The fellblood slowly rises up onto his feet, his back still to Caedes as the changeling enters the chamber and stands at the top of the stairs. From Caedes' vantage point, it's clear Zarius is hardly acting normal. He doesn't respond to his name and doesn't offer any signals or words to reassure him that everything is fine. As he sways unsteady on his feet, there's a twitch to his fingertips, and his movements seem strained like pushing against some invisible force pulling on him.

After what is only a few seconds but feels like an agonizing eternity, he turns to face Caedes. The warm gold of his eyes is absent, instead replaced with a haunting azure light. Wisps of black smoke rise from the corners of his mouth and lift off his skin, seeping through his clothes and rising in delicate tendrils in the air. A strange echoing voice speaks through him.

"Insect."

Then he jerks, staggering back as his neck bends to the side in an unnatural contortion. His eyes strain wide and he grits his teeth as he claws at his head. His own nails rake across his skin, and the trickles of blood ignite in those same blue flames that have haunted Caedes' since that fight in the back alley. 

"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!" He shrieks in another voice not his own.

The blue flames catch and engulf the fellblood's body, enveloping him in the azure flames of dark magic.^{[1, 2, 3]} The heat of the chamber immediately increases, making it feel like the inside of an oven. 

Zarius continues to strain and struggle as if being pulled in every direction at once by all the various wills competing for control of his body. His tail curls and his muscles tense as he lets out a scream filled with anguish before he goes lax again. 

He blows out a puff of black smoke. 

"Impatient children, all of you. Have patience." A particularly irate voice takes control long enough to get out a few scolding words. "We've waited this long, don't screw it up now."

The fellblood looks down at his hands, flexing them a bit before ignoring Caedes' intrusion and walking towards the altar at the far end of the subterranean temple. 

Seems that things do not go completely to plan for this new will, as he staggers and tenses again. 

"Tch." He hisses between clenched teeth. "You don't deserve our blessing, impudent child."

---

[1] Evil Incarnate (Persistent, all attacks and spells deal dark damage in addition to their normal damage types) 
[2] Heat Cloak (fire damage)
[3] Heat Wave (1/3 posts)

The shadowed arachnid undulates unsteadily; the appearance of an elven woman in the room with them seems to take it by surprise. Its long legs tap against the rock surface, its motions leaving behind a residue of ink; and its blank face turns upwards to where she floats behind Cyran.

Her confidence is grating; the energy in her presence is nigh unbearable.

There is something about her that is unsettling; but then, there is something that falls in the pooled ink within her domain, rippling the shadows beneath her many legs. A disturbance. Webs of obsidian tremble without gust, and her eight eyes open on the other side— dissipating the arachnid in the mortal plane just as quickly as it had appeared.

She knows she is needed elsewhere.

---

His breath catches in his throat; there is no answer, and he does not necessarily need one in order to see the way Zarius sways on his feet. His body moves in a way that is limp, yet guided: like a puppet on strings.

Please, no.

Smoke billows delicately around the fellblood, curling in thin smoke stacks, before their strands split and dissipate into the air.

No, no, no, no…

He stops, not realizing he had begun to move, until Zarius turns to look at him; the haunting blue light reflected in his eyes sends a shiver up his spine.

“Insect.”

The sound echoes off of decorated pillars and obsidian walls; but Caedes can only grit his teeth behind pursed lips. Shock and anxiety buzzes like a swarm of cicadas within his chest; together, they reverberate his rib cage and lace his hands with small, subtle tremors. The fellblood screams, but the voice that leaves his throat is unfamiliar; his—their—pleas echo unanswered in the desolate altar room, lit by an azure inferno that twists his stomach into knots.

Heat buffets past him, bringing him back to that gods-forsaken alley illuminated by ghostly azure flames; and that same dread from then sits heavy in his chest, now. Another scream pierces the haunting silence; and all he can do is plead internally for some kind of forgiveness in his inability to do anything.

Shh.

Caedes’ gaze wavers on Zarius; but his breath catches in his throat; and tightens like a vice. The changeling furrows his brows, squinting his eyes shut, before opening them again with a faint breath in.

Be calm.

He is not calm, despite her voice; but Zarius knew that this was a possibility; and Caedes feels a sting of disappointment solidify his buzzing, chaotic emotions. He knew this was a possibility; and if he lets panic overtake him here— should anything happen to Zarius on his account— he could never forgive himself.

He purses his lips, brows furrowing as he moves forwards; the heels of his boots click against the stone; down each step; and the heat grows steadily as he starts to close distance between himself and Zarius. “Waited this long for what?” he asks, using every ounce of willpower to steady his voice; if this fiend is going to start broadcasting, whether to itself or to him, he’s going to take this opportunity to close the gaps in their knowledge on what it is, what it wants.

It still feels wrong— speaking to this thing echoing within Zarius— but he can’t stop it.

He has to wait this out; and he has to trust that Cyran can handle himself.

“It’s always blessings with fiends… assuming that’s what you are.” The tiniest blink of a shadow beneath Zarius’ feet begins to flicker despite the light in the room. _(1.)

If it does managed to take over, I would suggest resorting to restraint as necessary.

“You may as well just call it what it is— a curse.” The darkness roils beneath the fellblood, becoming ink-like in consistency, tendrils attempting to reach up and around his boots, as if to pull him into the darkness. To hold him still. _(2.)

“What are you trying to do with him?”

---

1. Mass Shadow Control
2. Dark Soil

In the depths of the underground tunnels Cyran was only left with his worried thoughts, allowed to run rampant in the absence of any real answers, and paranoia only furthered with the echoes of Rowan’s smug laughter. What if Zarius had run into something worse than the Charred? What if there truly were cultists lingering in the shadows who’d found him, weakened and vulnerable and alone, and were already preparing him for sacrifice while Cyran and Caedes fought an inconsequential foe that did not matter? What if he had -

No.

If Cyran tugged at the frayed ends of these anxieties he would never see the end of their unraveling until he was undone by them, and what good would he be to Zarius then? He’d promised the fellblood he would offer aid in whatever form he could, and he’d promised Caedes he’d give the other assassin opportunity to go after his friend-love-whatever they were to one another, and he’d promised so many things that he would not be able to keep if he continued this endless self-pity spiral. There was no room for emotions at the forefront of a mission. Cyran couldn’t disappoint them. He continued his jog, eyes narrowed as he searched for the chamber his friends had absconded to…

When the world exploded in a surge of light and heat and pressure that set Cyran’s vision alight.

The blast of air, like something out of a volcano’s pressure vent, momentarily stopped Cyran in his tracks. He could smell the acrid smoke in the air and hear the remnants of agonized screams that clung to the walls, begging to be heard, and his heart plummeted to the bottom of his chest.

No!

And he broke into a dead sprint.

The burst of brilliant cerulean in the near distance had given Cyran a direct location - the Specter made it all the way to the altar’s entrance, ready to dash in and unleash hell on whoever or whatever was happening in there when his instincts screeched at him, giving him pause. Wait. Do not be hasty and announce your presence.

