by A Uscila
Wail’s brows furrowed. They’re not coming here to rescue him, are they?
Indeed, they were not. Flames rose-up into the sky from behind their shifting ranks, echoes of explosions reaching all the way here. A scene that finally riled up the remaining cavalry – as they prepared for a neat charge. All six of them. Wail did not doubt the devastating damage they’d deliver.
With the attention of his captors away from the patient prisoner – the warlock slowly got up, preparing to unleash rightful vengeance upon these new assailants, right before darting away into the nearby forest for a much-needed tactical retreat. He was definitely not fleeing.
What his eyes caught onto made the magician’s strategic mind consider other alternatives.
Like a sea – a horde of disfigured and twisted creatures from the darkest, deepest corners of the continent were pouring out from the tree line, right behind his fleeing comrades. Flashes of raging flames seen within their lines every now and then, Sorro being the likely culprit, as the demon distributed a hot serving of butt-roasting, while sparse arrows rained upon their tightly packed horde, with unlikely misses, considering how tightly the targets were packed. Willow’s detachment must be leeching in quite a bit of experience from this event. To the right and beyond the battered fortifications? Wail could now glimpse scenes of chaos and conflict, as his gaze pierced through the holes in his earthen-fort. Apparently, the majority of the white-clad cavalry, led by the claymore-wielding female, were engaged in a bloodbath of a clash. Her formation scattered into small pockets of resistance – riding through and over the swirling mass of creatures in great effect. Slicing apart and trampling all who they came across and there seemed to be plenty left to deal with, judging by the sight of the churning mass.
Truly, quite the opportune moment for Wail’s other thorn in the side to appear – the goblin hordes providing a perfect opportunity to not only escape from a sticky situation, but to also reap some profits.
A pleasant thought disturbed as a certain annoying pest returned from half-assed floating about and doing nothing, only to continue doing something ever worse – since the Shadowfiend started rubbing against Wail’s side once again.
“Did I tell you to stop attacking!? Go and make yourself useful! Cast some Soul Syphon or whatever!” – His mood once again on a downward slope to rage-inducted insanity, Wail shouted about. Left hand pointed towards the back-lines of the approaching companions. A lot of good that will do, but at least the bandit overlord will have enough time to contemplate further steps, with the unbearable nuisance away. That is – he though he did, for once the warlock raised his furrowed sight, his eyes caught sight of the six captors. Who were still present – their visors directed at the loudmouth magician, completely unresponsive to the shadowy minion that floated over-head and towards the ever-approaching horde.
“Sit down” – One of them, being the big “boss” he obviously though he was, decided to throw-in orders. Persuasively to boot. Very persuasively – as the tip of his longsword stopped centimeters away from Wail’s chest.
This was the moment of truth, the moment that would show what kind of man this crazed warlock really was. A choice between resisting and backing down. From staying firm with a raised head or to bow down and succumb to pressure. Not much of a choice there, seeing its’ Wail we’re talking about. It’s his well-being that’s at stake here! Twenty-four hours of no Virtual Reality! There was no way he’d risk it. What was the big deal of backing off for a moment, only to wait for an opportunity to bite at their asses once the horde approached? A few moments, at most.
Yet, Wail chose otherwise. For the first time in his life, he didn’t express his pent-up feelings in some underhanded, petty and simply pathetic gesture. No venting of anger or past hurts. Well, maybe a little bit.
“Only after I strip away that shinny armor off your charred corpses!” – He shouted out, while jumping back with a hand extended in preparation for some fireball conjuring. Wasn’t fast enough though, as the knight reacted in a split second, his sword cutting sideways and leaving a deep wound upon the magician’s chest. Blood seeping into the ripped open robe.
You’ve received 568 physical damage.
All five remaining colleagues turned their horses with the intent to surround their prey, while the foremost attacker pulled back his sword-arm in preparation for another swing.
