****************
Wyatt Graves
A phenomenon that I can only call a colossal discharge of force comes from behind as the very ground shakes in a way reminiscent of Kai's final outburst of strength. My eyes and neck betray me as I glance backward, my mind imprinted with Sacate's final thoughts. Only the wall of alabaster feathers protects us from the archer, and the greater distance we make, the more likely we are to survive. As I turn, I'm pulled forward, Johnny's bloodied and wounded face baring down at mine.
"Don't look back. We need to run. Catch up to Virgil and them. If worst comes to worst, I'll stay and buy time."
I choke down the burgeoning outburst because of his seriousness. Just like Blightraven, so is Johnny severely wounded yet still willing to rage against the end. Angels must be more resilient to harm. When Johnny was forced into unconsciousness by Darkstep, he was half as bloody.
His left arm has a gash that goes from his bicep to his pinky and shows the bone underneath. His chest has ribs that crest out from open cuts, and upon his face, a mangled line of flesh hides his left eye.
Sacate did what he could to heal him in those few moments, but it was not enough to get him back into fighting condition. If Johnny fights another Angel, he's dead. And so are we.
Taking a deep breath, I follow Johnny's orders and run forward, trying to get as far away as possible from the archer.
To my right in the distance, I see the hordes of Plagued sprinting like beasts toward me, their hunger endless. But at the same time, I can hear the vague shouts of Sentinels gathering their army to fight those who had risen from the Motherbound. At the very least, it seems as though we won't have to worry about the Plagued, or the Motherbound for that matter. The Nahullo are strong, very strong. When it comes to raw power, none, not even the demons, prevail against the northerners of the Frozen Wastes.
Pygmies are creative, demons unpredictable, and Nahullo tenacious. Their twenty-four, or I suppose now twenty-three, Councilmembers would likely overpower the soon-to-be ten Pillars. That is, if we didn't have three aces: Marshall, Maddox, and the Prime. The first alone is said to be the equal of five Councilmembers, and he, in his old age, is likely the weakest of the three, not to mention the lowest in Sigil. It is unknown how many Maddox or the Prime equal, but the legends are concrete. The Wastelander is unrivaled under the Gods' sinful heavens.
My heart stabilizes a tad at the notion of humanity still, with their losses, able to contest the Nahullo, but the truth is that the High Table also has its own aces: their two Vices and their Warmaster, the leader of the Council. None are on their own equal to the Wastelander, the man who most concur is the strongest being alive, barring Gods, but numbers add up.
No one is invincible.
Some are unmatched, and some inspire reverence with a simple name. But just as we could sway the battle between Johnny and the Councilman he killed, the nearly two dozen Angels of the High Table can do the same against the Prime.
Even if we oppose the Pillars and the lofty Prime, no more can fall. With Kai gone and Blightraven soon to fall, ten remain. Sure, Johnny took the leap into Angelhood, but he's new to it, completely unlike the two veterans.
My legs pump even harder as I push myself forward, doing everything I can to gain distance from the warring Angels behind. My thoughts may be dark, but the world before me is bright, the risen sun illuminating the horizon. I can see blots of shadow far in the expanse of Starkbluffs. They must be Silas, the rest of Rustbank's survivors, and the Bado.
Johnny is also ahead of me, the man, even heavily limping and with a chunk of flesh missing from his thigh, still faster than me. Virgil carries the unconscious Abraham, and Skychaser and Blake support the severely injured Bonfire as they run as well.
As we run, I continuously look back, hoping to spot a glance of the battle, but all I hear is the clashing of steel and the rumbling of metal on rock. Before, days ago, I had no idea what the sound was. I was clueless about the plight of the Bado's Pillar.
Those clashes of steel are his wings upon the blades, arrows, or whatever other weapons the Nahullo wield. The striking of steel on stone is him being sent tumbling from an impact only to stand once more.