Cyran skidded to a dead stop just outside the chamber, heeding that tiny voice. It was a good thing he did, because in that moment an unfamiliar voice boomed across the spacious room.

You don’t deserve our blessing, impudent child…

Cyran cocked his head to the side. A cultist? But before he could speculate much more, he heard Caedes’s voice, sharp with venom and cold as a Frostgale tundra.

You may as well call it what it is - a curse.

But why were they conversing? From outside it was difficult to tell, but Cyran had a feeling Caedes was stalling for time for… something. Which he would only do if he’d found Zarius, and for whatever reason could not safely extract him from the chamber. Brows furrowed, Cyran cloaked himself in the shadows.^[1] Caedes needed backup, and Cyran could best provide that from the dark. The assassin slipped inside, sticking to the edges of the circular walls, floored by the sudden heat that assaulted him.

The room itself was spacious, an altar at the very edge and pillars lining the sides, supporting the structure. Cyran clambered up one, taking a point of higher ground while Caedes continued his demands.^[2]”What are you trying to do with him?”

And then Cyran saw who he was talking to, and had to stifle his sharp intake of breath before he made a sound. Charcoal skin, runic horns, and smoke billowing out of his mouth.

They were the only two in the room.

Cyran ought to have wondered who the third, foreign voice was he’d heard speaking a moment ago, but he had a sinking feeling in his gut that he already knew the answer. We were too late to stop the fiend from creeping in.

But perhaps there was still a chance for them to kick it out. The demon must have been planning on doing something in this room. The altar. The heat. A sacrifice… to Vulcadreus? On the ground Cyran could see tendrils of shadow creeping around Zarius - no, not-Zarius - in an attempt to grab at his boots and hold him still. Caedes was trying to get the creature to talk. Cyran bit his lip, daring to hope. Perhaps they weren’t too late. They just had to pry information from the creature, figure out what it wanted, and send it back to the hell it crawled from. And if that failed…

Well, Zarius had said no earlier, and Cyran respected that. But as he was not the one in control, Cyran was decently confident that it would only pry through the demon’s memories. Besides, with Zarius’s life on the line, he’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission. He just had to wait for an opening. To wait and see what the fiend might say.

And once he figured out what the fiend wanted, he’d purge the bastard from Zarius’s consciousness one way or another. That much was a guarantee.

---

1. Dark Form
2. Boots of Spider Climb

Zarius' eyes lock on Caedes at the sound of the changeling's voice. A deranged grin spreads across his face. 

"For our freedom to be returned to us. For this torment of being trapped in vessel after vessel to finally end."

He takes a step back towards Caedes as if inviting the chance to speak face-to-face with someone. There's a wild look in his eye, a mix of excitement, desperation, and bitterness. 

"Can you even fathom it? Being stuck in time itself? Our very souls have been denied the natural cycle of rebirth for generations."

The voice scoffs. 

"Do you know what they say of fellbloods, pale one? They call us broken, mock us for reaching toward divinity only to fall short," his voice bleeds with growing distaste. "You are not wrong, this situation we are in is a curse. But soon the curse will be lifted, and we who lived and died ever loyal will receive the blessings promised to us all those years ago."

The fellblood's smile fades and is replaced with a cold look of contempt. 

"Nothing. There is no more use for this vessel."

It seems to dawn on the current consciousness that the changeling intends to interfere. Once more, the mood swings wildly and his eyes burn with anger and frustration.^[1] He grits his teeth and sneers at the changeling with seething hatred in every word. 

"Stay out of the way." 

The fellblood then reels back while something-- or someone-- else writhes for control of his body. He only just manages to maintain his balance as the shadows creep up over his boots and hold him in place. Clutching at his throat, he coughs and gasps as more thick clouds of smoke pour out of his mouth. 

"I...c-can't...breathe...!"

This other voice sounds more afraid and panicked by all that is transpiring, and the fellblood's expression changes to match its desperation. Zarius doubles over as the choking worsens, and he is unable to stop his body from convulsing.

All the while the azure flames continue to lick off his blackened skin.^[2] Caedes is close enough to see glowing blue embers seemingly roiling through the fellblood's veins wherever his skin is exposed. Caedes is also close enough to catch the intense smell of brimstone wafting through the air along with the waves of heat that radiate from the fellblood.^[3] But there's another scent there mingling amongst the sulfur, one that is pungent and stomach-turning. Burning flesh.

The heat grows more intense as a burst of flame suddenly erupts from the fellblood's clenched fists. Without a moment of hesitation, Zarius throws a punch in Caedes' direction which throws the fire at him as well.^[4] Simply stopping the fellblood's movement doesn't seem to stop him from attacking at range. 

Whether the fire connects or not, the look of fear that the fellblood had only a moment before is replaced once again with something else. A look of recognition, but also one of hatred and resentment. 

"Sh-shadow crawler." The voice that speaks through Zarius is female with a similar accent to Zarius' own. "Have you come to finish what your kin started? Was killing one of us not enough?!"

The voice shrieks and a ripple of dark fire suddenly bursts out and races across the floor. It rapidly becomes a towering wall of flames that encircles the pair, effectively cutting off any chance at escape.^[5]

"Not again," the voice quivers. "I will not be killed by one of your blades a second time. I will kill you first!"

Another burst of fire is thrown in the changeling's direction as the shadows fight to keep the fellblood from tearing himself free.^[4] The tendrils strain and snap. They wouldn't hold for much longer at this rate. 

---

[1] Evil Incarnate (Persistent, all attacks and spells deal dark damage in addition to their normal damage types)
[2] Heat Cloak (fire damage)
[3] Heat Wave (2/3 posts)
[4] Art of the Burning Fist (1/3 post, 2/2 fireballs)
[5] Ring of Fire (fire damage)

The Specter’s entrance goes relatively unnoticed; but the knowledge that he’s out there— that the Charred are out there— does lingers There’s a whole cacophony of distant acknowledgements and thought running through his mind like a flash flood, but Caedes is not letting them through.

He can’t afford to, because he needs a clear mind to handle what’s happening in front of him.

The unhinged grin that spreads across Zarius’ face temporarily stops the changeling in his tracks; he purses his lips to hide his unease. Every word that escapes the fellblood’s lips, each word that is not his own, Caedes lets settle on the edge of his mind.

He needs to remember so that he can tell Eameia when this is done; and they will return together to find some way to end this. When he steps forwards, Caedes’ momentum slows; he stops, brows furrowing as the words echo around this empty fucking furnace, desperate and full of a bitter toxin that chills the surface of his skin despite the heat.

Trapped in vessel after vessel; denied the natural cycle of rebirth. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to register the alternate voices, to know even before it’s admitted that souls is a plural, to know that whatever’s in Zarius’ head is hardly just one thing.

It’s multiple.

