The Darkest Hour | TheDarkestHour / BadThingsComeInThrees browse

[continued from What Happens in Amber Stays in Amber]

The ground screamed like skinned rabbits.

The Dark Hour had corrupted the Common’s bridge only moments before, twisting its flagstones into a fleshy arch. Its moist surface twitched and spasmed under Gillian’s feet as she ventured across, trying to reach the Lab building. Pitiful, helpless eyes clenched and fluttered in agony with her every step. Solid ground offer solace up ahead, but keeping her balance on the greasy tissue slowed her progress considerably.

North of her Fialla's Tears vomited out the contents of an abattoir - the moist air clotted with bitter taste of copper. Things of wire, skin, and bone danced and swam in the torrent below, bathing in the sanguinary shower. They were too lost in their bloodlust to notice a single lamb trip-trapping across their bridge. That they remained completely silent in their celebration only intensified their alien nature.

An eye popped beneath her heel, causing her to slip, nearly topple.

Mocking laughter suddenly erupted somewhere on the other side of the bridge - feminine, fanatical. And very close.

<Cybele, time to wake up,> Gillian thought. <Let's fly.>

She weaved the air around her as she intoned the words to Sylph's Blessing.

Cybele stirred from her slumber, lending Gillian her power. A massive gust of wind erupted around the young woman, lifting her up on a cushion of air. With her mind enhanced by the Royal’s influence, controlling her flight felt exhilaratingly easy. She crossed the last several yards in short order; the spongy moss of flesh and eyes below her replaced by slick flagstones.

She felt a strange chill on her skin, making the hairs stand up.

Logrus use. . . and close by.

Gillian didn't really want to stop flying in order to engage the user. <Cybele, can you help me with a shield against that?> she asked.

<Just draw the Pattern in your mind, girl. Like I’ve taught you.> Cybele said firmly. <Use that image like a shield, wrapping it. . . Damnit!>

At Cybele’s cry of alarm, Gillian immediately became aware of three more Logrus-users. . . much closer than the other; standing on top of the Lab building. Shadows curled around them, obscuring their features – but she could tell they were two men and one woman. The woman made a throwing motioned and Gillian’s Pattern senses flared with warning signals.

The Pattern came up in her mind and then radiated out of her body in golden light. She could feel its protective shell forming around her, but knew it would not be fast enough. As if in slow motion, she could see a razor-sharp tarot card streaking toward her chest – its surface brimming with Logrus-taint.

Just before it struck her, a dragon-shaped manifestation of the Logrus hurtled out of the darkness and snatched it from the air. They exploded shortly thereafter, canceling each other out.

The woman shrieked in frustration.

With her Pattern senses now on high-alert, Gillian could see Cynwyd moving toward her – his body wreathed in Logrus tendrils. He’d probably just saved her life.

Gillian nodded to Cwynwyd and turned back to the woman and the two men. Anger darkened her face. She raised her hand and Pattern flowed through her, lifting her hair as if in an unseen wind and bathing her in a warm, golden radiance.

Cynwyd made no indication that he'd seen her, still on the move after his spell. He had to keep a low profile- Gillian was powerful, but even the most powerful can be brought down by unexpected attacks. That was his job. To watch her back. And his own.

She pointed her open palm at the woman and invoked Prometheus' Gift, using Pattern Energy as her fire.

With thrilling speed, the air around her palm combusted – a fireball flaring into life. Against the entropic night sky, it blazed like a minor sun and illuminated most of the courtyard. Dimly, she registered the many lesser Shadows reel and scamper away from the burning light.

But the trio stood firm.

The woman summoned the darkness too her, and the air in front of them began to dim into an opaque wall.

When Gillian released the ball of flame, she felt the Pattern surge through her and take elemental form. It struck the shadowy barrier, washing over it in gouts of orange flame. As if she’d just put a flame to magnesium, the night sky ignited in sparks and silvered light. She heard the woman howl in pain, the men yelling in alarm.

Cynwyd shied away from the sudden flaring of energy. But at the same time, his mind was working overtime.

<Sympathetic principles,> he thought. <Crazy woman's essence came through the link I had with my creation. That was how I drew the conclusion of the substance of her projectiles. I felt pain, but I felt her also. What if at the moment that Gillian hit her, I created a sympathetic resonance in her shield? Maybe not even the whole thing... just enough to weaken it shielding effects over one of the people arrayed against her?>

Even as he thought, his hands were in motion, causing dark midnight colored Essence to pool in his hands. This was different- the Essence he understood, but Unweaving was definitely more demanding than Weaving. He had to understand the nature of the construct his power had consumed- to touch the insanity the woman commanded. Then he had to enforce Order upon it... his order. And he couldn't forget the Veil. At this point, that was almost as important as the spell itself.

Cynwyd quickly realized why Osric had been called the Wizard of Chaos – walking the razor-edge between controlling Order and Chaos came to him as naturally as breathing. He drew upon the Royal’s long years of training, and discovered the balance he required to maintain his Veil and extend his Ordered Will. When the time was right he could weaken Medea’s Logrus-hardened shield – and more than likely survive the process. A vital element of the equation.

A resonance wave of power returned to [Gillian], renewing her – the intoxicating flood of the Pattern washing through her body like an opiate.

<Again!> Gillian laughed, feeling quite ... giddy from the flow of energy and power. She raised her open palm and repeated the words to Prometheus' Gift.

Even as Gillian extended her hand, Cynwyd expelled his Will towards the shadowy figures, and once again relocated so that no one could easily draw a bead on him, hoping for the best as his working traveled towards his target...

The flames came again to Gillian, loyal and eager, ready to consume everything before them. They leapt across the space between her and the rooftop – brilliant against the darkness. This time, she felt the resistance weaken, then shatter. The trio scattered as the blast engulfed the woman; her shriek of fury becoming one of agony. The rooftop became an inferno, engulfing the mad woman.

Cynwyd felt ‘heat’ wash over his body, filling his mind, before shutting it out. He knew his plan had succeeded.

Then a loud clatter of steel rang across the courtyard. A manhole cover had been thrown from its moorings by some great force. Joao’s head popped out of the hole a moment later.

Gillian barely had time to recognize him when something slammed into her shoulder, spinning her like a top. Blinded by pain, she fell to the hard flagstones, knocking the wind out of her.

The gunshot echoed in her ears. She tasted blood. She couldn't feel her left arm. Only cold pain around her shoulder.

The Man in White stood at the roof’s edge, outlined by the flames. A long-barreled pistol in his hand reflected the light. Cynwyd could see his face, twisted with rage, aiming for the now prone Gillian.

Anthony stood beside him, drawing two darkness-wreathed blades from the ether. “Stop playing and kill the bitch!” he screamed, then leapt from the roof. . . landing several stories below, unharmed.

Cynwyd locked eyes with him. He pointed a blade in his direction and smiled.

He was being called out.

Cynwyd rolled his eyes at Anthony's challenge. "Poor deluded cookie-cutter villain," he said, shaking his head. He prepared to meet the other man, but then his gaze slid across Gillian. She couldn't protect herself. And he didn't think the Man in White was likely to miss. He kept Anthony in sight even as he called the Logrus to his mind.