From what I saw in Sacate's eyes, Blightraven is a resilient man unwilling to buckle under any pressure. Without hesitation, he challenged his opponents to kill him, the end of the threat they came to. And as I earn distance, the sounds of the clash gradually quieting, I realize that in the end, all we managed to do was be saved by him.
I go from getting one Angel killed to another. Blightraven may not have been the best man, as I know little of him personally, nor even human at all, but he doesn't deserve this death.
Someone so selfless should never be put in this position. And from what I've heard, it seems as though Eli Weiss, the Underground Tree, is the cause of all this. The invasion of the Nahullo was from a deal he brokered, and the insurgence of Motherbound from the Bado are likely from him pressuring the birdmen.
Upon the frontier, none hold more political and regional power than Eli, his roots reaching every Territory except for Lawless Lake. Maddox allows none to intervene in his isolated land. In the east, the Prime and the Estates hold more power, but in the frontier, Eli is king. His shadow exists almost everywhere.
There is a saying upon the frontier that all Hunters know who traverse here. Even I know it, having learned it from Bonfire.
If you can see a tree, the Tree can see you.
I add another name to the list of those who deserve death as my eyes scan the horizon, looking for a man I know will not be there. But as I do, a figure atop a faraway spire catches my eye.
It isn't possible to determine if it's a man, a tree, or simply a large rock, perhaps it's just a figment of my imagination, but it seems as though someone or something is looking down onto the stones of Starkbluffs from up high.
I grit my teeth and push more Ether into my eyes, Insight coming as I teeter on the edge of saturation. I try to reach the faraway figure with my eyes but cannot. Something prevents me from doing so, and I'm unsure if it's the distance or something more ominous.
But as my head pounds with threatening faintness, I hear another boom behind me, the air crackling and a sea of metal breaking.
Turning to see what's happening, I catch a figure moving faster than my eyes can track, slamming into a shorter spire we just ran past. The wall of alabaster feathers that kept us out of sight is broken, and Blightraven, missing a wing and an arm, both plainly ripped off of him, falls to the ground before my eyes. His blood dyes the gritty stone, spreading out into a circle around him akin to an Occultist's ritual for power.
The Nahullo step past the wall of feathers as they clatter to the ground, their influence lost now that Blightraven is out of commission. The one in front, the Viceroy of the two Vices, waves his gambeson as he points toward us, toward Skychaser in particular.
"Good. With that dealt with, let's move on. Mislo, finish off the last bird. Malew, kill the child. Niyte, remove that faulty Angel from my sight. I'll have a little heart-to-heart with little Ahbram."
My eyes trail Mislo's form as the female Nahullo pulls the string of her great bow with the point of the arrow aimed at Skychaser. Blood pumps through my heart at an incredible rate as I push myself forward, trying anything and everything to help the Bado.
"Skychaser! Dodge!"
But before my voice even reaches him after leaving my mouth, something else beats it, the arrow mimicking the sound of a bulelt.
An arrow with the stature of a spear pierces through the wings on Skychaser's back, goes through the Bado's chest, and peeks out on the other end, just barely missing Bonfire, who he's supporting.
And without even a scream, groan, or shout of pain, Skychaser crumples to the ground. Blake yells in shock as she tries to drag him and Bonfire both, but I can barely see through the red of my vision. Skychaser isn't living that wound. It went right through where his heart should be. I twist around to face the Nahullo, content with dying while fighting instead of running, but a palm wraps around my shoulder.
I turn my head mechanically to see Johnny's remaining eye filled with just as much anger as mine. A growl comes from the man as he pulls me back with such force I can't even resist in the slightest.
"Go!"
Then, the Gunfighter steps forward, bloodied but defiant, as he pulls the hammer on his gun and brandishes his blade of souls. Next, Mislo aims another arrow toward Skychaser, intending to guarantee the Bado's fate as the other two Councilmen come for Johnny and me. All the while, the Vice calmly takes steps toward the fastest of our group, Virgil. The man of darkness is moving at such a pace I can't even describe, shadowy tendrils pushing him forward as he bursts over the stone of Starkbluffs. Virgil is hurtling across the rocks with such speed that I wonder if his bones are breaking from the pace.