“I’m… sorry, for your situation.” He manages to get out, trying his damndest to remain compliant, lest the souls within Zarius start a fight. Grow stubborn. Refuse to fade. His mind reels, but he distantly recalls the feeling of time; the way time passed, how it stopped, how it broke apart; in the fight with Ziev.

He thinks, too, about how his heart can’t beat any longer, how he’s bound by dark threads to a fiend of shadow, waiting for her bidding— but, not for long.

This room is scorching.

Caedes can feel the heat pour off of Zarius in waves; each step that takes him closer to the fellblood, takes him closer to the source of heat; and yet, the words that leave Zarius’ lips make his blood run cold.

"Nothing. There is no more use for this vessel."

What?

Terror at those words claws at his calm composure, threatening to unwind him like a spool. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out; questions sit on his tongue, pleas on the edge of his teeth.

No...

A look that he’s never seen before twists the fellblood’s face, and Caedes doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking until he meets those haunting blue eyes. His cloak sways at his ankles and pale locks falling over his face; he purses his lips, meeting the hatred with broken realization that this is not a confrontation with the fiend inside Zarius, this is an ultimatum.

His throat tightens, a wince tightening his shoulders as the venom from his warning seeps beneath his skin.

“What are you?”

He hates the sound of his voice in that moment; the way it lilts, broken but hushed; aching for an explanation for all of this, rather than demanding it.

It goes unanswered; Zarius reels back as the shadows grasp at his ankles; and terror streaks across the fellblood’s face. The voice that sputters from him, smoke seeping from between his lips, still isn’t his; but the words— Caedes truly doesn’t know if the words are his— and the idea that they might be fills him with a primal terror that flutters his unbeating heart and sends him paces down the stairs, unbidden.

He can’t explain why; he knows he can’t help; but it doesn’t stop him.

Azure flickers against Zarius’ skin, lighting him up from the inside out. The thick smell of brimstone permeates the air, but that’s— not the only thing. Caedes’ stomach turns when the smell of burning flesh hits him; his red-rimmed pupils narrow sharply, movement staggered in his approach— and broken by an explosion of heat and azure flame.

Caedes is temporarily brought back to a backalley behind a smoking storefront, cowering in the light of blue flames; and then, he cracks his head against the staircase of the altar room. Sharp pain thrums behind his head, wringing at his neck; a stinging sensation sizzles against the burnt fibers of the arm of his cloak, lingering even after the heat has increased around Zarius.

The room spins for a moment, double vision blinked away as Caedes pulls himself from the ground into a sitting position. He presses a palm into the curve of his neck, blinking to clear his vision when a familiar name is spoken into the inferno.

— Shadow Crawler.

The sound sobers him almost instantly, gaze focusing on the expression of recollection. The voice is not familiar, and yet it is; something that instills a sickening deja-vu. "Why..." Shock flickers across his dazed expression just before he pulls forwards, narrowly avoiding the rapid blaze that streaks across the floor, ultimately encircling them both.

He’s not terribly focused on an escape, though.

“You won’t need my blades again if you keep this up!” His voice cracks into a hiss as he pulls to the side, narrowly avoiding the burst of flame that rolls off of Zarius’ fists. He steps forwards, pushing aside his cloak as he begs the shadows to aid the fellblood; as the tendrils loosen, and as the souls within Zarius pull against him, they try their damndest to shield the fellblood from the heat boiling under his own skin. ₍₁₎

“You’ll kill him yourself at this rate! Why are you doing this!?”

There’s a plea to halt in the tone of his voice; a clear, spoken distress as he speaks to one of these damn souls— but those words from earlier ring in the back of his head.

"There is no more use for this vessel."

He stumbles over the stairs as he descends the last few steps, reaching out to bid what shadows linger within the circle to weaken the fellblood should they be able to grasp him. The tendrils break away, then reach back in a desperate bid to latch on again— not to trap, but to wither away the energy of Zarius. _{(2, 3)}

— Of these fucking things within him trying to roast him alive.

The truth is, he doesn't... he doesn't know what to do.

He... can’t. 

He can’t let Zarius die here.

They want to fight, but he is focused on preservation.

He cannot lose the fellblood; he cannot return to Darkveil without him. He cannot look Eameia in the eye and tell her that her brother will not be coming back. He cannot feel the sting of another soul he cares for so deeply taken from him. He cannot let the Rha'Oriyn feel that pain. 

He has felt it over and over, relived the loss in his nightmares of glinting gold and shimmering silver blades and names crossed off of a list. 

... But it’s not over, yet; this could still be fixed; and he clings to that lonely, desperate hope that those words were only spoken as a bluff.

---

1. Resist the Elements - Fire
2. Mass Shadow Control
3. Desperation

The simmering heat in the chamber nearly brought Cyran’s skin to a boil as he remained perched in the darkness. He could feel every inch of the mounting pressure; shoved down the sensation, wiped the sweat from his brow. Focus. Listen.

The voice coming from the entity who was decidedly Not Zarius, it seemed, was a talkative one. Vindictive. He could barely make out the expression that was being puppeteered across Zarius’s face from his vantage point, but Cyran did not need to know. He could hear the conviction pouring from every word the entity uttered, as if it were a preacher in a pulpit delivering salvation to the damned. In this case… itself.

Or - Cyran realized with a start as the Fiend continued its fervent monologue - themselves.

They’d all misunderstood what had patched itself onto Zarius. Not a fiend, nor demon; a myriad of souls, denied the peace of rest and the salvation of moving on. Purgatory.

The hope that they might release their hold on Zarius was trickling softly away, like the sands of an hourglass. Where he was crouched, he reached for Wraithsbane once more on instinct. Spell Slicer and Cold Steel could cut flesh, but if Zarius was being controlled by ghosts rather than a demon… perhaps it would be more effective? But would that hurt Zarius more? No, he just needed to deliver a small cut, just a single precise incision - only a single drop of blood for the dagger’s enchantment to take effect. They could disarm Zarius, tie him up, and get him to. Get him to Eameia, his mother, someone more qualified than them to fix this.

The voice spoke up once more, a response to Caedes’s demand, venom dripping from his voice, speaking the last words Cyran had wanted to hear. ”Nothing. There is no more use for this vessel.”

Whatever this creature - these creatures - wanted, this was the end of the road. This altar, the hellfire that began spilling from its body… it was creating a pyre.

The scar on Cyran’s back began to ache.

No. No, no, not again, I can’t let this happen again. He was no longer in the altar room, but a manor, years younger, unable to move, unable to breathe, as the thing that was Not Rowan carved a smile into his back and laughed, crescent grin turning crimson as it spat blood, weakened vessel unable to contain its depth of power; and Cyran, helpless, as fucking always, only Rowan’s death saving it from finishing the job.

And now not-Zarius was spilling flames into the chamber, a crude facsimile in the place of a man he cared about against all odds, and Cyran felt every bit that young man again.

Powerless.

Afraid.