Anthony moved to intercept him with inhuman speed. But Cynwyd wasn’t entirely human either. His speed and skill allowed him to maintain enough distance from his opponent to complete the task of Shaping the Logrus. Tendrils stretched out before him, solidifying into a shadowy barrier in front of Gillian.

With Anthony’s attention directed elsewhere, Joao determined Gillian was his priority for the moment. He nimbly pulled himself from the sewer and dashed across the slick flagstones toward the prone woman. Although his familiarity with firearms was decidedly lacking, Delwin’s was extensive. It only took the touch of Desire for the Conjuration to begin.

[Time to damage this butt-muncher’s calm] Delwin growled. The air crackled and turned inside out around his hands. A hefty, comforting weight filled them – the automatic weapon black and sleek. Even though he’d never seen one before, Joao knew how to operate the MP5 submachine gun. And by maintaining the Pattern in his mind, he knew it would fire without interference from Amber’s restricting Paradigms.

Even as raw pain began to flood her mind, Gillian’s quick mind began working on one singular purpose – Escape. She called upon control of the Trumps, and began sketching a crude picture of the lab in the dark pool of her spreading blood. She recalled every minute detail of the sanctuary, evoking and infusing them into the rudimentary strokes. Perhaps it was the shock clouding her perceptions, but she could almost see the sketch expanding and filling in featured on its own. So concentrated was her effort, she did not noticed the protective cloak of shadows forming next to her.

The courtyard flared with silver light, radiating up from the ground beneath Gillian. A Trump Gate coming into being. The spectacled sorceress fell through it, disappearing from sight. Like a pool of quicksilver, the gate remained open. . . for the moment.

Caught totally off-guard, the Man in White paused. . . then started to readjust his aim on the next available target – Joao. Unperturbed, Anthony closed the distance between himself and Cynwyd. Caricature villain or not, his Logrus blades appeared formidable.

Gillian felt the ground go out from under her. . . a silvery light swallowing her whole.

Gravity. Plummeting with brutal speed. Then the bloodying, jarring impact.

Shattering glass, cutting. Clattering metal, sharp and biting. Her body spinning, tumbling over and falling again.

Then cool hard stone.

Dimly, she realized she’d just fallen ~into~ the laboratory and landed atop one of the equipment-laden tables before finally ending up on the floor in a broken mess of glass and steel and chemicals.

But she was alive.

Floating above her was a silvery gate – and the midnight sky above that.

It took Gillian a few seconds to figure out what had happened. Then it registered with sudden clarity what she was seeing.

She was looking back through the gate at the courtyard.

Panicked, she dropped the trump sketch from her mind and slumped back amidst the glass and rubble.

"Well, that could have gone better."

The doorway above faded and then disappeared, leaving only the dim fireplace to light the room.

As she lay there, Gillian felt a spider-web tickle in her mind. Insistent, nagging.

Someone was trying to establish a Trump contact with her.

Seeing that Gillian had escaped, Joao turned the matter of keeping himself alive. He dropped behind a stone bench and pulled the trigger on his new weapon. The courtyard erupted in a cacophony as the gun bucked in his hands. Due to his lack of experience, the first burst went wild, stitching holes across the front of the lab building. But it was more than enough to send the Man in White scurrying for cover. The second burst, more controlled, blew apart chunks of masonry – the Man in White dropping from sight without returning fire.

Gillian’s ‘departure’ had not gone unnoticed across the courtyard. “Well isn't that just like a woman?" Cynwyd asked conversationally, his weapon appearing in his hands. "You go out of your way to help her, and she just disappears."

He shrugged as he looked at Anthony. "Now, we know how this ends," he said, noting Cole's train-like approach from the rear with a slight smile on his face. "We've fought- you know I'm better. Always will be."

"But your death isn't my right," he said his smile turning malicious. "It's his," he continued, nodding over Anthony's shoulder

Anthony remained intent on his prey, stepping closer. “You may have been my peer once, Cynwyd. But I have been Reborn. I could make this a clean death for you, but such honors are unbefitting a traitor.”

Seeing Anthony advance in, Cynwyd adjusted opposite to any intent by his opponent to keep Cole from his back. If he was going to continue with this stratagem, Cynwyd was going to make sure that he knew he was going to do it at a disadvantage. As they closed range, Cynwyd engaged delicately, and then in the next instant he changed not just lines, but levels, dropping low and oblique as Anthony corkscrewed his blade around, seeking reengagement. As Anthony dropped his stance, Cynwyd disengaged with blinding speed and fluidity, changing levels again and attempted to cut the man’s forearm.

And in that instant, things nearly went terribly wrong. Anthony moved in a blur, his body flowing like water as he turned Cynwyd’s blade, then countered impossibly fast. Hideous cold burned Cynwyd’s ear as a Logrus blade sliced across its tip – only pure skill preventing him from losing it entirely. A numbing chill infected his blood like poison, threatening to blind him. But he maintained his defense, parrying Anthony’s flurry of attacks.

And while he felt blood trickling down the side of his neck, Cynwyd’s delaying tactics had succeeded. He could see Cole coming at them like an avenging angel – his red sword glowing like a forge.

Whatever exhilaration Cole should have felt from that jump, he was too distracted to notice. Whatever moral qualms Cole would normally feel about attacking from surprise never crossed his mind. Whatever Anthony was chasing, Cole didn't care, except a dim acknowledgement that it was something Anthony wanted, and so he should be deprived of it.

With a cold deadly rage in his heart such as he'd never felt--overwhelming yet controlled, like a blazing furnace - Cole sped silently across the square and thrust his sword at Anthony's back.

At the last moment, Anthony turned, knocking the blade aside, and using Cole’s momentum against him. The swift move was something ~far~ beyond his years. But as skilled as he’d become, he lacked the ability to press the advantage. Rather than press an attack, he retreated quickly, so that Cynwyd and Cole were both in front of him. He backed up, trying to position himself to avoid being caught between both men. “I knew you lacked the courage to face me like a man, Cole. But should I truly expect more from a craven that lies with whores?”

Temnal decided to contact Gillian first. She'd likely be more adept at the discipline than Joao, and would be able to respond more quickly. He took the sketch Seabhac had made and concentrated on it.

Temnal felt the sketch grow cold in his hand. The ink darkened, the image sharpening on the paper. He could sense Gillian’s mind, close. All he needed to do was press and he could open the the mental connection.

The sound of gunfire reached them again, coming in sharp, long bursts of noise. Malachi knew it came from a single source an automatic weapon of some kind.

"We need to go now," he said, with real urgency. "Make that thing work or we go on foot. At best, they're fighting for their lives."

Not for the first time, Malachi wished he understood a little bit of magic. He knew that sorcery wasn't supposed to work in Amber, but neither were guns. Rules changed during the Dark Hour, and he would give a lot for a horse and lance just then.

Temnal felt the Trump contact open – the card shimmering like liquid silver. He could see Gillian lying on a floor, probably in the lab room. Her face was a mess of bruises and lacerations. More troubling was the bloom of crimson spreading across her arm and chest from a gunshot wound in her shoulder.

<Seabhac!> she thought.

