Jackal Among Snakes

“Any further steps, and we will be within their grasp,” Silvic cautioned their party as they idled.

Orion nodded. “This was made clear to me earlier. Being within their grasp is unimportant. A weak grip is easily broken.”

His ever-zealous words did not abate Argrave’s fear at all. Silvic continued, cautioning, “This will not be as other ambushes. We enter the distortion, the realm, of a being similar to myself—we will be in the heart of things, ostensibly surrounded by foes. It further suggests that the wetland spirit holding this fortress yet lives. If that is true, you will face more than a tide of corpses.”

Durran ran his finger against his bald patch caused by yesterday’s burns. He had taken the hardest knocks during this journey, yet he did not falter. That steeled Argrave somewhat. Anneliese stayed calm, likely dually from her own tranquil nature and the enchanted items he’d given to her at Jast.

“I will fight this Intrepid Troubadour Argrave claims to be beyond this distortion. The remainder of you are more than capable,” Orion assured.

“All save you, perhaps, will be unable to leave until the master of this distortion is dead and gone, or until you are allowed to leave,” Silvic once again warned.

“None intend to leave until the enemy is conquered,” Orion rebutted at once.

Without so much as a breath to gather his courage, Orion gestured for them to follow and stepped forth. In but a second, he seemed a chameleon that blended into the environment before he vanished altogether. Silvic was the second to move, and just after the Waxknights. Only once the first Waxknight had entered did Argrave follow, his companions trailing just after him.

Just the same as it had been when they travelled through the Marred Hallowed Grounds to find Silvic and bring her before Orion, the scene distorted before Argrave, and he stepped into what might as well be another world.

Endless isles of green dotted the land before him, thick and tall plants like cattails and reeds growing up out of rich brown soil. These isles were large, covered completely by greenery, like a vast archipelago of verdant growth. They were divided by fast-running rivers that were entirely clear yet seemed to stretch downwards forever as an ocean of water. The sky above was so blue and beautiful it was worthy of admiration.

On one of the overgrown green isles before them, a four-legged creature armored in shining, strong steel stood. It had a thick, round body easily identifiable as that of a horse’s. Its legs were thick and strong. Where its neck might’ve held an equine head, a man’s torso stood. A centaur, Argrave knew, and equipped in full steel plate that gleamed with enchantments. It dwarfed even the titanic rockhide hippopotamuses they’d grappled with during their journey, and held an unstrung bow taller than Argrave in hand.

teeming with liquid light within. It was quite similar in appearance to Silvic, though without the waxpox corrupting most of its body. While Silvic was decidedly made in imitation of a female, this rider was male. He bore a crown of roots atop his head, though they twisted and entwined together to resemble two horns. He had a beautifully ornate stringed instrument in his hand most resembling a guitar, though different enough it could

Orion called out, stepping forth to the edge of the isle all of them stood upon. “Will you

thousands,” the troubadour aback the armored centaur called out. “You made fools

off into a wooden arrow teeming with liquid light. The arrow was nocked and fired at Orion. Argrave flinched involuntarily at the

to kill us all,” the troubadour

the mace badly bent, and Orion corrected it with one hand. “Let it not be said I did not try to sway you,” he said coldly as he stepped forth onto the river. His heavy plate boots sunk not an inch before ice formed. He stepped across the thick river to the island where the centaur and the troubadour waited, and

is a new spirit,” Silvic noted. “Like me, but…

in ‘Heroes of Berendar.’ Argrave did not have time to marvel, though, and he looked about in paranoia for the first signs of their foes. And he saw it at once. The tall reeds of the islands brushed aside to make way for a new arrival, crawling free from the bottomless rivers dividing the islands. At first, it

was approaching. Slowly, their opponents rose above the tall reeds. The Sentinels of this wetland spirit were amphibious creatures, thick and long bodies closest in appearance to a crocodile. Their scales did not cover all of their flesh, as though they were immature—instead,

all that’s thrown at us,” Argrave shouted out, attempting to rally everyone as was planned. The Waxknights answered him with a grunted HOAH of assent. Argrave gestured towards Silvic and urged,

her root-like hand uncorrupted by waxpox into the

with swaying, almost staggering steps. The closest opened their mouth and spewed poison gas, but their party was well-prepared in advance for such assaults, per Argrave’s cautions. With

at the banks of the verdant isle. Their party did nothing more than hold back the

one moment they would be one place, in the next they’d dart in a straight line towards one of them, before zigzagging and attacking from the back. Their fangs were like knives, and Argrave, with only the hood of his duster for protection, collected cuts to the face one after the other. Even with magic, they were difficult to

Prince Orion raged in the background, the furthest thing from ‘slow.’ Orion charged the duo of the centaur and troubadour with all the rage and persistence of a bull seeing red. And,

soared through the air at Orion, the armored centaur receiving more ammunition from the troubadour sitting on his back. All the while, it nimbly maneuvered around the isles, jumping from isle to isle as the arrows sought their target, leaving trails of green light floating just behind. When the arrows struck the earth or the

the troubadour as though he had a death grudge to settle.

from within. His kicks summoned winds, sparks, flames. Sometimes, he seemed to run on the air itself. And as ever, his strength and endurance went far

to air, jumping to another island to flee Orion’s pursuit, the prince took his mace in hand and threw it. It spun through the air wildly, yet it was moving so quickly and towards such a large target it did not need to be particularly precise. It hit the front leg of the beast-man, and it crashed to

protect the troubadour, but Orion was faster. He grabbed the wetland spirit by the neck and wrenched it free, tearing free copious