the call
CHAPTER III
They do not stride towards their fate as one might expect heroes to do, all devotion, all duty to the cause. No, some limp onwards or ride upon borrowed clouds, while others walk in slow, wary silence. But progress they do, until an eerie light from a cove up ahead tempts them into the belly of the mountain.
And what greets them there tells quite the story.
Once upon a time, this shrine to Ludo and Mort stood as an ornate fountain; now it has been cracked open like an egg, gushing water from an endless spring deep within the earth. But it is not the water that lights the cavern, no - it is circuitry. Strange wires and cabling warp around and even through the splintered marble, softly pulsing electric blue. And in the empty spaces where the fountain once was whole, the air seems to shiver and vibrate.
For those in the know - and that includes our intrepid warriors - this looks suspiciously like a portal.
And whilst they may be injured and exhausted, they are steadfast enough to know that this is the route that takes them forward.
Only Delphia stops them.
"Not yet. This is not right," she whispers, stepping forward to sink to her knees in prayer - prayer to her father, to his herald, to those who passed in the battle below and for their very souls up here, on this lonely mountain.
Remi is already at her elbow when something pure rings through the marble, like the tinkle of a bell, or a child's laughter. Whatever it is, the vibrations that chime through their bones in turn provide some desperately needed aid; bones mend, skin knits itself back together, energy replenishes until all can stand unassisted, ready for the fight to come.
Which is good - because they'll need every bit of help they can get.
This portal leads to just one place, and although there's little time to waste figuring out exact locations, there's a distinct impression of being... up. Up high above the summit, in the lashing rain and howling winds, where gods and champions hold court.
And the sight that greets them is the sort to burn into the back of the eyes forever, replaying on cold, stormy nights just like this one.
But first, let's rewind.
She hadn't intended to come this far. The cove had merely been an opportunity, a peep in the dark as the Black Dragon had fallen, and Wessex had always been one for calculated risks. She'd merely gone to take a look into that shadowy crag, hoping for an edge for her brothers and sisters. But there had been no salvation up here for the Ascended. Just an insult in the form of a glorious fountain, a sacred space for the dead who fit the right criteria.
And so sue her - Wessex had destroyed it, feeling a small and spiteful victory when it didn't even strike back as some shrines are wont to do. A victory that warped into shock and confusion as the ruined fountain swarmed with static, as if touched by the Voice herself. And the shimmer of a portal... perhaps this could all be over if she were able to do this. Perhaps it could end without any bloodshed at all. Just one step forward, one step into... into...
A sickening crack echoes through what one might believe to be a marble floor, though it's obscured by the wall of rain that beats down upon the Old Gods warriors as they step out of the portal.
They do not see Wessex at first. They see Diana Bright.
Flaxen haired and with eyes like white thunder, first of the bright ones, beloved by the Voice... and now, in this Court of the Fallen, rendered utterly devoid of any semblance of personality or mercy. Flanked by other figures as yet still motionless in the shadows, Diana straightens from the ground, holding in her hands a mass of flesh and fluid and cable that, in the right light, might be part of a spine.
She spends a moment or two digging around in the fleshy, wiry lump, producing a small and sinister device that, were other Ascended present (alas), would be easily recognisable as the Wraith's splashback upgrade. Wessex Theskyra is no more - but she hasn't gone down quietly, and the evidence is writ all over Diana's body.
Indeed, courtesy of the same upgrade she now holds in her hands, Bright is barely hanging on. Consumed, however, by the desire to improve, to upgrade, to endure, her fingers are just reaching to affix the device to the back of her own neck when a sun-bright stag charges into the proceedings.
"Go." Whether Noah is speaking to his magic or to the group around him is entirely unclear, but the results are nonetheless impressive. Its antlered head bowed low, the stag connects with Bright much in the same fashion as a bulldozer, tossing its mighty head and throwing her, wreathed in fire, into the air. She is dead before she ever hits the ground.
And if ever there were declaration of war, this is it.
From betwixt hulking marble pillars that stretch up into the midnight rain, stars begin to shine... and then promptly fall, hurtling towards the group. Already the Lullaby is in motion, rushing forward and shifting, growing monstrous in size, slapping gargantuan tentacles around the nearest pillar to hoist himself up and absorb the celestial hit.
Beneath, his allies are also on the move - Ronin - two Ronins - dive into the fray; Maeve soars overhead on the Huntsman's nimbus, an arrow knocked against her cheek; Deimos runs to meet two figures with lightning crackling at his fingertips and the earth buckling at his feet; Delphia melts into the spiritual plane, on the heels of a basilisk with eyes shining like blood in moonlight.
And from above descends Safrin's first star like a meteor in the dark, as handsome as he is cruel. Bypassing the kraken to seek out weaker targets, Duke LeBlanc is aimed right at the Sword, only to find his vision shrouded by a blinding, starlit dome. Appropriately named, Ronin has thrown the Seal of the Duke high, obscuring his fellow warrior from view while he fights within.
Speaking of which, Deimos is not without his share of problems, finding himself engaged with a gambler and a king, both as wily and as majestic as their namesakes suggest. Ruby Gamble does not need her lucky gloves to cause the Sword problems, and this redheaded firecracker of Frey is enough of a distraction without taking her counterpart into consideration. In comparison, Rae's Tallulah King steps carefully, but she is no less wicked for her pragmatism.