Temnal already knew from previous experience that he could do healing, and that seemed most urgent to him now.

<Gillian, it's Temnal,> he responded quickly. <Bring me through and I'll help you!> He reached out his hand to her.

Surprise filtered through the contact that he wasn't who she thought he was. <Temnal?> She reached out to him to pull him through.

Just in time Temnal remembered Malachi and looked over his shoulder to find his companion.

"Malachi, I've found Gillian and she's hurt. Let's go!"

At the same time he concentrated on the Trump sketch, willing it to create enough of a gate for him and Malachi both to step through into the lab.

Cole smiled. Taunts from Anthony meant nothing. And he wasn't worth responding to. He wasn't an opponent worthy of respect, he was a rabid beast to be put down.

Cole signaled to Cynwyd and began a flanking maneuver. He relied on his experience fighting with Cynwyd, and and Finndo's experience fighting with Osric, to put Anthony in a position where he couldn't defend himself from both of them.

Anthony continued to counter with an almost psychic awareness of Cole’s intentions. He maintained his distance, slashing out to dissuade them when need be. But even so, he was running out of options.

Meanwhile, Joao was delighted with the results. He could not truly see what he had heard from history. Guns were dangerous. Guns changed warfare. An army, or even a group of untrained serfs, armed with such weapons could decimate a trained force armed with swords. The Houses of Rebma would tremble if such weapons worked there.

Thank Lir Guns only worked during the Darkest Hour. The reason why they did was something Joao shoved away from thought. Cole and Cynwyd were dealing with Anthony. The Greater Shadow was still (hopefully) in the sewer. Gillian was nowhere to be seen. None of the others were in the area.

Therefore, still, the Man in White. Joao sought cover again, and watched for signs of his quarry to take a shot at. He had no doubt it might be started with guns, but it would not end with guns.

Thus, with Delwin's help, Veneni and her sheath came to him. Re-conjured, summoned, the exact arcane nature of what he did was unclear. But having his created blade with him reassured Joao. A bullet flew by his cheek, nearly removing his head above the neck. A lamp post resounded with the impact – a sizable hole punching through. Fortunately, the bullet did not puncture the coal-gas pipe inside.

Joao caught a glimpse of the Man in White across the courtyard, running for cover behind a stone feature. He must have leapt from the rooftop like Anthony.

Still no sign of the woman.

The chess match continued.

Then the ground gave a slight tremor, as if shivering from the touch of something repugnant. Everyone could feel the growing vibrations through their feet.

With the contact open, summoning the gate took little effort. The air split open, allowing them passage from the mountainside into the warm confines of the lab. Once they’d stepped through the silvery doorway, it closed behind them – flickering into nothingness. The Trump in Temnal’s hand turned black and featureless.

Malachi wasted no time thinking, but immediately followed Temnal's direction. On the other side, he emerged ready for a fight, standing over Gillian if necessary while Temnal attended to her.

Malachi saw no obvious threat at the moment, but another gunshot – far closer this time – revealed that the battle outside continued.

"Three...or two..." Gillian exhaled, her eyes dark in a face that was paler than usual, "...against Cwynwd and Joao. One has a gun...obviously..."

She started to laugh but it ended in a wet cough.

Temnal immediately knelt beside Gillian and focused his healing powers on her. "Tell us about it after I have you patched up," he advised.

Instinctively, Temnal summoned the Pattern to his mind, expanding his perceptions beyond the norm. He could see the complex systems of Gillian’s physiology, detecting no significant skeletal damage, only heavy bruising from hydrostatic shock. No main arteries severed. Only the massive tissue damage from the through and through passage of the bullet.

As he worked, he could see the spell’s structure and progression, as if an outsider observer. Brand actually utilized the Pattern to speed up and control the healing process around the wound area. Because of this, it healed ‘perfectly,’ all possibility of infection and malformation being suppressed.

This in no way, however, made the experience any more pleasant. For Gillian, it felt like a hot poker being thrust into the soft flesh of her arm – the muscle and tissue reknitting into their former state.

"Aaaaaahhhh!" Gillian took deep breaths and focused on not jerking away. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She tried to take the unpleasant sensations and wall them off in a corner of her mind.

"Sorry," Temnal murmured abstractedly. "I'll try to be quick about this."

"Keep her safe," said Malachi, sprinting towards the door, snatching up his spear from where it lay near the door. He crouched in the doorway, using the door for cover and looked out to see what was happening.

The corridor beyond appeared empty; safe for now. Malachi would need to exit the building via the nearby stairwell to gain a better view of the campus courtyard. From that direction he could hear continuous gunfire. Two distinct sources – a high-caliber hand gun and a sub-machine gun. Someone shouted a warning outside. . . the words barely audible at this distance. But he did get ‘… Shadow…’

Then the walls and floor shook with a growing vibration; an earth tremor of some kind.

Temnal gritted his teeth and kept working. They had a lot better chance against whatever that was if Gillian was healed and whole.

Malachi looked back once, and then ran into the night, towards the sound of gunfire. He remained in the shadows as best he could, hoping to see what was happening before anyone saw him. For a big man, he was surprisingly quiet as he moved from shadow to shadow as if hunting game in the woods.

The corridors remained empty; nothing paying him mind. But, upon exiting the lab building, Malachi walked into a war-zone. Above fifty yards away in the middle of the quad, he could see Joao crouched down behind a stone bench. Covered in dust and grim, he held an automatic weapon of some kind in his hands. The courtyard resonated with two more gunshots – the muzzle flashes pulling his attention away to another figure in White.

He recognized the Man in White, now hidden behind an obsidian coffins. He was using this cover to his advantage, as Joao appeared unwilling to return fire – and risk killing the person inside the dark chrysalis.

Across the courtyard, Cole and Cynwyd were engaged in a duel with a tall, blonde man. His twin blades were keeping them at bay, but the fight didn’t appear to be going well for him.

The courtyard heaved up, nearly throwing everyone off their feet. A section of ground burst like a malignant sore, spewing forth an excremental tower of ropy tendrils, eyes, and crooked teeth. It arched up, up, up, and then crashed down with hideous force, spreading outward in a living, voracious wave – baby-scream rasps bubbling up from its too-numerous throats.

Inside, the distant impact felt like a bomb going off… dust falling from the ceiling.

"It's a greater shadow!" Joao called out, to all and sundry. The fact that he was warning their foes as well as his friends was acceptable to him.

Warning given, he trained his gun back on the man in white, taking shots where he was hidden, and looking for cover himself, and looking to close the distance as well. The man in white seemed far more skilled and accurate with his small gun than Joao was with his automatic rifle. Veneni might be needed yet.

The Man in White continued to exchange fire with Joao – his revolver pumping out shot after shot. However, like Joao’s weapon, it lacked enough power to punch through the concrete cover. Although, he’d never been in a gunfight, Joao soon realized the exchange was a delaying tactic – the Man in White using the lulls to change position.

Another shot ricocheted far too close, causing Joao to duck. In that instant, the Man in White sprinted across the courtyard. . . and hid behind one of the obsidian coffins.

If Joao shot now, there was no telling what would happen to the person ‘inside’ the dark chrysalis.

