even the itching buzzing in his skull seemed to grow quiet before the great expanse. His fear and doubt were simply dwarfed and finally, finally he could rest. Under that sky he could simply stop existing. Living was a chore for when he woke. For now, all the world was stars.

#this one is from more recently in the game #basically the gang had to spend a whole in a graveyard actively trying to kill them just to find the caster causing the fog #who was also trying to summon an archdemon of terror #and when Nik Banished the giant knight protecting her it uh it stayed gone but #it stayed behind for him in the back of his mind like a buzzing noise or itch he couldn't scratch #also he failed the fuckin' wisdom save in the fog so he heard his little sister crying out for him and had to be physically restrained #the 3 year time skip the gang got hit by for popping into the Shadowfell has Fucked Him Up as it were #*spend a whole day in a graveyard woops #anyways there might be a part 2 to this not sure yet #nikolai zepar #dnd #writing #tiefling #warlock #oh his casting focus is the crystal embedded in his hand he didn't have a say in that lol #and Thorne is his familiar - a black cat who sometimes lashes out at him because it responds to his won self loathing #*his own I'm so tired rn

[stardust-lightning]

Starchild: Dream Maker Chapter 7 - A Paintbrush Wand and Some Blue Lightning

So these are the Nightmare Spirits? They’re creepy as heck and they haven’t done anything yet besides standing around and staring at us with those creepy grins that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. So what do we do now…?

We wait in tense anticipation for something, anything to happen.

The Nightmare Spirits begin to come closer and closer to the crowd of terrified townsfolk, their maniacal giggling becoming laughter and more sinister. The crowd starts to condense and compact together. Some people even have their weapons drawn out, mostly daggers and knives but some even have guns like rifles. I instinctively take out my paint-brush wand, prepared to attack. The Nightmare Spirit on top of the building ledge raises its left arm as if to command the others, and as it does so, blood-red markings form on its body.

It then drops its arm down and all hell breaks loose.

Chaos ensues as the Nightmare Spirits pounce and the ones with weapons attack with what they got while the defenseless run away and hope to escape. I clutch my paint-brush wand and Zero clings to me as the tiny war rages on all around us, offering us no means to escape. I snap to my left and see one Nightmare Spirit charge toward us. Without thinking, I flick my paint-brush wand in its direction, which causes three tiny silver darts to shoot out and hit it in the head. This causes the Nightmare Spirit to dissolve into tiny specks of black powder.

I was not expecting the paint-brush to work like it did.

“How did you do that!?” Zero asked, obviously amazed.

“Fam’, I don’t even know what I just did.”

“LOOK OUT!” Zero yells.

I snap around to the right to see three Nightmare Spirits like the last one. Zero is already on it, as he jumps out with his hands up and out in front of him as to hold back the ambush. Out of the blue, thin, blue lightning bolts zap out of his hands and electrocutes the trio of demons, causing them to also dissolve into black powder. We are understandably shocked at our newfound abilities.

“Dude...that was AWESOME!!! Did you know that you could do that!?” I ask Zero, whose wide eyes give me my answer that he doesn’t.

“N-No...”

“Let’s try to take down the rest of them!”

“Okay!” He gives me a little smile that beams determination.

Back to back, we have each other’s back as we zap and beam out the enemies. I take a broad diagonal swipe of my paint-brush wand and it makes a nice slash to slice five Nightmare Spirits at once. Zero takes a running leap and launches an electric spear that explodes some Nightmare Spirits in their faces and dissolve them. This continues several more minutes until they begin to retreat and fly out of town. Zero turns around to my direction and the remaining people gather to our spot. With their quick travel, we wouldn’t be able to catch up with them. We watch as they flee in terror out of town and out of sight, watching the dust of the street swirl up and then settle again. Pueblo Terracotta is quiet save for the hushed voices of those who come from their hiding place and see the wreckage the chaos in town.

“Where did they go?”

“Is everyone alright?”

“What were those things?”

Everyone questions each other and those around them. I can see Santiago and Elena pushing through the crowds I guess to find us. They break through and meet up with us at the decimated apartment complex. Their faces are understandably worried.

