-The Ideal has responded to your plight, forcefully arousing from its slumber. The possibilities present themselves to you...
A thick voice as soft as a warm blanket to a cold body sounded in Bie's head, leaden with honey and dew as viscous as a rushing river. The woman's sweet voice lulled his enflamed body to peace, and confidence rushed through his skull with shots of adrenaline flowing along his veins. The red thread shone brilliantly, and then subsequently three separate tasks were formed in his brain as the thread dimmed. He couldn't maintain full consciousness of his plight as all three trains of thought were occupied, and he even began to feel the itch flaring up again.
First, his eyes gleamed white as the imprint of a cross spread out from his pupil, the dark black becoming the center that marked the monochrome colors that distinguished themselves from the yellow topaz irises. His movements became jarring, jerkily stumbling before his arms batted away some of the looming teeth in a large arc. His moves suddenly became colored with clear precise abrupt movements, almost as if he was a puppet on a string.
This was the telltale sign of Guidance being activated, a skill that only worked if Bie could not pilot his own body and relinquished it to the will of the thread, Ariadne's Thread was what he its name was, and in this moment, he suddenly realized it as if it had always been obvious.
Secondly, his blue violet lips unfurled into a cruel smile, as if a creature from the depths was harkening to the screams of the damned. His eyes were crescent moons, however, nothing but the cross in his eyes could be made out as a purple light was defused from both his smile and in beams from his eyes. This was the power of Maenad, an ability that would normally be inaccessible due to him being a male. The thread ignored this, however, and it could be said that Bie's offsetting yet transcendent beauty that bordered on freakish could indeed pass for a girl, he was just that androgynous.
And lastly, the red thread seemed to travel along his body as it pulled the separated gaps of flesh and muscle together before stitching together into a rough patchwork, before receding as it left darkened scars both internally and externally. This didn't heal him, but it indeed stopped the blood streaming from his body and maintained the steam that was coursing out of his pores. This last ability was known as Sewing and had always been at work on a smaller scale to keep his right hand bound to the arm.
Gasps of purple air pushed out of his parted lips, and he suddenly stood up straight as the dogs attempted to inch away in fear but couldn't stop their charge that was already in motion. They had locked themselves in, and now they were completely open to any consequences that would arise as a result of their actions.
Grey streams of energy arose from the feet firmly planted on the floor, blooming russian purple as they circulated around the legs placed at shoulder level. The energy rushed into Bie's body and pulled out some errant Ink, surging towards the lower half of his shoulder as his arm began to shoot up towards the densest heap of dogs.
Like a whip smacked at it, the air cracked with the apparent force of the punch that seemed to do nothing but displace the medium through which the boom moved through. Bie's hair fluttered from the force of the explosion, though the true strength of the strike was yet to be shown. When the fist had nowhere left to go, a crackling of grey and purple sparks scattered in the air and popped and scattered as they clashed together, the force from this collision sending the cluster of dogs hurling towards the walls in tatters.
Bie's hand then separated from his arm as his arm gyrated, rotating with the emerging sparkles that were like firecrackers as they screamed and ate at the entrails of the enemies it touched upon, blowing them away like wet rags.
A faint imprint of a wide smile consisting of sharklike teeth that was remarkably similar to the effigy before the Bridge of the Smile of the Mountain in his Inner World settled behind him, shimmering in and out of existence like a ghost. The ground buckled under a sudden increase in weight, before a pit was left as Bie jumped in the air, his right hand clasping a hand axe that was left in his bag as it returned.
Bie suddenly became lesser in weight as he shot up, giving him enough airtime to reposition himself and direct his feet toward the missed group of dogs. His weight increased as he suddenly bore down on the poor whimpering creatures, crushing more than a few skulls as he rained down slashes with the hand axe on the dogs around his landing point.
He waded into a sea of red fur, hacking and hewing mindlessly as the hand axe surprisingly didn't break. It was odd too, because it seemed to be the least remarkable of all the weapons he had ever held, a bearded blade that topped off as a straight 180-degree line at the top and was affixed rather crudely to the bare stone hilt. It shimmered from time to time as the cracks along it disappeared intermittently, saving itself from the brink of ruin every single time, as if it was dancing along a knife's edge.
Bie spared no mercy to the breaking weapon, to the breaking horde. He baptized the weapons and soon to be carcasses in his Ink, creating a feedback loop of restoration as it hurtled back towards him, unable to escape the grasp of the smile that seemed to be sucking in the rampant energy. Today, the dogs had learned to despair, to become despondent, to resent the cruel hand of fate that foisted them with a deck stacked against them.
Their pain became the substance for Bie's dogged and tireless violence that seemed practically unending. His footwork became a sway of sudden outbursts and recessions that initiated a tug of war as his body couldn't decide what position to stay at. Blood surrounded and covered the room with Bie as its nexus, orange swirls engraving on the marbled ground.
The dogs could no longer fight back, and simply waited for the drop of the gradually approaching guillotine that loomed over their heads, the pressure of death finally having worn away even their will to resist. Chills climbed up their twitching spines, as the Guide let out small bursts of laughter that seemingly crawled along not only their bodies but also bounced against the wall.
--
Amitha picked up on the heavy scent of copper that seemed to waft down a passageway. It playfully squirmed in her nose, evoking the lust for life that most if not all undead possessed. What normally would have whipped her into a berserk frenzy--the volume was so dense-- instead made her heavily worried. Guided by her nose, the giant woman tirelessly smashed down walls as if her whole body had become a battering ram.