Joao hesitated and decided not to take the shot. She might be in that very coffin, or one like it. Killing innocents even if it meant getting the Man in White was unacceptable.

Joao looked to continue to close the distance and take shots that did not involve shooting anyone's coffin.

Unfortunately, the Man in White proved very effective at keeping him pinned down. Any time he tried to move, another bullet would strike unnervingly close to him. Unless something changed, he would be an easy target the instant he left cover – and the open spaces were far too wide to risk it.

He caught a glimpse of someone coming out of the Lab building. Malachi. The Man in White hadn’t noticed him.

Nearby, Cole wasn't doing anything fancy, maintaining just enough aggression to keep Anthony from resting. His rage was fuel, not provocation. He and his brother had Anthony outnumbered, and their friends were engaged with Anthony's allies. There was no hurry. He couldn't hold them both off for long.

The smile on his face was not a cheerful one. He watched Anthony's eyes, and Cynwyd's.

Cywnyd watched as Cole engaged, ready to help if needed, but more boxing Anthony in than actually fighting, but slowly moving to his opponent's periphery. Something nagging began to bother him as he observed the student’s exceptional defense. Because he was evaluating. Calculating. Remembering. And not just with his memories, but with those of his shared Other. Finndo would recognize the coldness in his gaze... the flickering of his eyes. And he hoped Cole did too.

He watched for a moment more as the edges of his vision blurred. He felt the hot breeze of the scirroco on his face as he gave himself to the dance. <Something's... familiar about the way that Anthony moves> he thought. <And not from the Lycee either. So ... you recognize something in his actions? He's definitely faster than before, which I was expecting, but not to that level. Are they... bound... too? And to whom?>

<Duke Borel. I’d recognize that Form anywhere.> Osric replied, hiding his trepidation well. <He was Master of Arms for House Hendrake when I lived. He mentored my brothers and I. He was Death personified. But, for all his mastery, his ‘perfection’ blinded him to the unconventional. Our gambit will work, if we’re given the opportunity.>

Unfortunately, Anthony shifted the duel away from the wall, allowing him more freedom of movement. At first, it appeared a foolish gambit. But then the cunning truth came to light. To continue the engagement, Cole and Cynwyd were forced into pools of blood and filth – the slick flagstones threatening their footing. Neither could press the advantage without risking a slip or sprained ankle.

Even so, it was done from desperation. Anthony’s exhaustion was showing on his face – his steely eyes burning with hatred. He recognized his impending doom. . .

. . . and it was then that Cole felt the urgency of a Trump contact cloud his thoughts. The dull throb burned behind his eyes, growing stronger by the second. His martial skill allowed him to keep fighting Anthony, but if he resisted much longer he would be forced to disengage.

The ground heaved again. And the air filled with the burbling sound of a backed-up drain.

Anthony continued to tire under the ceaseless assault from Cole and Cynwyd. But before he could be completely undone, Cole switched from an offensive posture to pure defense. Immediately, Cynwyd could tell that something was causing him great distress. Cole hid it well enough for Anthony to remain unaware of the sudden change, but his ‘Brother’ knew him far too well.

The throbbing pulse in Cole’s head soon narrowed to needle-piecing sharpness – the pain darkening his peripheral vision. The Trump contact wasn’t abating. If anything, it was intensifying. And he simply lacked the psychic wherewithal to resist it much longer. Either way, he was being removed from the fight.

Finally, Cynwyd’s blade slipped under Anthony’s defenses – slicing through cloth, flesh, and muscle. Blood splashed over the cobblestones and the student staggered back. He should have fallen, should have died, but somehow he found enough strength to retreat. As he did so, Cynwyd caught a glimpse of the normally fatal wound. . . it was closing up. The skin oozed and resealed itself, healing. Just like it would for a Chaosian Lord using Combat Shape-shifting.

A Rebman curse echoed through Joao's brain. The Greater Shadow was seeking to get out. And was very nearly there. Would The Man in White and Anthony be inclined to aid against the creature, or be inclined to escape? Were they on the same side?

Joao had a very bad feeling he was about to find out.

He didn’t have to wait long. . .

The courtyard heaved up, nearly throwing everyone off their feet. A section of ground – around the manhole Joao had emerged from – burst like a malignant sore, spewing forth an excremental tower of ropy tendrils, eyes, and crooked teeth. It arched up, up, up, then crashed down with hideous force, spreading outward in a living, voracious wave – baby-scream rasps bubbling up from its too-numerous throats.

Nearly blinded by the pain of the trump contact, still fighting on defense only, Cole did the best he could to maneuver so that Anthony was between him and the creature. He signed to Cynwyd to do likewise: maybe they'd get lucky and the thing would eat their opponent. Or Anthony would have to turn his back on them to fight the thing. And if Anthony and the thing were going to cooperate, best to have them both lined up within his slowly tunneling vision.

<Dammit,> Cynwyd thought. <It's all going pear shaped. Unless...>

One thing that Cynwyd remembered about the tales in Chaos was of the meeting of Borel versus Corwin. Borel lost because Corwin cheated. But one thing that Cynwyd took away from the stories that none of his peers did - Corwin was alive. And Borel was worm food. His time with Kel hadn't disabused him of that notion. When the time was right, he’d use that to their advantage.

Anthony – wound and winded – shifted his focus on Cole, as if sensing the man’s distress. This became both a burden and a boon. Cole, nearly crippled from the mental assault, suffered a nick across the forearm that burned – literally. Black flames leapt from his skin, the flesh blackening from the brief touch of Logrus. This spurred the desperate Anthony on.

To his undoing.

The pain momentarily cleared Cole’s head. With the instinctual bond of true soldiers, he became aware of Cynwyd’s intentions. Like a well-oiled machine, the brothers worked together to subtly maneuver Anthony until his back had turned toward the flowing mass. As the Trump contact began to take hold of Cole once again, Cynwyd attempted his gambit.

With a half-speed feint- both to set himself up, and to make sure he had sure footing - Cynwyd swept around his cloak, hard enough to take it off his shoulders. He usually did it as a flourish, but in this case, he threw it at Anthony's head, at an angle that it would open him up to Cole for an attack. But he hoped that Borel's memory would kick in as he disengaged, and instead of following through on the cape throw, kick Anthony towards the shadow.

It went far better than he could have hoped. Anthony gave him a curious look, and then history replayed itself. This ’Borel’ had never faced Corwin, so couldn’t anticipate this maneuver. The ‘soldier’ in him caused him to dismiss Cynwyd – and before he understood the man’s intentions, the cloak struck him in the face. He reeled back, his swords burning through the cloth, becoming entangled.

He could do little but grunt as Cole ran him through, hilting the blade before kicking him away. Directly into the ropy arms of the Greater Shadow. The Trump contact ended abruptly.

Somewhere, Medea screamed. “Borel!”

Cole staggered away from the monster, clutching his burnt arm, nearly collapsing on the flagstones. Relief – both at Anthony's demise and the breaking of the trump contact – flooded through him, premature though it might be given the monster's imminent threat.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, and to let his vision return to normal, he glanced at Cynwyd with a weary grin. "That was an interesting trick you used."