With teeth clenched from the surge of pain, Wail glared sparks, a fireball conjured but moments ago, loosed towards the perpetrator without a moment’s delay – the projectile ramming into the target’s helm, forcing the knight to stagger somewhat. A gauntlet swinging at the fires that engulfed the head-piece for a mere second, threatening to go out any moment now, with nothing flammable to hold-onto. Before it could do so – Wail managed to squeeze in a quick snap of the fingers, before another sword sliced at his left arm in passing – as another knight was already upon the poor mage.
You’ve received 368 physical damage.
Flames exploded, staggering the unlucky knight to an even greater extent, an uncomfortable grunt escaping from within the singed metal, his sword now directed to the side – yet still firmly gripped. Clearly – the little trick was far from enough to do any real damage. Yet it was all that the warlock needed – as he performed a sudden forward-roll, closer to the dazed foe and away from any additional swings directed at him, the action taken swiftly enough to dodge another swing at his appendage. A gamble taken, one that paid off this time. Though another slash did scrape his side, Wail still managed to roll away and outside the forming circle – getting up at the same time as the foremost knight finally regained his bearings, turning the steed towards the annoying mage, sword already prepared for another slash.
A little support came just in the nick of time – a few arrows accurately slamming into the five riders, bouncing off steel plates with great force. Staggering them enough to allow Wail to at least get up and start a sprint to the right – with the intent of hiding in the woods.
Of course, all those projectiles were a negligible nuisance to the impenetrable plates the knights wore, surely. Yet in between the almost harmless shots, every now and then a real stinger mixed in. With a clearly superior force – an arrow rammed into one of the knights, almost knocking his formidable frame off the steed, the projectile even penetrating through the metal enough to, at the very least, scratch what lay underneath. A transparent trail of red fading from existence in the arrow’s wake. Lovely visual effects.
In response, the riders were forced to raise large shields in opposition to the ranged attacks, the arrows now mostly bouncing off without much harm. Still, as meager an opposition as it was, it did serve to give Wail some breathing room. His scrawny figure beset by no more than two assailants at a time – which was definitely better than six. Wonderful.
Fires were thrown about almost haphazardly at the assailants, fingers snapping after each contact – the effect of the performance questionable – for the knights only put effort in defending against the arrows, while almost ignoring the magician’s antics. Blades flashing here and there at Wail without much effort, yet reaching him each and every single time. His robes in tatters, blood running down in rivulets – a trail of it left in his passing.
Not much left now, for the horde was almost upon them – Wail could almost hear Bob’s shouts, a peculiar pitch to them, words indistinguishable beneath the racket that the goblins left, the drumming of hoofs upon the ground. A rumbling echo beating powerfully in the background, like an approaching earthquake.
You have received 567 physical damage.
Another accurate slash, searing away more and more of the remaining health. His efforts now slower, less determined – the spirit drained away by the obvious futility. There was no way he’d escape from these crazy bastards.
Alternative Reality had a funny way of doing things though and just when Wail was on the brink of giving up, eyes glued to his last a thousand and a half health – hope reared its’ ugly head in
the most pleasant of ways.
+71 health.
+65 health.
+61 health.
+67 health.
…
Finally, the maintained Soul Link with that deplorable and useless creature – payed off. With a momentum that kept on building upon itself – the warlock could finally see the light. It wasn’t the flashes of his flames exploding either, no, this was the light of hope and with it – an idea was born. A drastic one, sure, but one that might just pay off. With crazed eyes, Wail threw in a couple of calculating glances towards the goblin horde. Their swarm biting at the heels of his retreating comrades. A moment was all it took to make up his mind – quite the decisive one today, isn’t he?
Using an opportune moment to roll away from an expected charge and escaping with another light cut – Wail changed directions and instead of going towards the woods, he started dashing towards the upcoming horde. His direction on a collision course with the fellow bandit’s flight path. Surely, he didn’t choose it out of spite or with any bad intentions of using comrades as meatshields? Preposterous.