I'd think he was abandoning us if I didn't know him. But as the Vice of the High Table moves past me and appears from just a single foot from Virgil, I realize he was creating distance to keep the most dangerous man away from us.
Johnny fires off a slew of bullets, each glowing with an odd luminance within my world of chains as they land on Mislo, going right through her armor. Blood leaks from her armor as she ignores him and pulls the string of her bow once more. The Councilwoman is keen on obeying her orders.
Sir Malew and Niyte rapidly approach Johnny and me as the Gunfighter pushes me back again. This time, he stares me right in the eyes, all negotiation gone from his tone.
"Go."
But this time, unlike the others, I openly resist. He can't fight them alone. At least I can help buy some time for Blake, Bonfire, and perhaps Virgil and Abraham.
"No."
I see Johnny's shoulders sag in defeat as he reloads his Colt, the cylinder spinning with a clang. He seems to recognize my determination finally. I won't let another die for me. Too many have.
"I see."
Then, together, we prepare for the arrival of the Councilmembers. Sir Malew moves gracefully, his liquid metal creating perfect steps for him to use his momentum. At the same time, Niyte crushes rock with each movement of his body, the abnormally large Nahullo brute-forcing his speed.
I stretch my legs and my arm as I am ready for my coming death. It will happen, and quickly; I know that. I am but a bug to these Nahullo. Perhaps one day I could do to them as they do to me, but it seems that day will not come. With a heft, I pull my Claymore with me, the edge still stuck in the stone. I don't have the strength to spare just to hold it up. So I ran with it because it didn't matter. It slowed me down, but not all that much with the Vigor from it. However, the pressure within that cave was different, so I had to let go. The Claymore made from a 6th Sigil truly is formidable, though.
Too bad I won't get to enjoy it all that much.
I stare Sir Malew down as he comes, his eyes meeting mine through his steel helmet. I can spot a few wounds on his armor and sweat around his face. It seems as though Blightraven managed to hurt them even so severely outnumbered.
Gradually they approach, closing the great distance we made in just a few moments even as we try to earn a bit more. But right before Sir Malew and Niyte arrive within the liquid-metal man's reach, a raven-black mist rises from the ground. A voice that I thought would never resound again comes from the fog. The man, no, the Angel, is furious, and he evokes his wrath for his race's demise with his wild proclamation.
"I… Am… Not… Dead… YET!"
Malew and Niyte slam their feet, trying to slow as mist rises from the ground and reaches our legs. Faraway, I catch a glimpse of Blightraven, kneeling, his solitary arm outstretched as he literally evaporates himself into the rising fog. And oh boy, does the fog rise.
In less than a second, my entire vision fills with night, the risen sun gone. All that remains is the blighted fog. Careful because of what it did before, I hold my breath, but the fog seems to only take care of me, not harm me. A cool sensation covers my open wounds and soothes them, the dark embracing me.
And as I enjoy the embrace of the dark, a hand grabs my neck within the darkness, and I twist, raising the Claymore. But the hand's owner speaks before I finish my movement.
"Come on. It seems Blightraven gained more from his time with humanity than his accent."
As I ask Johnny what he means, I'm pulled along through the smoke, heading in the original direction.
"What do you mean? Are we safe?"
I can't see him shake his head, but I know he is doing so.
"No. I mean that Blightraven, Howard Strafe, or whatever you want to call him, gained an aspect of a human Angel. It is said that our Ether shines brightest upon death, akin to an aging star ending its own life. The most significant acts come from deadmen who refuse to die quietly. It is also the origin of Marshall's motto that keeps his soldiers fighting."
Quietly, I speak a part of the phrase deified amongst those who live on the frontier.
"And as the very last man falls, he, too, shall spread the fire."
Johnny slaps me on the back as he pushes me forward.
"Aye. It seems as though today is not our day to die. Blightraven, upon his death, burned bright enough for his light to reach the peak."