No. Not the first, not anymore - because even if Cyran had picked himself up off that mansion floor and continued to walk the realm part of him had been killed off that day, a piece of his stupid soft childish heart, the shadow’s Rot left behind to devour the rest of it. And what fucking good was it if he couldn’t use it when it mattered, when Zarius needed them? No. He was scared, but Cyran was far from fucking Powerless, even if it meant sterling his heart and making a monster of himself to save Zarius’s life.

Shadows coiled around the Specter, their haunted stirrings in response to his grief, his anger. Cyran had never cared about Rowan; their arrangement, two ill-fit strangers playing dollhouse to appease their parents. He did care about Zarius. His first friend. Cyran would save him. He swore it. Even if it meant saving Zarius from himself.

And with a gasp, Cyran swept his arm outward, setting the shadows free. Despite the light from blue flames, the air of the chamber grew impossibly darker, the shadows yawning and growing, leeching light from the fire, plunging them in the dim. And he clenched a fist, and they responded, smothering the fire intended to trap Caedes in the ghost’s grasp.^[1]

Cyran leapt from the pillar, landing behind Zarius and straightening to his full height, moon-touched silhouette only outlined by the translucent figure of the pale woman behind him, and the sound of her laughter. His face, as passive and blank as ever, as he summoned Spell Slicer to his awaiting palm with another burst of shadow, twisted the blade in his hand, and aimed the hilt of the dagger right for Zarius’s temple from behind.^[2,3,4]

---

1. Counterspell - Ring of Fire
2. Cat’s Grace
3. Summon: Possession
4. Head Strike - attempted

The ring of fire is swallowed by the shadows, throwing the chamber back into darkness except for the blazing beacon of blue light that is the fellblood. There's hardly any acknowledgment of Cyran's interference, the fellblood's eyes remain firmly locked on Caedes as the current soul in control seeks out vengeance for their doomed fate. 

He hisses at the changeling as the shadows try to drain him of his energy and weaken him. Another burst of flame erupts from his body, disrupting the dark formulae arcanum and consuming its effects.^[1]

Just as he's about to make an aggressive move toward the changeling, the aura of heat around Zarius wavers as Cyran gets close.^[2] Zarius drops down to dodge the pommel strike to his head before a pair of flaming wings burst out from his back, knocking away the two trained killers and guarding against them from getting any closer to him.^[3]

His eyes then lock on Cyran, the Specter now having his full attention. In the blink of an eye, the fellblood launches himself at the hunter in an attempt to slam into him. If Cyran doesn't dodge, the two careen into one of the support pillars with the fellblood pinning the elf against it with his forearm.

Up this close, Cyran would catch the undeniable scent of burning flesh, but he also would see cracks starting to form across the fellblood's skin from the corners of his eyes and his fingertips.

The infighting between the souls increases in intensity once more, and the one in control loses their hold to another. 

There's a brief look of terror in the fellblood's eyes as a meek voice speaks through him. "P-please. H-help us." 

His body jerks once more and that soul is forced back into silence while another asserts its dominance. 

"Do not interfere! Do not deny us freedom from this torment!"

He pulls back his fist and aims a burning clawed strike at Cyran's face.^[4]

While his body is being puppeteered, Zarius' own consciousness is still present. He recognizes what is going on, but he's paralyzed by the overwhelming desperation of the other wills finally seeing a way out of their unfortunate predicament. Try as he might to focus on taking control back from them, the waves of bristling pain coursing through his veins thwart his attempts. All he can do is watch as Caedes and Cyran do what they can to stop it.

He shares in the feelings of frustration from the other souls. In previous times the souls had taken over he had fallen unconscious and wasn't aware of what they were capable of. He almost preferred it that way. Preferred not bearing witness to their acts while he was unable to do anything to hinder them. He resents his weakness. He resents not acting sooner.

---

Evil Incarnate (Persistent, all attacks and spells deal dark damage in addition to their normal damage types)
Heat Cloak (fire damage)
Heat Wave (3/3 posts)
[1] Remove Magic (1/2 per topic)
[2] Fighters Senses
[3] Harbringer of Evil (1/topic, 1/3 post)
[4] Art of the Burning Fist (2/3 post, 2/2 fireballs)

He feels the snap of the formulae arcanum from within; the souls within Zarius counters the attempt to drain their energy in a burst of heat, and it succeeds. The feeling is not unlike a violent tug on a tangled thread; it pulls at his ribcage in a sudden jolt of motion and leaves behind a feeling of uneasy emptiness.

Caedes stamps his boots into the earth to ground himself, reaching out for the shadows which hide from the light emitted from flames; beckoning them in desperation for their aid. His mind spins, a cacophony of panicked thoughts, and an equal maelstrom of pleas to himself to stop panicking.

It feels like he’s caught in a loop.

This is more than he and Zarius originally bargained for when they spoke of how to manage his condition; and that haunting declaration still lingers behind his eyes; but then, sobriety hits the changeling like the clang of a hammer. Cyran’s arrival is punctuated by a clash of fire and shadow. He is highlighted by transient light as he tries to strike Zarius in the head— but the use of his dagger, however, causes the changeling’s heart to flutter nervously until he realizes there is no gleam of the blade.

Not that it matters, because the souls within Zarius are able to maneuver out of the way.

Caedes grits his teeth, rushing after the fellblood and the elven man until the burst of sudden heat knocks him back. He scrambles, barely managing to catch his balance in a slide that sees him staggering against rock and debris. Once he’s stable, he pushes forwards, dashing after the duo as Zarius pulls back to attack Cyran.

It’s difficult to determine the right move in each moment that passes; one thing is for certain, and that is the fact that the changeling doesn’t want to hurt Zarius, so long as he can avoid it. It's not that he can't, but, that he won't. Every second that passes is a second longer that the fire licks at the fellblood’s skin, steadily damaging him more and more, leaving his eventual awakening unpleasant in the best case scenario.

Shadows whip from beneath the changeling’s cloak, called forth in a bid to— not stop or hold Zarius— but to cling to his wrist just long enough for the elven man to have a moment to retaliate— or better yet, throw the attack off course. Something. Anything. ₍₁₎

Regardless of whether the bid works as he intended, the light around Zarius and Cyran suddenly snuffs out as the thin strands attempt to take hold— leaving the two of them in shadows for a brief moment in the hopes that Cyran can use them to his best advantage to escape and reposition himself away from the fellblood. ₍₂₎

---

1. Spidersilk
2. Consume Light

Everything happened all at once.

Zarius ducked out of the way of Cyran’s strike - a pair of dark-feathered wings burst from the fellblood’s back, a veritable pressure pushing Cyran away - Zarius whirled around, locking on his new target, the closer and newer threat.

