Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave felt a fog within all of his body. His actions were stiff and vague as though he had just been thawed out after being frozen for years. He could barely focus on the task at hand, and even keeping his head held up was difficult. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. But he’d long ago set aside what he wanted. This was about what needed to be done.

Kill the enemy, kill the enemy, kill the enemy, he repeated again and again, half of the time saying it aloud, and the other half saying it in his head. It was the only way he could stay focused on the task before him. He felt as though he was fumbling for a light switch while drunk as he tried to recall how to use the Blessing of Supersession.

Yet once he felt the spring of limitless power vested in him by Erlebnis permeate his being… he felt like a dull knife that had finally found a whetstone, and everything fell into place.

His vision sharpened, and his ears felt as though earplugs had been removed from them. His golden-eyed gaze fell upon the scene before him, and he straightened, now aware Anneliese had been the only reason Argrave was standing up.

The Waxknights, alongside Durran, struggled against a tide of vicious Sentinels and supporting animals. More had joined since Argrave last saw them—the towering rockhide hippos, the gibbons in no small numbers… now, the Barefaced Bard fought directly against Silvic, their war a proxy battle of twisting roots and writhing plants. Silvic was losing, and badly.

Argrave straightened his back and held out both of his hands. Sword and shield, he remembered: sword and shield. His right hand conjured [Electric Eels], and the C-rank spells danced upwards into the sky, awaiting his command. His left became ablaze with wide, sweeping spells that carved a path before him.

He pressed deeper and deeper into the thick of things, adrenaline keeping his mind utterly focused despite his aching mind and body. He never wanted for foes—their rush at him was unending, and even though the animals feared him, they charged. He called upon every resource, using Garm’s eyes to cast spells with abandon. He felt he could not stop walking forward, strangely.

“Guard the back! Reinforcements approach!” he heard Anneliese command. That meant she had confidence he alone was enough to handle all before him. That stuck in the back of his head, making his task seem all the more urgent.

Teeth, claw, fang, and nature itself sought to tear into Argrave’s throat and end him. Drawing upon instinct, he met them with teeth and claw of his own. He conjured great maws of flame from [Wargfire], the icy claws of [Wraith’s Grasp], thick [Windswept Blades] cutting through them all. The enemies were blasted away, some dying outright. Those that did not die met his sword—dozens of [Electric Eels] striking from the sky like lightning, dispatching any hardy foes.

as though he held on to a machine that was running wild, and that if he released it, it would spell his death. He felt ash beneath his boots, frozen corpses, and the faint shock of still-sparking electricity, yet still

it was going to cry. It regarded him like a hedgehog, a pufferfish, or a burning flame, backing away cautiously. Yet like a cat hunting a scorpion, it swung out its hands,

merely wished to have his back to the wall so that no foes could circle around him. All

panic. It sought refuge behind a tower. As it fled, Argrave’s [Electric Eels] grew all the more numerous in the sky, and the attacking force grew demoralized

Barefaced Bard, did not remain idle. She assaulted the bard even still, staying his retreat.

sword persisted still. He spurred the electric eels, and the countless sparking constructs pursued the Barefaced Bard as was his will. The bolts of lightning rained down upon the childlike face embedded in the bard’s

the courtyard while scrabbling desperately to move. Silvic disentangled her roots from the ground and sprinted across

at him. All Argrave could do was curl up, relying

every part of his body. It never overwhelmed him, though, as much as he waited for it to end. Gradually, the sensation faded. He was vaguely aware of people trying to move him, help him. They received blows in his

the rest, he thought, happily embracing the

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of it. In stark contrast to all that was around him in the palace, his steps left dirt and mud tracking, and he

difficult to refrain from calling it gaudy. Black sconces held golden flames, the

walls just beside the windows. The field was black, and it depicted a golden snake. It was not the banner of the royal family, though—this golden snake curled around nothing, and

moved up to the throne room, there was a majestic golden stag, with shining antlers stretching up ten feet into the air. It lied on the floor, legs collapsed beneath it and

light green color of the swamp folk, and her eyes a rich and piercingly light yellow. She wore a motley outfit of a dark purple contrasted with a lighter purple. A large jester’s hat rested above her brow, three points poking out the top like a half star. Golden rings hung at the end of these points, half a dozen bells on each ring. One leg was crossed over the other on her stag throne. She held a scepter with a miniature version of her face wrought of silver, hat and all, smiling brightly as it

come seeking the lord,” the Plague Jester began in a sneering act, “I am afraid he is rather busy. Considering everyone else is either dead or in a similar state, I

the Archduke, his body so well-preserved he seemed alive. The other held his wife—Orion vaguely remembered the blonde woman but could not recall her name. The Archduke’s son sat in the third throne. They all sat upright like they were alive, but were so unmoving they could