Blades and magic clash within the dome, and outside of it the situation is no less tense.
Aiden Wilde is smiling, though it is no longer a smile of kindness and understanding. He has taken several starlit arrows to the shoulder, but pays them no mind as he tracks the basilisk's movement in the rain. Mort's chosen had no fear of death in the first war, and that is no different now.
As Noah strikes out with a serpent's fangs, Wilde's gaze is not even upon him. He reaches past Noah, out into the very ether itself, tearing Delphia from the spiritual plane to toss her towards one of the marble pillars. Two can play at Mort's game.
Behind them, the starlit dome drops and Duke is back on the warpath. Or at least he would be, were it not for a green-eyed monster suddenly standing in his way. It isn't jealousy, though - it's Remi. Trading tentacles for feathered wings and a deadly rapier, he plunges the ebony blade through LeBlanc's midriff before he can so much as sneer his challenge. With a flick of the wrist, the light in Duke's eyes dies forever.
Remi draws Wilde's Rapier free, wings flaring wide, adrenaline singing its song in his blood. And just as he is about to turn back to the fight, a soft mouth presses her lips against his ear. "My, you are a tricky one, aren't you?"
The group do not see exactly what happens next, but they certainly hear it. It takes a lot to make the Lullaby to scream out in pain, but as something reaches deep within his shoulder blades and rends and shreds and gnaws, there's no caging it behind his teeth. Harper Meadows - his predecessor, ironically enough - has been nestled against his bones for some time now, and as she departs she takes most of Remi's wings with her. Left with bloodied rags protruding from his back and with the rain mottling feathers into the marble, as Remi falls to his knees, Harper licks her fingers clean.
And a moment later, the Huntsman's supernova hits her square in the back.
Gamble and King are down, the former criss-crossed with lightning scars smoking gently in the downpour, the latter taken out by a starlight arrow to the neck. Deimos moves swiftly on, bypassing a seething, draconic mass of wings and talons shredding into Harper Meadows; heedless he might be of any wounds being dealt in return, Ronin nonetheless needs no assistance here.
In the meantime, Wilde's smile has been frozen in place for a few precious seconds, his visage petrified by a basilisk's stony gaze. Noah takes the opportunity to shift back, and in an echo of his fellow demigod, warm light blasts out from his person, giving succor to any wounds his allies have sustained (there's little helping Remi, though) and causing Wilde's frozen countenance to start to visibly chip away.
The moment he melts back into flesh and blood, Delphia is before him to return what he gave her a few moments before. She does not tear him from the spiritual plane, however; she returns him to it. Permanently.
And for a breath, all is silent but for the violent hush of the rain. The group stands. Perhaps they exchange glances, or run to one another, or gaze around for the next assault.
They won't have to wait for long.
It begins as a slow echo, a drumbeat on the marble. But no footsteps have ever sounded so heavy, so imminent. They ought not belong to a man so small, when he emerges from the storm. But they'll learn.
Because Warren Atticus is no man at all, and as he turns and bares his teeth in a grin, they'll see why. The Core has not blessed him with mere fangs; his is a maw of sharp, serrated teeth, rusting and ready to consume.
He doesn't wait for them to react; plunging his fist downwards as if to strike at the marble, it isn't clear at first what he's trying to achieve, until the pain hits. Then it makes sense - he was plugging himself in.
Electricity and stone erupt from the ground in splintering veins, racing towards the group. Some receive glancing blows, others managing to twist out of the way completely. But Deimos and Delphia? They are each hit with a force enough to launch them backwards, almost back through the portal completely. Hidden for now by the wind and rain, the damage will not become immediately apparent.
But when Deimos straightens, he'll find, beneath smouldering armour, the left side of his chest and shoulder warped, burned, and glistening with pieces of what he swears could be circuitboard. Delphia suffers a similar fate, but her blow falls against the right side of her neck, creeping up onto her cheek. Blasted by Atticus and blighted by the Core, they will wear the evidence of his gift forever.
But now the inertia has broken, and even as two of the party are thrown back, the others move in. Warren rips his fist from the marble as the Nightshade's feather-tipped whip cracks about his throat, yanking his head to the side. A flurry of starbolts assaults him from above, a mass of tentacles from below, and the Sentinel appears at his back, locking strong arms about his neck and twisting, wrenching.
Jagged teeth gnash at Noah's forearm, but the assault does not let up. And with Remi's tentacles looping and coiling and crushing about Atticus's lower half, it matters not how much he writhes. How much he sparks and tries to electrocute the limbs that hold him. In barely half a minute, they have relieved his head from his shoulders, the fizzing wires and tubing still crackling as his skull falls with a dull thud onto the wet ground.
This time they do not wait for another attack, pressing onwards through rows of marble pillars, through pedestals and thrones, shrines and altars.
Soren Young waits for them before a small, plain door that seems unbefitting of the grandeur all around. He is a tall man, graceful and pale, a patch covering his right eye and a slender sword of pure light in his hands. Evidence of teeth marks his pallid skin, and he regards each of the warriors before him with quiet understanding. It almost feels like a welcome.
With a gentle nod, he raises his sword high... and plunges it inwards, delivering himself to Mort with nary a whisper or a cry.
The court has fallen.
And Caido awaits.