With a full-on crazy grin, Wail started a mad dash towards his compatriots – eyes darting about along the edge of the horde. Taking notice of all those still fleeing – numerous heavily and lightly armored figures seemingly fleeing for their very lives, yet not a glimpse of fatigue in sight. Their movement’s light, measured and even, which was quite the feat considering all the running about they had to go through today. Truly, Wail’s elite force. A sad thought, especially when he caught sight of a few stragglers left behind – caught by the ever-approaching horde, overwhelmed by their numbers. Only a few small pockets of resistance still holding firm, which was mainly due to Sorro, whose antics could be clearly seen from far away. Flame tongues and sparks rising-up into the air with each passing moment, a clear signal that the little devil was still there and enjoying his stay. Above, the newest minion could be seen floating about, a black haze falling upon foes in his wake, settling upon their slimy, deformed skin, yet receiving a passing glare or a few indistinguishable gargling sounds in reply since the swarm continued-on without care. Single-minded in their thundering advance.
Finally, Wail’s eyes stopped upon the foremost of his comrades – Bob, with minion number one a few meters behind. That festering corpse was really asking for it at this point. Who ever heard of an undead with a self-preservation instinct? One that seemed even more tenacious than the living possessed, to boot! Absolutely ridiculous. Lucky for him – the fleeing warlock had other, more pressing, matters to attend to.
“Get into formation E!” – Wail screamed at the top of his lungs just to make sure Bob heard him, all the while maintaining an all-or-nothing dash and throwing about fireballs at the gaining knights, talk about multitasking. Yet time was of the essence and his ingenious plot would simply crumble with but a single deviation – the chasing cavalry being the primary concern, seeing as they were now reformed. Their shields held up firmly in opposition to the ever-upcoming arrow-fire, the solid screen effectively disabling almost all and any effects the projectiles held before. Swords raised in preparation for the upcoming execution, as the half-heartedly thrown fire was shrugged aside with no obvious effect.
Luckily, Bob heard the request loud and clear, as he quickly took out a small whistle from a side-pouch, attached firmly against the chest armor with leather straps. Quite fortunate that they weren’t cut-through during the obvious fighting the underling went through. Wail would need to suggest other, less dangerous methods of transporting vital items.
A sudden though arose, once Wail gave a more serious look-over Bob’s headgear. A full helm of dark metal, with but a narrow slit running down the middle of it, branching off in similar width at eye-level. How was the fool supposed to fit the damn whistle with that metal pot worn over his head? He was about to rage at the fool when he actually tried to do just that – yet managed to hold himself back long enough to witness successful contact. Apparently, the whistle was fit perfectly fine. Who would have thought?
Thrice, did the sword-wielding underling blow on the whistle, the sound of it echoing loudly across the field in long intervals. Identical sounds soon following-after as numerous other plate-wearing bandits picked up on the sound with their own whistles. With that – the whole seemingly disorganized and scattered flight quickly gathered up into a few tight squares. Ranks forming with shields facing outward, the leather-clad bandits stepping behind with long-swords, axes and spears readied.
What followed that sudden stop was an ear-numbing collision, a lull in the tempo of events – as the horde slammed itself against and past the man-made squares, splitting apart like the sea would against cliffs. Hundreds of critters scampering on all fours swarmed Wail’s comrades, the lines shifting, balancing between standing firm and breaking apart all-together. But they held for now, swords and spears sliding in between large shields, cutting apart the unarmored creatures with relative ease. Goblins spilled in-between the formations, most continuing on, while others remained to besiege Wail’s bandits.
Without stopping, Wail ran straight towards the upcoming wave of slimy, stinking, deformed goblins – their scampering momentum seemingly unstoppable, rolling away like water from a broken dam. Six determined rider’s mere moments away from running over him from behind – their chase all but over as they did not seem bent on stopping either. Two sides, moments away from ramming into each other with Wail smack in the middle, on his way to be squished between the two. How the hell did he even get himself into such a disadvantageous situation?