"I didn't think of it," Cynwyd said enigmatically. "But Anthony got an 'F' in history, so he was doomed to repeat it," he said with a wry grin.

"What was going on with you," he asked, scanning the area around them- specifically for a certain lady.. "I'm assuming it had to do with psycho-lady since she just screamed. And it sort of gave away what I had sort of figured- they're joined, just like us. That was Borel... any idea who the others might be?"

"I think you're right about psycho-lady: someone was trying to do a trump contact with me, and it stopped when she screamed. As for who the others are, I have no idea. My history grade is pretty awful too."

"They may not be joined, just like us, though. She called him Borel. Not Anthony. They may have been consumed by their others, rather than joined. That may be their advantage, or to ours. I don't think we know yet."

In the brief reprieve, they saw Anthony – screaming, kicking, fighting – disappear under the creature’s flowing bulk. But, just as his voice was silenced, a silvery light flickered beneath the membranous surface. The creature emitted a hideous scream as if branded – the area where Anthony had been smoking and spitting like bacon in a pan. Then the quicksilver glow faded in an eye blink. Cole caught a glimpse of a silvery flash on the far side of the courtyard.

Whatever had happened, it had obviously hurt the Greater Shadow. But it was reconstituting itself with unyielding rapidity. It began flowing toward Cole and Cynwyd like a tidal wave of raw sewage.

"Crap," Cole said, "that didn't have the air of finality I was hoping for." He pointed out where he'd seen the silvery flash. "Something flashed over there when Anthony vanished. Maybe Medea trumped him out. Let's see if we can circle around this thing and find out."

Cynwyd's eyes narrowed. "He's faking it," he said after a moment. "We're just in the way of the monster behind us- he has no link to it." He sighed. "Ready to do something really stupid?" he asked, looking at his 'brother'.

"Then follow me," he said after almost no pause, because he knew that Cole was just as wont as he was to push the edge. With one last look at the mindless beast approaching from behind, he sprinted towards the beast of flame and smoke, hoping that his gamble wasn't as stupid as it seemed.

Nearby, Joao bided his cover and ran through options. He didn't have a combat monster like Cole and Cynwyd as his Other, he had a conjurer, but what a conjurer. He was going to need more weapons, soon, but strategy and tactics were mostly going to be he is. He watched Malachi's actions carefully as well as the Greater Shadow to make his next move.

Eyeing the battlefield briefly, Malachi made a sudden choice. His big spear held tightly in his right hand, he began to work his way around the battle, moving swiftly and purposefully between the shadows in an attempt to get behind the Man in White. He moved when either Joao or his target were firing, figuring that the Man in White would be fully focused on Joao during those periods.

Seeing Malachi’s intentions, he began spraying bullets at the Man in White – precise, controlled bursts kicking up dirt and broken stones. The Man cursed – focusing his attention completely on Joao. He tried to shoot back, but he lacked the training and courage. Fear began to take over and he hesitated.

It was all the time Malachi needed. He crossed the courtyard in long, fast strides; spear in hand. At the last moment, the Man in White realized his error and turned, trying to get his gun hand up. With a deft stroke, Malachi disarmed him – impaling him through the wrist. Howling, he knocked the spear-tip away and backed off with insidious speed before Malachi could finish him off.

The Man’s body began to burn, his skin dripping off like melting tallow.

Malachi stalked the Man in White, striving to remain within lunging distance. "Joao!" he called, without looking away from his opponent. "Keep an eye out for his sister. She's at least as dangerous. Do you know what he's doing?"

Joao kept with the plan, take shots at Man in White or the Shadow whenever possible. He remained ever watchful. He is no fan of Medea. Not only for before, but for ruining his pool time earlier. However, she remained hidden and secretive in her dealings; her location unknown for now.

The Man in White continued to retreat. . . and grow. The flames boiled out of his body like magma, glowing stone and cinders adding to its bulk. His face split into a demonic visage, an inferno behind rows of jagged teeth. The ground blistered beneath cloven hooves, as the last of his humanity burned away to reveal the daemon within.

When a burst of bullets from Joao struck him, they simply flattened and melted on its chitinous armor. The Daemon halted its retreat and chuckled like hot mud. “Come at me, Children of Amber,” Derryk smiled. “Or face the beast behind you. Either way, you see your death.”

"This isn't fair," Cole observed to Cynwyd, trying to keep watching their destination, the monster, and the demon at the same time. "The enemy of our enemy is not supposed to be something that wants to eat us."

Temnal could ‘feel’ the remaining damage fade from existence, returning Gillian’s arm to its former state. But the blood spilt could not be returned, and Gillian would remain weak for its loss.

Gillian’s hand began to work again, tingling like it had fallen asleep. But at least she could move her arm again.

She sat up.

"Thank you," Gillian said to Temnal, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Now let's get to business."

Gillian focused her thoughts and ran through the steps to bring up the Pattern.

"I can open a trump gate to outside, where the boys are, and move it around. We can throw fireballs and stuff through it at the enemy."

Temnal nodded. "I also have a Trump sketch of Joao," he offered.

She brought the Lens into focus and scanned the area around the bridge. "Temnal, can you see this too?"

Temnal concentrated, seeing if he could.

Instinctively, Temnal touched Gillian’s hand. Almost instantly, the air before him shimmered. A floating window opened up, allowing him a perfect view of the campus courtyard.

<I see it,> Temnal told Gillian.

Mentally linked, they could see the drama playing out. Cole and Cynwyd had just disposed of Anthony – who was being pulled off by what could only be a Greater Shadow – a black, rolling mass of cancerous tissue and sludge. Malachi and Joao appeared engaged with the Man in White – who wasn’t faring well for the effort.

"Holy-Dworkin-on-a-stick..." Gillian breathed, gazing with dismay at the black abomination. She swung the Lens around so that when they started spewing fireballs, if one missed it would minimize collateral damage, both to campus and to her friends.

"I'm going to open a gate where the Lens is, and then I think we can shoot magic through it. Do you have a fireball or similar spell, something with some kick to it?" she asked.

<Cybele, do I need to worry about Temnal's Chaos magic going through the portal I'm about to create? I don't want it to blow up in my face.>

<Persephone's Tears, the one I used last night, can fire projectiles too,> Temnal offered.

Linked as he was to Gillian, Temnal could hear the mental conversation. The woman’s velvet voice slithered through his thoughts, “He is Child of Amber, girl. Can’t you feel the Pattern burning within him? I assure you, there will be no backlash from the Weavings. Now /that/ one is something else entirely. . .”

She directed their ‘vision’ toward Malachi, who appeared to be fighting a man of flame and shadow. Temnal had once witnessed a Chaos Lord in his Elemental Form. It was an image he was not likely to forget. And he knew that this survival form was extremely resistant to all manner of armaments. They watched as Joao shot the creature – which hardly noticed.

Malachi and Joao were walking into a Chaosian equivalent of a blast furnace.

<Here's our first target> Gillian said to Temnal. <The trump gate I'm going to create will be visible and two-way, so I'm only going to hold it open long enough to shoot our spells. Ready?>

<Ready,> Temnal replied, bringing Persephone's Tears to mind. The underground lab should provide plenty of earthstuff for the projectiles. Several, in a tight formation.