My eyes widen as I realize the sable fog around us is not a Power. It is a simple skill—a Dzil. Blightraven pushed his fog so far that it exceeded that of his own Power. The wall of steel wings is nothing compared to this.
I try to listen for anyone else in the fog, but there is no one. It blocks even my penetrating sight. There is nothing but the fog, the stone beneath my feet, and Johnny, who is holding onto my shoulder. And so, I stumble forward. Onward and onward through the fog as it never seems to end. Almost as if it is following us, watching us, and protecting us. I can almost feel a claw wrap around my shoulder, intangible yet significant.
And it is the final act of Blightraven, a blessing from an Angel with alabaster wings.
*************************
Blake Nightingale
The swarm of darkness covers me as I try to save the two underneath me, but they just won't breathe. I keep doing compressions, imbuing them with my ghosts, and trying everything I can think of to save Bonfire and Skychaser, but I just can't.
Nothing is working.
The Bado has an arrow as thick as my fist sticking through his chest, while Bonfire has one of a similar size in his stomach, the final act of Mislo before fog consumed us, joining his already near-lethal wound. It was going to hit me, but just before it did, the wounded pyro pushed me aside. I never knew he had it in him to die for another.
He's always a jokester, a goofball, and a bit of a playboy in private, but in that single moment, he showed me who he truly is. Same with Skychaser. The Bado could have run away, hell, even flew away if he really wanted to, but he decided to stay and help pull the wounded Bonfire along.
As I sit here on this stone, both are dying in my arms. And there isn't anything I can do.
Why? Why does it have to be like this? Again? First Dragoon, and now these two? Even Sacate is dead, the man who familiarized me with this mess by introducing me to Johnny. I just can never wash away the blood on my hands. It always seems to just spill onto me.
I can feel both their bodies cool as their hearts stop and their eyes still. My trembling hands are brought up as time slows, the particles of the fog moving at a crawl. But even at that crawl, my hands seem to move with normality, the blood dripping with a mocking flow.
Have I ever saved a life? Even one?
I don't think so.
All I do is end life and enslave unlife. I chose the Sigils Sexton and Abbot so that I could help them both. Protect the living and appease the dead. Neither have I ever succeeded in doing.
Am I just meant to get all those around me killed? To feel their blood streaming down my hands? Who's next? Johnny? Silas? W-Wyatt?
I– don't know if I can do this anymore, Dragoon.
Where are you? Are you in this fog? Am I in hell? Can you hold me one last time?
I'm not that little girl anymore, but it's all just… too much. I just want to sit here and curl up like I did in those trees when I was little. But scary men are coming, and the only way to live is to hide, just like back then.
My vision returns to normal darkness as my hands steady just a bit. Silence surrounds me as the gloaming suffuses my eyes, somewhat emulating the old hideouts I used to have in the marsh. It's almost as if I'm safe, hidden away from the world's dangers.
But the second my eyes touch the two inches from me, that slice of heaven created by my mind shatters. Bonfire. Skychaser.
They are dead. Truly, truly dead. Their bodies are cold, and their minds are frozen in eternity. Their souls are likely heading down into the Underworld right now, preparing to be given the Gift Of Undeath.
But if Death can gift them the gift, allowing them to live, why can't I?
That old God, incomprehensible and obscure, only has control over death. But I have leeway with life and death, my Vigor and my Bonds, allowing me to manipulate both.
Maybe? No. That's impossible.
But… I also thought going to the Underworld was unattainable until we did it, same with helping kill an Angel, just as I thought protecting Rustbank against Hura was before that. Just maybe…
Thinking of a young man's ability to make the impossible around him, I reach forward, my hands touching both of the fallen before me. Ether flows through my body into my hands as I do something forbidden to all Abbots.
I combine Vigor, the substance of life, and Ether, the substance of change, as I invoke Bond upon these two dead men. The two combine as they leave my hands, a gray smoke emitting from my palms as it funnels into the two corpses.
I've seen the impossible. Now, I want to make it.