Cyran was too startled to flinch away. Sloppy, sloppy. The elven assassin was slammed into a pillar, his back exploding in agony, the air knocked out of his lungs, unable to draw breath where an iron-hot arm kept him pinned against the foundation by the throat. Cyran struggled, unable to hold a candle to Zarius’s raw strength, unable to break free, unable to breathe. Unable to do anything but kick his feet in the air, scrabbling for purchase, his legs much stronger than his arms. The heat from Zarius’s skin burned, hellfire licking at his neck.

For lack of any better option, Cyran wrapped an arm around Zarius’s wrist with one hand, lifting Spell Slicer with the other. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Zarius. But he could not bite off his nose to spite his face. Whispering a soft apology, he lifted up Spell Slicer, moving to plunge it in the young man’s arm -

Only to freeze when he heard the plea.

Cyran stilled, cracking an eye open, meeting the horrified expression of the spirit in control.

The acrid stench of burning hit his nose, the fissures etched into Zarius’s skin widening with each passing second, as if whatever was inside was pounding at mortal flesh and blood and bone, demanding to be let out, by force if need be.

Oh. Cyran realized. Zarius is dying.

They were killing him to seek rest.

Cold horror gripped at his chest - it sounded an awful lot like Rowan’s laughter.

His grip on his dagger slackened, only for a second. They were killing him… and they were in pain. But it was them or Zarius, and he could not possibly hope to help the damned. But it might not be too late to exorcize them. Pity morphed into righteous anger - punctuated by a glint in Zarius’s eyes, perhaps to something more familiar, before that same vitriolic voice spoke again, and a fist aimed straight for his face. Cyran flinched away, but in this proximity and with Zarius pinning him down the knuckle knife still clocked his jaw, flames licking at his face until he was not sure whether it was Zarius’s skin that was burning or his.

Then the world went dark.

There was no time for confusion, or hesitation, lest the spirit get another chance to recover and attack him again. Grabbing onto the darkness and holding it tight, Cyran melded into the shade, wriggling from out of Zarius’s grip… only to reappear behind him, gripping him by the back of the neck.^[1,2] Darkened, festering energy danced along his arm, every ounce of his hate poured into the act, siphoning energy from the wretched phantom in control.

“Release your hold on him, bastard,” He spat, eyes darting towards Caedes - an unspoken signal to act now, do something, Cyran couldn't hold him for long, “Or your torment has only just begun.”

---

1. Shadow Walk (Shadow Dancer IV)
2. Vampiric Touch

Just before the fellblood can rake his nails across Cyran's face, tendrils of shadow latch onto this wrist and interrupt the momentum of what would have been a skull-cratering blow. Zarius manages to follow through with the hit, though the damage is not as bad as it could have been if Caedes hadn't intervened. Zarius strains against the web-like tendrils as the flames around his fist start to lose their intensity.^[1]

He grits his teeth, eyes darting to the side to look over his shoulder at Caedes. As the shadows consume the azure light, the wave of heat is consumed as well. It's still uncomfortably hot in the chamber, but the break does offer some relief. More importantly, the shadows give the advantage back to the assassin and hunter if only for a brief moment. The magical darkness obscures the fellblood's vision, his flaming eyes being consumed by the shadows. 

Using this chance, Cyran makes his move, slipping from under Zarius' otherwise inescapable grip.^[2] The fellblood tries to regain his bearings in the overbearing darkness. By the time he feels Cyran's presence return the hunter already has him by the neck. 

He's about to whirl around and lash out at the hunter when the shadows sink deep into him. His body starts to tremble as everything feels heavier and like he's being pulled to the ground. Cyran feels the fellblood's body almost wilt under his touch.

Try as he might to resist the effect of the spell, Zarius ultimately drops down on one knee. The flames that enshroud his body flicker and falter. His breath catches in his throat and he starts choking on plumes of black smoke.

"M-make it stop." The pleading voice returns in between the hacking.

His muscles then tense and the fiery wings snap backward, slamming into Cyran in an attempt to knock him away.^[3] If that fails to get Cyran to back off, his tail would lash around Cyran's ankle and try to pull him off balance.^[4]

---

Evil Incarnate (Persistent, all attacks and spells deal dark damage in addition to their normal damage types)
Harbringer of Evil (1/topic, 2/3 post)
[1] Art of the Burning Fist (3/3 post, 2/2 fireballs)
[2] Iron Grip
[3] Blow Back (1/2 per topic)
[4] Prehensile Tail

Between the azure flames licking across Zarius’ skin and his strength, breaking the tendrils of shadow that attempt to bind him is child’s play. Several inky-black threads snap as Zarius makes contact with Cyran’s jaw; several elongate, twining in desperate strings around the thin of his wrist; and several strain, until they snap with his attempts to escape them.

Caedes sees those fragile threads unwind and fall from around Zarius’ limbs just as the light dissipates and the gloom overtakes their surroundings. He blinks, letting the shadows drift behind his eyelids until an opaque darkness overtakes every inch of his pale gaze, enveloping his world in a translucent gloom. ^(1.)

He can see the spirits struggling to get a grasp; and Cyran dissipating into the shadows; vanishing from even his own line of sight for a heartbeat. He trusts Cyran, though; knows that the hunter can take care of himself; knows that he can take more than a hit. Zarius trusts Cyran, too, otherwise the elf wouldn’t be here; and there’s too much: too many thoughts, too many memories.

Caedes doesn’t have room for it all; he needs Cyran here.

The changeling silently bypasses Zarius as Cyran reappears behind the fellblood. Rocks and minuscule debris clatter quietly from the edges of his boots as he skids to a halt; Zarius collapses to one knee, and he meets Cyran’s gaze for the briefest moment.

And he wants nothing more than to do something.

This is different, though. This is different because this isn’t just combat. He can’t just do something, because something isn’t going to fix this; he cannot exorcise the demons from Zarius, or he would have done so already. The plea to do something is a far cry, and the spirits are not showing any signs of slowing down, but are rapidly destroying—

"If none of that works... do whatever is necessary to stop it."

— his breath escapes him. 

Denial strangles rationale; because this isn’t over, and he swallows memories of the fellblood’s forced tone when he had first managed those words to him. Not all hope is lost despite Zarius’ dangerous condition should the spirits actually lose control; it's precarious, sure; but Zarius still has that vial, doesn't he? It can put him back together when he comes to; he's seen it work.

He pushes forwards just before Zarius tries to fight Cyran back, calling the shadows to his aid. In a repetition, they lunge from beneath Zarius— a tangle of bracken and bramble— reaching for his legs, for his tail, for anything that they can grasp. _(2.) Should he succeed in a lunge while the fellblood is occupied with Cyran, Zarius would feel a cold hand grasp his wrist. “Stop.” The voice which speaks is an echo of itself; something disjointed, something which is partially his own and partially hers; but unwittingly, he speaks again. “Release your kin and stop fighting against your fate.” _(3.)

Those words, however, are not his own; and a look of shock flickers across the changeling's face, temporarily catching him off guard.