The lab’s cobbled floor fractured into slivered stone, each piece hardening into glittering crystal. The shards floated in the air, waiting. . .

Gillian planned to use fireballs imbued with Pattern energy, as she did previously.That should have some interesting effects on a Chaosian.

She opened the gate behind the flaming man, signaled Temnal, and let fire.

With combined mental effort, the Trump Gate ripped open in perfect position behind the Chaosian. The spells came to them easily, naturally, fluidly… and then they were loosed upon the unsuspecting Burning Man as one.

Unaware of the plans swirling around him, Malachi's instincts told him he was in trouble. It was time to switch roles from Hunter to Hunted. Suddenly, keeping this thing busy seemed a much better plan than fighting it directly. It would give the big brains a chance to figure out a better plan. He took a quick look to make sure he wasn't leaving Joao exposed, and then backed slowly away, keeping the flaming monstrosity in sight, and making himself the obvious target. He had to make sure it came after him. "Couldn't fight like a man?" he called, "That does explain why it was all Chaos women when they attacked Amber. Were you washing laundry during that battle?"

Pain and rage overcame Derryk’s sense of caution. Still growing, he came after Malachi – burning claws slashing out madly. “I’ll feed you your manhood, boy!” he howled. “I should have killed you and your little bitch that first night. I won’t make the mistake again!” As his anger grew, the air surrounding him became unbearably hot – Malachi’s skin turning red from the waves of heat. But his plan worked; the Chaosian ignored everything else but the man before him. And the reach of Malachi’s spear eliminated his impressive reach and height advantage… for the moment. Because Malachi’s spear was becoming unbearably warm in his hands as the metal heated up.

His uncanny martial abilities allowed him sense Cole and Cynwyd approaching. . . leading the Greater Shadow right for them. But this appeared intentional.

Nearby, Joao cursed and dropped the gun. The Greater Shadow had to wait. He couldn't let Malachi face this daemon alone. Fire? He had avoided the furnace room before. Now there was no escaping what he had to face.

<Delwin. We need water. A lot of water, cold and at high pressure. Not even a volcano can stand up to the waters of an ocean, much less this Daemon.> He sketched his idea quickly to the Other, to create a directed, focused gate with the other end deep in the ocean.

Delwin, a crafty sorcerer, smiled at Joao’s idea – and easily adapted his training to follow suit. Joao could see the arcane formulae in his mind. . . strings of symbols rearranging themselves. They should have opened a Shadow-Conduit to the deep earth and let loose a stream of magma. But now, with the last second adjustments, it opened up at the bottom of the Rebman Ocean. The pressure there was immense. . . and focused through a small opening, the jet of seawater cut through the air with killing force.

And, as he released the spell, Joao noticed the air behind Derryk split open… a Trump Gate. He barely registered the stern faces of his friends beyond – Gillian and Temnal – before they unleashed hell through the opening.

As [Cole and Cwynwyd] passed [Joao and Malachi], Cynwyd motioned for them to follow. "Joao! Malachi! Don't engage!" he yelled, not slowing down nor pausing, even as they grew closer to the flame. At the last moment, he saw the shimmering of the gate behind the demon, and his lips peeled away from his teeth in a grimace.

<This is going to hurt, isn't it?> he thought, even as motioned for everyone to break away, leaving a clear path from the Greater Shadow to the Chaos Demon.

<Undoubtedly> Osric sighed.

Cynwyd’s request went unheeded – Malachi and Joao were too involved to quickly disengage from the fight. Doing so would have likely meant a fiery end for Malachi, anyway. But, by a stroke of luck, Malachi appeared to be leading the Chaos Daemon right for them. They closed the distance, meeting near the center of the courtyard. By another stroke of luck (or was it?), they’d chosen a location completely devoid of their Chrysalis-trapped peers.

Derryk, now in full Elemental form, towered over them by four feet – and wasn’t intimidated by three fleshy opponents. He flexed his claws and prepared to wade into them like a living firestorm.

Then it all happened at once. . .

A Trump Gate opened behind him. The men caught a glimpse of Gillian and Temnal, just before they released a pair of devastating spells at the unsuspecting Derryk. First, Gillian’s Pattern empowered flames washed over the Chaosian’s fire-wreathed body, adding to the blaze – fueling it, intensifying it. Derryk screamed and writhed as his blood boiled; the scream becoming shrill as Temnal’s shotgun-blast of crystals struck him in the back. They did not truly damage him, but melted instantly, coating his armored flesh in molten rock.

Just in time for Joao’s blast of icy sea-water…

Caustic steam filled the air, and would have scalded Cole, Cynwyd, and Malachi were they not inhumanly dexterous. A sound like cracking ice echoed across the campus, overshadowing pitiful screams of agony. Derryk’s armored body literally fractured as the cold water washed over its superheated hide – the molten rock exploding like miniature bombs and inflicting even greater harm. Derryk fell, crumbled, shattered. . . blackened pieces of his body falling off.

By the time Joao’s spell had ended, only a mewing, twitching shell remained – a misshapen statue of glowing, smoking rock and steel. Cole, Cynwyd, and Malachi could see into Derryk’s body through the cracks and fissures.

It took them little effort to slip a blade or spear through these wounds and put an end to the pathetic creature. Perhaps it was a mercy.

Of course, even with this small victory, the Greater Shadow remained. . .

<That...was disturbing> Gillian thought after she watched the Man in White scream and burn. It made her feel...powerful, but also vaguely queasy. Strange, it was, to feel repulsed by his suffering while at the same time satisfaction in paying retribution to him for shooting her.

Was it indeed retribution? An eye for an eye? Or had she upped the ante?

Further introspection was interrupted by more pressing concerns.

<Temnal, I'm going to use the same trick with the Greater Shadow: open a gate and send spells through and close it fast. Ready? Here we go.>

She swung the Lens around, looking for a good line-of-sight that would limit collateral damage.

The Greater Shadow shifted continually, its undulating mass making it difficult to predict its true path. Both she and Temnal could only haphazardly direct their spells, as even the slightest miscalculation could have devastating results. Worse, the creature appeared to be completely immune to flanking maneuvers – its limitless eyes ever-attentive. It would harden sections of its gelatinous body the moment a spell was flung in its direction, and heal what little damage they caused almost instantaneously.

It was like fighting the ocean.

For all of his blade bravado, Joao understood he wasn’t Cynwyd or Cole by a long shot. He decided on a more cautious path, and called upon Delwin’s far-reaching skills of Conjuration. He pictured something akin to the living weapons aboard a Rebman crusier. If it worked for an avanc... maybe it’d hurt this thing. And if he could hurt the Shadow and/or distract it so that the swordsmen could use their toys and Gillian can fry it, all the better.

But creating something of this complexity would require time, of which he had precious little.

Fortunately, Malachi began to play tag with the beast. It wasn’t difficult. The bulk of the Greater Shadow flowed and stretched after him, extending a dozen sucking mouths full of rotten teeth. So great its hunger, it appeared to ignore the magical assault launched via the shared Trump Gate. For a few moments, Malachi led it on a merry chase – deftly avoiding its ropy tendrils and impossibly dexterous movements.

