Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday saw the red world beginning to fracture, and bits of pieces of an uglier reality started peeking through, staining the red landscape with their mundanity. With the shattering, the control over his own gravity waned. It was like a muscle inside of him had snapped from overuse, turning into a painful and worthless lump of flesh. The pain wracked his body, and a deep discomfort surged through his soul space.

His mind struggled to catch up and make sense of all that had happened in the red world, and apply it to the reality before him. Like waking from a deep sleep at the wrong time, he struggled to chase away the confusion and haze clouding his senses.

What… what happened? The last thing I remember is the moon—the moths.

His eyes focused and it hurt. It was a strange sensation. Dryness. Searing fatigue. Floaters everywhere. It was like his eyeballs didn’t belong to his head and were trying to escape whatever was holding them in place.

It became a dull ache soon after, as Sunday blinked rapidly. Soon the pieces of the picture fell together and he looked around. The last wisps of the red world left like thin smoke disappearing in the air. And beyond, was the ugly reality of things.

The manor of Versum was a broken mess of shattered walls and furniture. Beautiful paintings and sculptures lay broken in pieces and covered in blood. Everything was covered in blood, no exception. There were actual pools of the liquid gathered in body-shaped indents and cracks where the floor was of lacquered wood.

The ragged and ugly form of one of the vampire lords stood before him, healing the many cuts and wounds covering his body. There was almost nothing left of Rubien’s once intricate suit. He was like a poor wretch, left out in the storm with nothing but dirty rags too wet from blood and too torn to cover anything. The wounds torturing him were mending though. There were many and each was in a different stage of healing. As they closed up and Rubien straightened his body, their eyes met.

Humiliation. Anger. Hate. Disbelief.

The tension in each and every muscle and twitch was palpable. It was like Death itself standing before Sunday, and yet… the lord didn’t dare attack. Death is afraid of me. Not only of the darkness around… but of me.

“Hey,” Sunday said, his voice sounding like a ragged moan. The vampire’s eyes widened and became as small as needless. “Did I do that to you?”

“You… you are asking me this? You don’t know?” the vampire hissed.

Sunday tried to lift his arm to move a piece of hair away from his eye. Pain like a burning bonfire shot through his muscles and made him groan through gritted teeth. He looked down at his other hand, still gripping the handle of a sword with fingers that refused each simple plea or command his nervous system sent them. Various fragmented scenes made their way through the mists covering his most recent memories, and just as realization hit, he fell forward, taken by sleep.

***

Oswald watched with bated breath as the mage named Sunday fell face-first onto the ground and didn’t move a single muscle. He was not dead, although it was sometimes difficult to tell with all the corpses walking around. If they decided to lie there and rot when the concentration of essence was not enough to sustain them, then one could see them as actual goners.

It was one of the things that had made exploration so exciting in Oswald’s younger days. Now, there was not much left to explore. Whatever ruins or remnants remained were all long left barren from valuables and history. Not considering the fallen lands, of course.

He briefly thought of the belt surrounding their region, and eventually exploring it, but if the Baron didn’t dare, then he wouldn’t either. Perhaps if he could find strong and loyal magi to supplement his own abilities…

The mage was not dead. If he had been, then Oswald was certain the darkness would’ve ripped all of them apart in anger. It was so, for one sent to fight the Divine themselves was truly an important catch.

“I think –” Oswald began loudly, drawing the attention of Rubien and all who lurked in the shadows, bearing witness to the humiliation of his fellow lord, and to the glory of the god-killer. “I think that he’s grown tired of your antics, Rubien. Laughable, really. A mighty vampire lord, thrown away like a boring doll that has no more use, once the child is sufficiently fatigued to sleep.”

His fellow lord bared his teeth and flashed in movement, stopping mere inches from Oswald. A fight between lords was a rare, but not unseen thing. The Baron greatly enjoyed each and every occasion where the strongest of his underlings would duke it out like wild beasts.

It was a great way to alleviate some tension and work on an unofficial ranking. This was not one such event though.

Rubien was angry, but he knew better than to fight Oswald, no matter what. It was his hurt pride that allowed him to act with such a lack of grace. Not that Oswald blamed him. The display, while rather informative, had been the excretion of dark spit in the face of their community.

“Maybe,” one of the daring vampires on the side began, shivering when the two lords’ gazes turned toward him, “we can end him. Ranged attacks worked. We’ll simply get one of the weaker ones to sacrifice themselves.”

There was movement, and the vampire’s head flew into a nearby wall, his headless body slowly meeting the ground.

“Fool! Trash! Imbecile!” Rubien screamed.

That was good. An outlet was an important thing for one of their strengths.

“My theory is that if the mage dies, then we all die with him,” Oswald slowly said. “This is not a natural phenomenon, a spell, or even the manifestation of a reality-shattering talent.”

“What is it then?” Rubien asked angrily. “I’ve seen nothing like this before.”

Oswald smiled. Reading the old books was important, but neglected. They could figure it out themselves. All he needed to do now, was secure the undead mage, and make sure the Baron was filled in by him alone.

It wouldn’t be difficult, considering the level of those around. Small minds filled with thoughts of blood and sex.

The air shimmered just then, and the one who he wished to see least appeared like a vision coming from a beautiful nightmare.

Oswald’s smile waned, but he tried to hold on to it. Had she observed it all, ready to intervene? Had she too, seen Rubien’s shame?

The Mesmer calmly stepped next to Sunday and sat on a chair of steel that wove underneath her figure as if to embrace her. She didn’t move his body, or try to help.

Oswald felt his excitement grow, but then another presence shook him. A whisper of something at his back. All the vampires around them knelt, while Rubien bowed deferentially.

The Baron had come too.