A wicked grin slipped onto Wail’s deformed features. All according to plan. A crazy plan, sure, but a plan nonetheless. His sight slipped for a moment to the unimaginable flow of health from Soul Syphon – his new pet doing a good job, though he’ll have to do way better to even dream of paying off all those taken souls.
The moment of truth approached.
Chapter 60
With nerves of steel, Wail decided to dive into the tide of deformed monstrosities in an attempt to escape doom. Quite the peculiar conclusion, gotten from a, without a doubt, special chain of thoughts, birthed by a special mind.
Regardless, with regeneration like that, Wail should be able to handle a tide of goblins and successfully use them as a means to escape the pursuing knights. Right?
Before the doubts could even be addressed – the first few critters slammed into Wail, knocking him off his feet and scampering over, while some remained to claw, bite and tear at the poor magician. With gritted teeth and strained muscled, the desperate Warlock did his best to try and push them off himself. Hell, he even began conjuring fireballs and literally ramming the flames palms-forward into the ugly mugs of the relentless critters as far as he was able – seeing as he was pretty much pinned to the ground by a pack of them.
You have received 15 physical damage.
You are bleeding for 3 points of damage per second.
You have received 78 physical damage.
You have received 127 physical damage.
You have received 98 physical damage.
A tide of damage windows flooded the corner of his sight, while stabs of pain spread across his whole body – threatening to overwhelm his senses. He should really lower the pain filter before logging in next time.
With every possible sense on the brink of being overwhelmed by pain, deafening screeching and screams, shook by the constant rumbling of the earth on which he lay, Wail continued conjuring fireballs, dazed as he was. Some went out before he could even finish casting, while others sizzled out against the slimly goblin skin, without much effect.
Perseverance seemed to always be rewarded in Alternative Reality, though. These events were not an exception.
Congratulations! You’ve gained a new skill!
Scorching Touch – Beginner level 1 (0.00%)
Description: The caster’s hands become as hot as sizzling embers, scorching any surface they come in contact with – dealing multiplying
damage every fraction of a second.
Damage: 40 damage/sec. (Damage ticks every 0.5 second)
Damage multiplier: x2 for every 3 seconds of being in contact.
Cast time: Comes in effect upon 0.5 seconds of contact.
Mana cost: 40 mana/sec.
*Every 5 seconds increases the chance of setting the target on fire by 15%. The burning damage will be equal to the accumulated damage while in contact with the target.
It was hard to do, while being molested by a tidal-wave of disfigured goblins, but Wail managed to barely get the gist of what the new spell did, a scoff threatening to come out, yet suppressed by his gritted teeth – after all, he was preoccupied with suffering through quite a bit of pain. Almost absentmindedly, Wail pressed a palm against one of the squirming goblins and started using the terribly situational and more or less useless spell for a warlock. It’s not like he fought face-to-face and if Wail could help it – he’d make sure it never came to it, to begin with. Well, history contradicts that notion, sure – but all those situations were just unfortunate developments out of his control. Truly. Had nothing to do with poor judgement calls.
Well maybe a little bit.
Scorching Touch delivered almost instantaneous effects, especially when performed with both palms – with a sudden tremble that reverberated through the squirming mass of goblins. Those unfortunate enough to feel that fiery touch struggled for salvation with all their might – forcibly creating a way through their kin with claw and bite. A ray of hope coming into view for the trapped warlock together with the sunlight that reached his eyes once again. A few whiffs of burned flesh away, enough goblins were preoccupied with panicked flight that the warlock found enough room to finally move about properly. Using the opportune moment, Wail squirmed through the bodies, rising with a goblin in hand – gripping the poor creature by the throat, Scorching Touch going through its third multiplier, while the goblin sliced and clawed at the magician’s appendage with all its’ might. A futile endeavor as even through those actions caused pain, the still substantial influx of health simply healed up the wounds before they could become in any form – threatening or disabling.