But then it began to sing to him. The childlike gibbering became a chorus, scintillating and airy. The song intruded upon his thoughts, pushing them aside and dulling them. . . like a mother’s lullaby. Soon, his legs felt leaden, the spear in his hand a massive weight. He knew this mental assault from his near-death in the Tower, but even aware he was virtually helpless against it. And he could sense it was beginning to turn the tables on him, altering its protean body to surround him. He’d need help and fast. . .

. . . but ‘help’ had other plans apparently.

Cole flanked the massive Shadow, but his focus remained elsewhere; Anthony. He couldn’t let the bastard get away. Gillian’s Trump Gate had confused him for a moment, pulling him away from his true prey. By the time he recognized his error, it robbed him of valuable seconds. He sprinted across the courtyard, closing the distant between him and where he suspect Medea had Trumped Anthony to.

<Bugger,> Cynywd said, seeing Cole run /away/ from the Greater Shadow. <I really understand the brother thing now.>

He had little choice and took off after the errant Cole. At least the dangerous distraction might give him the opportunity to develop some plan for dealing with a living lake of sludge and hatred. <And we’d better come up with one fast> Osric growled. <Look!>

A brief glance back was all he needed to see how ineffectual fire and impact weapons were on the Shadow.

Cole reached the steps of the North Academic Building, taking them two at a time. Just as he reached the top, he saw Medea cradling a moaning thing - a man reduced to little more than teeth and tissue. She narrowed her crazed eyes at him, her hatred radiating in a palpable wave. Then in a silvery flash, they disappeared through a Trump Gate. It closed before he could leap through, leaving him with an impression of mist and greasy light.

Behind them, the Greater Shadow closed in on Malachi – stretching its liquid bulk to form a circle around him. still within its reach, Joao summoned something metallic and dangerous-looking. . . a cannon of some kind. He began to load it, but as impressive as it looked. . . it appeared very, very small compared to the Greater Shadow.

<Cybele, can I use a gate as a sort of "knife" to cut the shadow into smaller chunks if I, for example, created a gate in the middle of the Shadow?> Gillian thought to her Other.

<Very likely. After all, you just observed its reaction to having a trump gate open up inside it a few moments ago - Medea saving Anthony. But, here's an interesting thought ... Why didn't the Shadow follow Anthony through the gate? It had a pretty good hold on him.> Cybele asked smugly, as if she already knew the answer.

Temnal and she were still in mental contact, and she didn't try to hide her conversation with Cybele from him.

<Temnal, I'm going create one side of a trump gate inside the Shadow and create the other side of the gate elsewhere where the air pressure is less, which should suck the Shadow into the gate. I hope.>

She set up the destination first, taking her Pattern Lens away from the fight below and up, up into the sky, as high and as fast as she was able, with the goal of getting it above the atmosphere. As her ‘vision’ ascended toward the heavens, Gillian could feel a growing pressure on her skin. The strain increased the farther away the Lens went, and she began to realize this effect wasn’t simply because of distance. Something about the Paradigms of Amber were resisting this. She suspected without the Dark Hour, not even an Elder could manipulate the Pattern in this fashion.

Once that was accomplished, she created the other end of the gate inside the Shadow.

Cole roared in frustration as Medea's trump gate flashed shut. But he didn't waste time flailing about. Obsessed though he was with Anthony, he knew it wasn't a situation he could act upon now, and there were other matters more pressing. He ran back to the rooftop's edge to survey the situation.

"Cynwyd, if you can blast that thing from up here that'll probably do more good than poking it with another sword. That's what I'd do, if I knew how. But a sword is what I've got, so I'm going to see if I can cut Malachi free, before that it does to him what it did to Anthony. See you soon."

And with that, Cole jumped back down to the courtyard.

Glad that the rage had left Cole, Cynwyd surveyed the landscape as Cole bounded back towards the creature. Assessing Malachi's position and intent, Cynwyd decided to play to his strengths, and do him one better. Even as he again imposed his will upon reality, he threaded the Logrus through the shadows that pervaded the landscape, creating shimmering echoes of Malachi and Cole, hoping to further confuse the shadow, and increase Malachi and Cole's chances of not being crushed beneath its power.

Despite the advantages an all-encompassing vision provided the Greater Shadow, it quickly became a detriment as Cynwyd’s ‘phantoms’ took shape. The creature, an engine of pure destruction and hunger, became overwhelmed by the number of targets; futility lashing out with tendrils and mouths and finding nothing but air.

This allowed Cole and Malachi to begin playing off on another, further distracting the creature long enough for the other to slash or stab at one of its countless limbs or vulnerable eyes. Cole’s blade opened foul, bleeding wounds that didn’t heal – the stinking fluids burning his eyes and throat. Malachi’s wounds were brutal and efficient, leaving gaping holes in the sludgy hide. And anytime it gathered its rudimentary wits, they were already gone… obscured by their doppelgangers.

Meanwhile, Joao continued his work. The Greater Shadow seemed mostly immune to what he and his companions could bring to bear, but what other powers and choices did they have? Even if they fled, it would do little good. Hundreds could have their coffins destroyed, and die.

"We need something bigger, but we'll start with this" Joao said to Delwin. Thoughts of something, a movie whatever that was came from Delwin to him. But what he saw in the images was even more complicated than a cannon. And red and gold and flying was not his style, but it might work. But, first, the cannon.

He closed the breach and aimed it through a rudimentary sight and handle, which required him to get under its long, dark weapon. (OOC: Think recoilless rifle). With a pull of the trigger, the weapon roared – the noise nearly deafening Joao on the spot. The sizable shell tore into the Shadow, exploding an instant later deep inside its gelatinous bulk; the flash muted behind layers of sludge. Fortunately, for Cole and Malachi, the shockwave never reached the surface. But it stunned the Shadow enough for them to continue their brutal work.

Gillian’s plan finally came to fruition, the trump gate opening deep within the Greater Shadow’s body. The effect was both dramatic and disappointing. Immediately, she realized that her vacuum-based trick would be ineffective as a Trump Trap (a term that Cybele held onto like a tantalizing treasure). Simply too much energy and control were required to maintain the Shadow Conduit between Gates, especially with Amber’s influence.

And, despite the tremendous pull from the other side, the Greater Shadow refused to enter the Gate. Its body boiled where it contacted the silvery opening, healing, and boiling again. But she’d effectively created the paradox of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, pinning the Greater Shadow in place. As long as she maintained the portal, it couldn’t get away. And the tremendous pain the Gate caused it would weaken it; so much energy devoted to healing the ceaseless wounds.

Cole and the other men quickly realized that the creature was in trouble. Its once protean movements were suddenly restricted. And it was suffering, weakening. Their blows became more effective and taxing.

Sadly, its unspeakable suffering resonated through the Trump Contact – slicing into Gillian’s mind. And Temnal’s by association. It felt like a hot brand, burning her, marking her. Without Temnal’s shared mental strength, Gillian would have boiled away like the Greater Shadow.

And even he had limits. But if they let go now, it would likely kill one or more of their friends in a mad rage. They realized they had a tiger by the tail.