---

(1.) Ebon Eyes
(2.) Shadow Binding
(3.) Powerful Presence

It came again. That damned voice, pained, pleasing, seeking an end. Cyran’s grip on Zarius’s neck wavered, his conviction. Zarius was right, because somehow he always was. For a killer, Cyran was too soft for his own good. Couldn’t secure the kill when it mattered, when someone was weak. The spirits were in pain, so many of them shoved into a single body that they were tearing it apart from the inside.

Then imagine how Zarius must feel.

That thought in itself was a sobering one - and Cyran steeled his grip, fingers digging into the flesh of Zarius’s neck. Already, he could feel the fellblood growing weak. Cyran’s touch sapped his energy, the assassin growing stronger from the power of the spirits. Zarius writhed, dropping to one knee - unable to resist the toll of the dark magic. Unable to resist the toll the possession was taking on his body.

Rowan towered over him, black blood dripping from her nose and mouth, a voice that was not Hers resonating in her mouth, her broken throat, “This body is wrong. It won’t last long.” Only to smile down at him, her face twisted in a crescent moon smile painted scarlet -

Shit. They had to be careful.

Cyran pulled back, abruptly ending the spell. They could not afford to be too harsh on him. Panicked, he glanced towards Caedes, only to find the changeling a prisoner of his own indecision, too. Crimson eyes murky with fear and indecision, likely reaching the same realization Cyran was. Zarius’s body was already breaking down, burning bright like a candle whose wick would snuff out in a matter of seconds. Do the wrong thing, and they’d only speed up the process -

It was so terribly difficult for two who were meant to kill to fix something instead.

Zarius lashed out - Caedes tried to stop him, but not before demonic wings snapped back and reared forward, an ugly blow which sent him reeling as Cyran was no longer holding onto him. He skidded back, coming to a halt before he could strike one of the pillars - at the same time Caedes uttered a command in a voice that was not his own, either. Cyran’s gaze flickered between them, heart leaping to his throat. Fearful. But Caedes still seemed himself. For now. For his own sake Cyran hoped that he did not lose himself, either. But behind every word lurked indecision, desperation. What could they do? How could they get rid of these spirits? Caedes was no closer to the answer than him.

“You could figure it out.” Rowan spoke, uninvited. “You know what you need to do.”

Cyran pursed his lips. The worst part was that he did.

“I promised him I wouldn’t.”

“Better for him to be alive to be angry at you than dead because you were too cowardly to break a promise. It’s a necessary evil.”

He grimaced. Hated that she was right. If they couldn’t figure out how to banish the spirits, there was only one place left that Cyran could look for answers. He closed his eyes and whispered an apology to Zarius. Better to ask for forgiveness later than permission because it meant Zarius would still be here to hate him for disrespecting his boundaries.

And that was just fine.

In the wake of Caedes’s command - the split second of confusion - Cyran lunged, shadows gathering in his hand, and pressing his palm against Zarius’s forehead.^[1] He’d figure it out even if he had to pry the information from the memories of the spirits.

---

1. Reveal Truth

Caedes ice-cold touch sends a chill through him as the changeling's patron joins the tug of war for control of the fellblood's body.

Stop.

The voice worms into his mind and imposes its will over all the others long enough for Cyran to make contact and cast his spell without interruption.

Cyran is plunged into a swirling, disorienting mess as the spell struggles to focus on a single soul out of the fighting collective. He sees flashes of memories, fragments of scenes racing by, flickering into his consciousness as quickly as they extinguish barely a moment later. It’s chaos. None of the visions come in any specific order, with some being barely coherent.

The elf sees darkened corridors, shadowed alleys, waves lapping at an obsidian shoreline, and smoke spewing from the gaping maw of Mount Drakolt. He would pick out the familiar voices and faces of Zarius’ family, the angry female voice that has something against Caedes, Mei, Askr, Astrid, Shaa, Wolfe, Gerhart, Beist, Fish, Issala, Kvasir, Ebony, Eirynor, Snow, the Black Quills, Kamille, Cyran’s own face and voice, and those of his apprentices, Del, and many more. Mixed amongst these are others, strangers that could be other contacts of the fellblood or others from ages long past.

He sees secret meetings, schemes, prayers, rituals, thefts, extortions, murders, brutal beatings, and interrogations…some of which feel more recent than others. Horrid things flash before his eyes, acts that were never intended to have an audience.

Yet sprinkled between the horrors and brutality of the criminal underbelly are light moments. Moments of laughter, joy, passion…moments of regret, grief, and heartbreak. Countless lives with countless years worth of experiences all stockpiled for some reason that still is not clear.

At the very least, Cyran could glean that the older the souls are the more shattered and worn they have become over time. Many have succumbed to the maddening curse of an eternity trapped within another. Some souls have long since given up their struggle for freedom and now hide in the darkest corners of the fellblood’s mind, silent and unmoving. There are others whose desperation drives them to fight no matter the risk to themselves or others.

This wasn’t what they wanted. This was not intended. What circumstances that led to their unfortunate situation are lost to time itself. There is some sort of connection to these new cultists, clearly, and it seems their plans are reaching their zenith if the fervent voice is to be believed.

As Cyran pries through thousands of years of memories, Zarius’s consciousness remains in the dark. The pain shooting through his body is unbearable, the sting of the heat burning through his veins rivaling the time his arm was dissolved in the body of an ooze.

Much like that time, his suffering does not go unnoticed. Though Caedes provided comfort, the presence of the assassin’s patron is far more oppressive. Despite his nerves burning and his blood boiling, he still feels an odd sensation around his face. It’s as if long spindly fingers trace along the edge of his jaw before curling behind his head. Ice-cold palms press against either side of his face and pull him closer to some unseen entity lurking in the inky dark. He sees nothing, but he feels the sharp edges of nails dragging down his brow and across his eyelids, closing them.

Her will, an ancient and mysterious force, subdues the bickering souls for a moment, but her command only reaches him amongst the shadows.

Stop fighting against your fate.

And he does.

His consciousness drowns in that darkness.

It’s at that moment that Cyran feels his spell’s connection to one of the soul slip.

On the outside, Caedes watches as the flickering blue light in Zarius' eyes erupts, and the cracks around his eyes expand and split his skin. There’s an ungodly scream from the fellblood as the chorus of souls all share in that moment of agony. The fellblood’s body fractures and cracks before there is an explosion of blue flames that engulfs him.[1]

The force of the blast shakes the chamber and pieces of broken stone clatter across the walls and stairs. A loud cracking sound echoes from the nearest column of stone, though it manages to hold for the time being.

When the smoke and flames settle, the pair of assassins-- in whatever state they are now in-- would see Zarius still standing…but just. His head hangs from his shoulders and the wings crumble to ash. The ring of metal hitting the floor bounces off the chamber’s walls as the knuckle knives fall from his crumbling fingers. One of his golden horn caps, now scarred with soot, rolls across the floor, stopping just short of Cyran’s shoes.

Caedes’ would hear a different sound.

The sound of a heartbeat.