“Airika, Zero! ¿Le hicieron daño?”

“We’re fine.” Zero calmly tells them.

“That. Was. AWESOME!!!!”

“So what now?”

“That was only just the beginning, my dears.” A familiar high-pitched voice speaks out.

Out of the crowd walks Celestial Gatekeeper Rhiannye in biblical clothing, in a long, navy-blue tunic with a silver shawl wrapped around the head and draped down. The most striking feature is the elaborate woven designs on her tunic and shawl depicting flowers and vines. The crowd parts out of respect for her and she trudges to where we’re standing. Her stormy gray eyes are still as lively as ever.

“Gatekeeper Rhiannye! I thought you were in Plasmatio?”

“I am not, as you can see. I’ve sealed off the Gate to prevent any Nightmare Spirits from passing through, however, the seal is a weak one, so my time here is limited.”

“Why are you here then?” I ask her.

“I came to bestow you with knowledge and equipment. First things first, the Nightmare Spirits that you just battled are the weakest of the bunch. The power of the Spirits are measured by the color and placement of their markings: no markings show that they are the grunts, which are the ones that you saw. Your destinations with be highlighted by a bright blue marker to signify any of the seven Archdemons on the Dreamscape Map. Fret not, for along the way, you may find some company to partake in the journey with you. Now onto equipment. Judging your unpracticed Elementalist ability, Zero, I have these to aid you until you can control the elements safely and effectively.” Rhiannye explains as she helps Zero put on what looks like simple gauntlets made of straps attached to a circular device, “These are Elementalist Gauntlets, used by Elementalists to aid in battle. As I have said, these help control your powers until you are strong enough to control them. Right now, you power is inhibited, which can be extremely dangerous. Wear these for now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Zero simply replied.

“Mortal Airika, I’ve not forgotten you. You are already in possession of your greatest weapon, which is your sketchbook. It is detailed with maps, character descriptions and other information that you and Zero will need. Your paint-brush wand is responsible for summoning anything in your sketchbook from weapons to backup. Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.” I nod, assuring her.

“One last thing: you’re probably curious about the silver substance in the glass bottle.”

I am, actually. I root through the satchel to pull out the mercury-like substance and hand it to her. She uncaps it and lets the silvery substance form into her hand.

“Be careful with this. It may not look like it, but this is actually stardust.”

Wait a second, THIS is stardust?

“This stardust is of the rarest kind and contain many magical properties. Perhaps you may find some use with it. Use it wisely.”

“Okay.”

“My time here is up. I must get back to the Courtyard. Destroy the Archdemons before the crumbling destruction reaches the heart of the Dreamscape known as Cordis. If the dark forces of the Nightmare realm reach Cordis and destroy it, the Dreamscape will collapse and everything here will be no more. You have a little time left. Act quickly. Dominus tecum.” Gatekeeper Rhiannye warns as she fades into a blinding light and in a flash, she is gone.

Zero looks over his new gauntlets as I mull over her words. Zero flexes his hands to get used to the feeling; it’s not an unpleasant feeling. I snap out of it and take my sketchbook out to see the Map that Rhiannye mentioned earlier. Zero joins me at my side and looks over my shoulder as I turn the pages to the Map.

The ink outline of the land forms on the pages and the names follow. As Rhiannye mentioned previously, the markers flare up to a bright blue to indicate the seven Archdemons with the closest one just out of town with the image of a stone cavern in front of a patch of a forest. The name that forms reads:

Foraoise Dhraíochta

“Foraoise Dhraíochta.”

“What?”

“Foraoise Dhraíochta. It’s Irish for ‘enchanted forest’.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not far from here, see, it’s out just past town.” I say, pointing to the spot.

“I see it!”

“By the way, I’ve just got one question.”

“Yeah?”

“You game to go on an adventure and save the universe?”

I watch as Zero’s eyes lit up and he gasps as he nods excitedly. I’ll take this as a yes.

#What's this? #A new update after a 5 month hiatus? #Believe it! #Starchild #Dream Maker #my writing #Star On The Mic!