Temnal could tell Gillian was having trouble with the Trump Gate. So, drawing upon his Other’s expertise with Trump and Pattern, he began actively bolstering her complex Gate. In doing so, he had to lower his mental defenses more, allowing the waves of hideous pain to come through. His vision faltered and body trembled from its intensity. He dared not think of the suffering Gillian must be enduring.

Gillian accepted Temnal's help greedily, grabbing every last ounce that she could of his mental strength and joining it with her own in order to hold the gate in place. She grew angry in defense to the Shadow's suffering invading her psyche, becoming cold, hard, and determined to keep the gate open at any cost. Nothing else mattered--not herself, not Cybele, not even Temnal. The gate would stay open, the Shadow would die, and Amber would continue.

Her cold anger helped her resist the unbelievable pain. And with Temnal’s help, she maintained the Trump Gate – inflicting further harm to the Greater Shadow. Desperate for energy, she looped her thoughts around Temnal’s mind like a snake coiling around a mouse, drawing him deeper, deeper. She could drain him dry before he could escape.

And Pattern-infused Gate continued to burn and kill.

The screams became sweet music in her bleeding ears.

Cole's plan remained simple: team up with Malachi to do as much damage to the thing as possible, while watching each other's backs to keep it from damaging them in return. They continued their grisly work with unnerving precision, hacking and crippling the creature with machine-like endurance. The ground became slick with ichor and twitching limbs. But despite the grievous injury they inflicted, the creature simply consumed and replaced its own damaged flesh. Their own skin began to blister and smoke as the splatters of acidic blood ate through their clothing and shoes. And, as resilient as they were, their bodies could not so easily repair the damage as their opponent.

Worse, they could see that survival instincts were kicking in – focused by pain. With a wet ripping noise, it began to slough off the portion of its body connected to the Trump Gate. Like a wounded animal gnawing off its own limb, it would soon be free of the trap.

Right. Raw damage is not doing the trick, Joao thought. The thing is just too massive.

So, Joao changed armament types; unweaving the cannon for the added boost of power. Rather than outright trying to injure it (leaving that to Cole and Malachi), he decided to utilize some form of concussive force. Stun it, baffle it, keep it confused. If it is perpetually dazed, it can't hurt anyone. Fortunately, Delwin had spent a great deal of time in the militarized city of Looksky, where engineers crafted weapons of magick and steel. He showed Joao how to craft on of their non-lethal weapons – a gauntlet that could project narrow streams of air at incredible velocity.

The gauntlet formed around his hand – its silver and gold plating surprisingly light. By simply opening his palm toward the target, he fired a series of ‘air bolts’ at the Greater Shadow. What would have normally knocked a man off his feet tore into the creature’s liquid body, sending hydrostatic shockwaves deep into its bulk. Although no lasting physical damage was caused, the disruption kept the creature off-kilter.

As Joao unleashed his barrage of magickal air-blasts, Cole and Malachi realized that the Rebman may have unknowingly just saved the day. Each impact stunned the Greater Shadow long enough for the Trump Gate to melt and fuse more of its body to the shimmering doorway. He’d bought them more time for someone to turn the tide.

Cynwyd noticed the movements of the beast as it tried to get rid of the twin annoyances that were Cole and Malachi. He hadn't seen any indication that either of them were Logrus-users. But of course, his creations showed up as a beacon of Logrus energy to any that were sensitive to such things- the weaving did that, and without a veil, it was pretty obvious. So, the only reason that he could think of that his creations were more successful than he'd had any right to expect was that point.

<Unless you think for some reason it's stupid, I've got a great idea,> he thought. <If I pour more energy into one of them, to make it an irresistible morsel for the shadow, then send it through that portal that is causing it so much pain, maybe the conflicting sensibilities will make it do something that might be mortal to its well being...>

<Ah, you noticed that. Well done, my friend.> Osric said with pride. He quickly considered the suggestion. <Aye. Play on its primal instincts before it realizes it can escape at any time. And, at the very least, we might learn why the Trump Gate is causing it so much displeasure.>

The reborn Wizard of Chaos fed the Logrus into one of his shadow-constructs, giving it an unholy semblance of life. It radiated like a dark flame as it approached the Greater Shadow. And almost immediately, the creature’s instinctive hunger took over. It needed food to regenerate its wounded body, and desperation blinded it to all else. Cynwyd deftly guided the shadowy puppet toward the glowing portal, dodging tendrils and mouths that would have surely consumed it. And between the trio of blades, spear, and magick from his companions, the beast remained virtually impotent in its dying rage.

The puppet nearly made it all the way before disappearing into the gelatinous mass. Even then, the Logrus-fueled construct pushed ever forward. Cynwyd could feel the greasy touch of tongues, the bite of rotten teeth, and the blistering acid on his flesh. Hundreds of fractured minds assailed him, whispered to him, tried coax him to join them in this amorphous existence. So many souls, lost and frightened and in pain. Sisters, brothers, cousins, friends. All he had to do was let go and sink into the primordial ooze, losing himself, his worries, his concerns.

But he pushed forward, controlling the puppet as if moving his own limbs, swimming, sloughing through the living sludge until he reached the Gate – tendrils and flesh holding onto him hungrily, desperately. With the last of his will, he pressed forward, forcing the shadow-construct through the blessed glow. Fingertips reaching, reaching, and…

… Contact.

Osric barely had time to curse in shock – pure, bowel-loosen dread.

Then the world came apart.

Cole and Malachi were the truly unlucky ones. Only pure instinct prevented them from being permanently blinded – but in the grand scheme this would be small compensation. The Greater Shadow vaporized as Cynwyd’s Logrus-fueled construct touched Gillian’s Pattern-infused Trump Gate. The blast wave enveloped them, tossing them through the air like broken leaves, crisping flesh and singing hair. Bones fractured, even before they struck the hard flag-stones. But, by then, they were blessedly unconscious.

Joao didn’t fare much better. But he had the unpleasantness of witnessing his friends consumed by the blue-white fireball before it reached him – Cole and Malachi little more than flash-shadows in his blinded eyes. He was flattened like a reed before a hurricane. He remained hideously aware as his body was torn and smashed against the ground and concrete objects, helpless as flotsam. His body had barely come to a tangled stop before it began moving again… pulled back the way it had come by a powerful vacuum. Blissful darkness eventually stole him away, but not soon enough.

Cynwyd, still further from the blast, was saved the agony of his body. But his Mind was another matter entirely. He felt himself burning away, inch by excruciating inch, melting in a blue-white furnace. Osric sheltered him how he could, but truthfully the Other could do little against this mental onslaught. One thought rang in his shattering thoughts. <How? How? How?> The thought continued, even after the explosion reached him and carried him off.

Gillian and Temnal were equally affected by the psychic backlash of the Logrus and Pattern touching. And while they were saved from the physical damage, they suffered the brunt of the mental shockwave. Both felt the blue-white agony tear their minds apart, stripping them of identity and thought and memory in sadistically-slow torture until nothing remained but animal terror and brittle pain. Only then did they fall into the darkness to be swallowed up in razored shadows.

[Gillian continued in Death Is Only the Beginning: Giillian]