Skipping.

Zarius sways on his feet as ash falls from his mouth and smoke lifts off his skin. The flames have died down, but it doesn't seem like he's back to himself. The chamber falls deathly quiet, the voices no longer able to physically speak through the fellblood after the incinerating blaze. Their wills still hold fast, and in their blind desperation, force him to move. Despite the damage to his body, he shuffles his way towards the altar.

---

Evil Incarnate (Persistent, all attacks and spells deal dark damage in addition to their normal damage types)
Harbringer of Evil (1/topic, 3/3 post)
[1] Massive Fireball

Caedes’ eyes widen slightly.

The light behind Zarius’ eyes flash in haunting azure; fractures crack across the surface of his skin, leaking energy from heat and blue flames; and as the changeling pulls back, a look of horror flickering behind his pale eyes, there’s a moment in which it all stops.

The world turns over. _{(1, 2)}

A scream rattles his soul, but he hears that cry as if he were hidden far beneath waves of ink and gloom. Something numb begins to settle in the mid of his chest as he surfaces; its claws sharp as the feeling creeps into his limbs. Floating. The ink laps at silvery locks, pooling in droplets like water on duck down. Something knowing settles behind his eyes and it stings as he stares up, looking into a void of threads and lost souls carefully cradled amongst them.

He finally finds his voice in the darkness, lashes fluttering against a dizzying lightheadedness, and when he finally speaks, it’s nothing but a whisper. “What did you do?”

And then he is met with silence.

The void rumbles, but it is so far away; Caedes flinches slightly at the far-away echo of stone cracking against stone. An explosion. Vibration from the disturbance disrupts the shadows. Ripples drift, lapping at the edges. It fades.

The gentle rhythm of a loom, of something large shifting, thrums like a heartbeat in the shadows as if to finally answer. Her voice echoes in the emptiness, sounding like many but all; he watches the threads above tremble.

“What I know you cannot.”

Something pushes him beneath the gloom, turning the world upright until he is gasping for air on his knees in the ruined floor of the temple. The ink falls from behind his stinging eyes after his silhouette has reformed, saving him from the worst of the heat and destruction caused by the explosion. Every feeling he lacked in the void returns at once; an overwhelming cacophony of terror, dread, and hopelessness in the wake of the remnants of a smoking battlefield.

“Fuck,” he croaks, pale eyes wide as he searches the smog for evidence of blue flame; of a haunting azure light; of something that indicates the Fellblood’s location: but there is a skill which Caedes has learned comes with the territory of becoming undead; one which he has actively taught himself to tune out, lest the thrumming of a heartbeat send chills down his spine like he were some kind of feral animal.

As the smoke settles, his sharp but wavering gaze snaps to the silhouette of a horned silhouette amongst the soot. Soot-stained gold glints faintly in reminiscent light from the magma within the walls; ash flutters like fallen petals from the fellblood’s back; and as Caedes’ unbeating heart leaps into his throat— there’s a sound, or the lack thereof, that will haunt the changeling far beyond this day.

Zarius’ heart skips a beat in a way that he has heard before.

… In a way that he has felt before.

It’s the sound of a heart fluttering at the precipice of the void. The skip of a heart-beat after a knife has been thrust through their chest— the sound of a struggle for life. Caedes goes cold, grasping the heart of his shirt with curled fingertips; an unhindered expression of pained recognition flickers across his face; and for once, he cannot muster the will to hide its presence for his pride.

Zarius is dying.
He’s falling apart in front of them into ashes and dust and lost ambitions.

“No,” He chokes into the stillness; his voice cracks, irritated by smoke, soot, and ash. The changeling staggers to his feet quickly enough to trip himself up; his cloak billows thin wisps of smoke from its hems; and its damaged edges catch beneath his heel and tear away, leaving a smoldering patch of fabric on the scorched earth. “No, no, no… Don’t do this.”

He is unsure if he is talking to Zarius, to the souls within, or to his patron; because, as if unfamiliar with him, the shadows do not bend to him when beckoned. They won’t stop Zarius’ advance; and instead, they shrink away, as if making room for the possessed to stumble through the gates of the lost.

Helpless frustration thunders through him; it curls around grief, denial, and guilt; and makes a heavy home of thorns within his ribcage. Caedes circles around Zarius to block his way to the altar, pushing his trembling hands out to physically halt the shuffling fellblood. “You’re killing him,” His voice wavers, choked on a plethora of emotions as he searches Zarius’ broken expression for any sign of recognition or fight left.

He is not a man who pleads; but those words are edged with a desperate inflection that he lacked even when looking his own death in the face. He thinks of Eameia, of the tears that fell from her eyes after the Red Rogue incident; he thinks of a mother, a father, and a brother waiting. A household full of childhood memories left standing; of friends, of family, of cherished things waiting for him to return.

Perhaps selfishly, he thinks of the Marsh Flats; of childish races, narrowed golden eyes, and playful insults; of deals, promises, and confessions. He thinks of second chances given undeserved in the face of his mistakes, and concern-laced questions echoing from his hood on a too-sunny day in the King’s Valley. He thinks of moonlight haloing the fellblood’s silhouette while he looked across the ocean, waiting for a little duckling to find a home for stray sea-life as if it were the most important task.

He thinks of Zarius’ expression, the shifting of weight and casting of his gaze while he spoke of warnings and precautions that have fallen to the wayside in practice.

The thoughts flicker by all at once, crushing in their weight, but just as fleeting as the ash and smoke that falls from Zarius.

Transient. Temporary. Inevitable.

Finally, damp lashes fluttering and gaze wavering as he searches for evidence of the healing vial that Zarius often keeps on him, he manages to struggle a breathless, aching, “Please, don’t do this to him.”

He has a home to return to.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

1. Demonic Pact

The pact you have made continues to increase, the fiend gaining more and more control over your very body. You even find your self giving up or losing control to it every now and then. You can allow your physical appearance to continue to change as well, looking more like the fiend each and every day. Once per topic you can allow the fiend to take full control of you, granting you their strength and speed. For three post your speed is doubled, allowing you to move twice as fast as normal, and your strength is doubled as well, causing you to deal more physical damage for the duration. You also ignore Light damage from spells or attacks while in this form.

2. Demon of the Mist

Once per topic, you are able to turn your entire body into mist and become incorporeal for a few moments. For one post you may move through objects and obstacles, and traverse while in this form— but you are unable to interact with your surroundings, cannot cast spells, or attack. You cannot reform inside of a person or object.

Imagine you are looking for a drop of water and find yourself plunged into the center of a darkened pool instead. You kick - struggle - writhe like a worm to keep yourself abreast of the whirling waves, just for the opportunity to bring air into your lungs. You have seen madness now. Do you press forward, or turn back for your own safety?

You throw yourself into the deep once more. Anything comes easy when it is for your friends.