***

Sunday dreamed. The purple mote of light hiding in the trunk was growing like a raging storm. It had taken over, shrouding the mists covering everything, and reaching for the blood moon hanging above the yew tree in his soul space.

The moths were subdued, tired, sleeping. Sunday hadn’t seen the spell in such a state before, but he too felt the same. He was unsure as to what had happened, but he vividly remembered using his newly discovered buff on himself. Perhaps he had overdone it and died. Perhaps he just needed to sleep it off, as was tradition.

Phantasm becomes reality under the light of the vengeful moon. Spells sing with voices of past long forgotten and old power wakes anew. The thread of fate is broken, only to be spun again by fingers of chaos and chance. Growth. Endless like the emptiness between the stars, and fast like their light.

Succumb to its desires, and may the red world bring you peace. Arise small wretch, and you shall climb the mountain and be king of the damned.

All is blind chance.

All is meant to be.

All is as you make it.

The voice sounded strange this time around. Like a chant, more than a narration. It was confusing, and yet strangely enthralling. Simple cryptic commentary on what he had achieved. It gave him clues, but Sunday found himself lost. Why was the voice speaking now? He had not used his talents or achieved anything of note.

The buff had turned the world and even his mind off and allowed him to do strange things… the memories of the fight were clearer now, but they were still fragmented. His thoughts and desires were missing from the equation as if all had been done on pure otherworldly instinct. Like he had been a vessel or a puppet to the desires of his spell.

That sounded ridiculous. Maybe it was just bringing out the best in him, and allowing his body to operate without interference from the silly human mind trapped within.

How had he flown through the air and walked on walls? How had he caught up to a vampire lord of all things, and thrown him around like a rag doll? No talents of his could do that. No spells either, apart from one. But it tricked the mind, confusing the vestibular apparatus and whatever else was responsible for balance. It was an illusory effect.

Sunday focused on the purple mote that represented Phantasmal Fall and tried to reach for it. He didn’t think this was a simple dream. The place was both a representation of his soul space and a vision of the city where he had been born. It was a special place, and he could do special things here.

Phantasmal Fall reacted to his call, but it too, seemed tired, slow, and unresponsive. The purple light coming off of it spread around until the not-so-small mote left the tree trunk and floated slowly toward Sunday.

The spell felt much different than the other two. It was a part of him like his own internal voice was. The sensation was strange, quite invasive, but nonetheless not that bad.

Have I been neglecting you and what you can do? Or is the berserk moon’s effect what allowed this? Sunday thought. The bonded spell remained unresponsive, awaiting to fulfill the wishes of its mage.

The time nears. The Hunter’s gaze finds you once again. Fight for your immortal soul’s very existence. Fight for a future and glory. Face the war hound alone, and prove yourself worthy of the gifts you so squander.

At midnight, it comes.

Sunday’s dream shook and he once again opened his eyes. It was dusk, so at the very least a full day had passed since he fell. Perhaps more?

Something like a large ornate palanquin sat at the edge of the broken estate’s grounds. Two large goliaths with chains around their necks were kneeling on each side, like statues or guardians of stone. Many more vampires than there had been before were stood around in the shade of the buildings and the cloths they had set about, stretched between poles or held by undead servants. Chairs and tables with golden chalices; glowing lanterns filled with silvery light; and even a group of undead holding some sort of musical instruments.

Did they throw themselves a party while I slept on the ground?

Many humans were present too – beautiful and smiling, but pale. Their gazes were glazed and distant as they stood around their masters. Blood slaves. Addicts. Sunday could recognize that behavior even in another world, even if it was of a different nature. His project with the moth-infused alcohol had partly bet its success on being capable of treating the addiction.

“Finally awake, huh?” a familiar voice gently said from the side.

At the same time as the words sounded, the large palanquin’s curtains lifted, dragged by two undead in dark robes. A man’s clear gaze met Sunday’s eyes and nodded to him gently. He had the palest skin of all vampires, and his features were sharper than even Oswald's. A dignity that was only suggested in the lords’ bearings seeped out of the man’s distant presence. Other than that, he felt almost human. There was no supreme sense of danger, nor a suggestion he was too dangerous to approach.

Sunday instantly knew who this was, and for some reason nodded back. The Baron had been talked about a lot, and considering how strong a lord was…

Rubien and Oswald were sat to the sides, each surrounded by a slew of blood slaves and vampires. Rubien had changed his clothes and paid no attention to Sunday’s awakening.

Sunday allowed himself to stop examining the crowd and turned to the source of the familiar voice. It was Mera, in all her glory, watching over him with a gentle smile. There was no one else around, but he hadn’t expected Kallus or Riya to make it so deep into the vampire district. It was too dangerous and it was better for them to stay away, considering the danger of the situation.

“How long did I sleep?” Sunday asked.

“A bit more than two days,” Mera replied.

Sunday’s eyes grew wide and looked around. There was no suggestion that the darkness was there, especially since there were still vestiges of daylight roaming about.

“The Baron has dissuaded anyone who bore you ill will, for some reason,” Mera continued and nodded to the side. A few forms hung there on wooden stakes. Wiggling vampires, pierced from the waist through the chest and left face up under the sunlight. They were not dead, but they didn’t look human anymore.

So, it weakens them at the very least. I can’t worry about that. How long do I have?

A foreboding feeling washed over him as if to answer his question.

“I’ve got your spells,” Mera said. Two cubes like the ones from the Arcanum’s vault appeared from within the confines of the Mesmer Steel, and Sunday didn’t waste time to reach for the first one. He didn’t care how she had found them, or put the spells inside.

The fight was coming soon, and he had an audience to impress. More than that, it was his soul on the line.

A duel with a dog. This world was truly magnificent.