And he is in pain, gods, is he in pain. You can feel it, the tossing and turning of unrestful souls in the hallowed pit that is meant to be their graves. He, too, is somewhere in here, though trying to grasp him through the mass of entropy and chaos is like trying to catch a slippery eel in a pond. You follow unraveled threads, memories that are not his, lives lived in ages past. Forcing yourself upstream, you learn, does not give you what you seek. You cannot force an eternity through a single, fine pinpoint. The more you force it, the more it resists.

So you stop forcing it.

You lay still in the pool, and allow the torrent to drown you.

All at once they come. Thoughts, memories, faces. Ones you recognize, many you don’t. Your own, mirrored in front of you. So real you could almost reach out and slot yourself in there and return to better times… but you can’t. It is not real. Merely a facsimile, tucked in the shadows of Zarius’s mind. You push on. You see awful things. Things Zarius wanted to conceal from you, thinking you too good to see the evil he’s committed. And perhaps you recoil, for a single instant - but you are not here to play judge. You are not here to do anything, really, except survive the onslaught of memories. Moments that do not belong to Zarius, either. Moments that have been lost to time. Rituals. Meetings. Killings. Weddings. Funerals. Families, born and torn apart. Life. Death. Love.

And at the end of it all, for them in their ambition, cast to an eternity of mediocrity. Forgotten by time, forgotten by their kin. Though most have been driven to madness in this pit, they still hold onto the hatred and anger, the fires of their ambition that make up the kindling of the pyre that Zarius’s body has thrown itself upon. You feel… regret. This is not what was supposed to happen. This was not supposed to happen. But they can - they can salvage this, they just need to get to the altar, to finally lay their devotion to the god of rebirth.

And as they all scramble to sink their claws into Zarius, to latch onto the last living connection they have to the material plane to finish what they started centuries ago, you feel him slip under. Joining the wretched, the nameless, the dead.

And you realize that Zarius Rha’Oriyn is already gone.

”No,” you breathe, your voice lost in the cacophony of agonized, grieving wails of those long lost to time, “No, no, no, no, come back, come back!”

You swim, you kick, you plunge further into the depths of magic, further than you’ve ever gone before. You cannot comprehend the noise in your mind your ears and your heart and you don’t care. You can’t just leave him here. You promised you would help him. You promised -

And in the moment that you are forcibly wrenched out of his memories, your body flung across the room, protected from the worst of the damage by a laughing, spectral figure, you realize that you have already failed.

….

………….

Everything hurt.

Cyran was deaf save the ringing in his ears, still save the room spinning around him. His lungs felt filled with smoke, his mind reeling with memories that felt sharp on his tongue. His body ached, but nothing worse than his mind; his head was filled with cotton, only one thought he could grip with any kind of clarity.

We were too late.

He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pain - swaying unsteadily for a few seconds before he gathered his bearings on stable ground rather than a sea of souls. His eyes and ears burned, and it took him a moment to realize that it was because he’d strained himself so much that he’d begun to bleed. As he stared at the smeared crimson on his fingertips, something rolled to a stop at his feet. A small, gilded thing, almost like a cornucopia in shape. A horn cap.

Cyran bent down, cradling the thing in his bloodied palm, eyes trailing along the path it took to find…

A living corpse.

“Zarius.” He breathed - only catching the tail end of the whisper as his hearing finally returned to him, the ringing from the explosion subsiding. Left with only the sound of shuffling as Zarius’s body picked itself up and continued its slow, shambling trek to the altar. The only thing between it and the realization of the patron’s plans was a single pale changeling, no energy left to stop anything save using his body as a physical barrier.

”No, no, no… Don’t do this.”

Pleas that went unheard.

”You’re killing him.”

He was already dead.

There was no point, because he was already dead. There was nothing left but the amalgam of spirits collected by - his ancestors? Cultists? - for Vulcadreus.

“But at the very least I can be a listening ear when you’re stressed and do my best to offer guidance, should you need it.”

”I appreciate it. Thank you."

A conversation in another lifetime - a deadened forest, hunting the ghosts of gods, speaking on love and life. Cyran promised to help him, then. Something or other about first loves, something that felt entirely silly now.

”Any help is appreciated."

Zarius had trusted him. Spoken to him about the demon he did not understand in hopes that Cyran might have answers…

“We won’t be long. Use this in an emergency.” 

… And Cyran responded by giving him the tool that brought him to this very moment. The instance of his destruction.

“It’s my fault.”

He’d offered Zarius a helping hand and given Zarius a blade instead, one which the spirits intended to hoist him upon. He’d never meant for any of this to happen - gods, he’d just meant to keep Zarius safe. He’d never been good at that, though, had he? Rowan, his family’s business; everything these bloody hands touched, no matter how gently, he made worse. The best thing he’d ever done for his daughter was leave her with people that could give her a more solid life than he ever could. A vagabond, murderer, ghost, Specter. He ought to have died years ago, yet, here he was. Still alive.

And now Zarius was already dead by his negligence. The least Cyran could do was end his undeath by his own hand.

”Please, don’t do this to him.”

Boots scuffed against solid stone as Cyran took a step forward. His right hand clutched the horn cap in a death grip, his right palm held open. His heart hammered in his chest. If the glimpse of agony he’d felt during his dive into the spirit was any indication, that was how Zarius was feeling right now. Ripped apart, fractured, left with no sense of self, begging for freedom. If they laid upon that altar there was no telling what might happen. Would Vulcadreus rise? The spirits’ perception was fragmented as to what might happen, exactly what they were doing. The original intention lost in the mob. But to gather this many souls… it was nothing short of an offering. One Zarius had not willingly signed up for.

He would never have subjected himself to this.

Another step. The shadows responded to his call; Flickering, coalescing in the form of a familiar dagger.^[1] One half of a whole blade, whose metal had been snapped and reforged with gold sealant. If nothing else, this blade would cut the magic holding Za- the puppet’s strings together. His face burned, a warmth on his cheeks he wasn’t sure belonged to tears or blood. It didn’t matter. It was all the same in the end.

Zarius’s body was facing Caedes, but there was no need for stealth. Any semblance of consciousness or will had been lost already. He could no longer hear Caedes’s pleas, his heart a symphony in his chest, crescendoing to a dull roar, a scream, a wail, a cry for help.

He raised the dagger.

"Let us see if you can do what needs to be done, this time."

”Are you going to be okay to do this?"

”Have a safe journey, love. Shadows keep you.”

”Cyran, Zarius is gone.”

Voices melding together, until he could no longer understand their words. Nothing but the sum of their parts, endless noise, endless chatter, he wanted it to stop, and he knew this was all Zarius was feeling, the pain and the torrent and the everything, and he could make it stop, he could end the pain.

And then -

Silence.

Clarity.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. It didn’t matter anyways. It wasn’t like Zarius was there to hear him.

And Cyran gripped Spell Slicer, grabbed Zarius from behind, and plunged the dagger into his heart.

---

1. Summon: possession
2. Magic Blocker Enchantment, Back Stab