Somewhere Someplace

It was a cold and misty early day. The adventurer stood, having just arrived. This village, being within a narrow valley squeezed between two mountains, was both remote and difficult to get to from the nearest Guild hall. It was quiet, no souls being outside. It seemed almost desolate, even if not abandoned. The sense of somber and loss suffocated the air around this community… Grief, dread, and hopelessness.

"Hello!" with loud voice, she attempted to greet the emptiness.

Yet no reply shouted in kind.

But she knew there were people here.

She began to walk; as she did, her masquerade-obscured eyes noticed the many other eyes peeking out from their windows and doors…

Curious, concerned, or more likely bewildered.

Being so remote, none had believed any adventurer would ever appear, let alone a caped and feather-hatted alien of what appeared to be a kind of dark blue-haired half-elf—judging exclusively by the ears. Yet perhaps more perplexing for those who were familiarized was the rank of the badge thereon.

Onyx, yet she looked nothing spectacular or extraordinary—nothing exaggerated or powerful—even if elegant and fancy.

She paused in her forward stroll once center in view. "Hello?" she greeted again, this time holding out high and stretched a particular sheet. "Adventurer! You had a quest requesting help? Here I am!"

Eventually, doors opened as souls finally stepped out to greet.

-||-

A simple house, peasant in construction. A simple room, humble in proportions. It was clearly meant for a larger household, yet situated on a chair was only one woman—a shell emptied of whatever she had been. Her pinky eyes were tired and strained—restless and sleepless.

"…lost already three to pestilence 'nd hym hymself to a badde cut." the woman had been explaining, slim tears dripping and dropping with each recounting word despite having thought her eyes to have long been drained of any remaining sorrow. "Sche… Sche was all I had left, 'nd now…" There was a recoil in her breaths, a chatter in teeth; she clenched her own eyes shut.

This was the woman to whom the village had redirected her; this was the woman who had collected whatever scraps she had left to send that quest in a move the others had believed was pointless and in vain—until, of course, she herself abruptly appeared.

"I tucked her in bedde," clearing her eyes, she returned her sight, " 'nd sche was fynely… Sche was fynely… But by next daye, gone…'longst with neere most half of all childers."

Truth be told, the adventurer had once been aloof to these things, long ago. Now, however, she could feel her pain as if it had happened to her own.
"Tell me… How long have the children been missing?"

With a sniffle, the woman gave a blunt eye. "How long hath that quest's sheet ibeen circulatende?"

The adventurer withdrew her own gaze slightly down. "Too long…"

It had happened on a single night. Somehow someway, more than half of this village's children had been abducted in silence, as if a shadow had cast itself through and spirited them away from their beds. According to the village's self-appointed head, the few neighboring communities had been affected similarly beforehand, words of which having been brought their way through their traders. However, none of the locals had believed it would happen here—they were too remote.

Of course, then it happened.

She had already interrogated the self-appointed village leader enough to have a grasp of the politics; that their rightful lord was too preoccupied in some war that he could not spare any retinues or men-at-arms—at least, that was their lord's excuse—; that they had not even the coin or exchangeable commodities to more thoroughly reward any responding adventurers, let alone one of her rank.

However, she did not accept this quest for the pay.

"Tell me," she began to mellowly ask, "before that night… Did you notice anything suspicious?"

"Not before that nyght, but…a many tofore…" the woman tried to recall; "Strangers—monken of sorts. They showed and were kynde to ous—specially the childers…" There was a momentary seethe. "Damn the Gods, it was obvious… We were foolisch; to trusten stranger monken 'nd a thing lyke kyndeness…"

"Kindness…" the adventurer muttered under her nose; "Always so despicable when twisted…" She gently grasped the woman's hand, a touch whose warmth soothed for a moment. "Fault is always to the deceiver, never the deceived. Do not let evil betray your trust of kindness."

The woman had no reply, though she did accept the hand's grip.

"I already spoke to the others," the adventurer transitioned, "and they left the burden of briefing to you, because you are the commissioner. What can you tell me of these monks? What made them suspicious?"

The woman took her time to tell everything she knew; everything she remembered. She was hurt; she was angry; she felt guilty, suffocatingly so.

However, ultimately, the adventurer had her picture.

"I knowe…" the woman began to say, dry tears streaming down, "it bith too late for my little gyrle. I was told the fables of black magics 'nd daemonic rites. I knowe…something terrible hath befallen her… Sche bith never…returnende." With an upward spring, she clutched the adventurer's shoulders as if to issue a desperate plea. "I sent not that quest to saven what was lost… Please, I need thee to finden whomst did this and for-surely maken that no new childers ever befall the same fate as sche! I wolle given thee everything that I have left, but, please, I need thee to promisen me that thou wolt…"

There was a momentary titter to the adventurer's jaws… It would be a lie to say that she felt nothing to this hapless sight; that she was unaffected by such words. Imagining herself in these same boots, indeed, she could feel the same torment.

The adventurer softly pulled the woman's grip off though kept her hand held. "You know, I was supposed to be retiring from this," she began to say, "but then I saw your quest on the board, and I had to accept it… Not for the reward—or the lack of it… But because children were missing; that was enough for me."

Letting go of the woman's hand, she began to head for the door though did not exit; gripping the handle, she turned…

"And from one mother to another, I promise you… I will find those responsible, and I will make sure that they may never harm another child again."

The woman sunk back into her chair, relaxing with a grand relief; those solemn words alone were more than enough… "Then, thusly… There bith nothing left further for me… I maye taken now my serum in peace… Fortune's luck, adventurer; my final words to thee."

The adventurer knew what the woman was referring to; what she was going to do. However, she did not rush forth to prevent or persuade against. It was her own decision, not hers to make.

Without further words, she simply departed and began her long quest.

-||||-

A castle. Old and ostensibly abandoned yet evidently occupied. It was located in a patch of lower elevation relative to the surrounding environment of hills, mountains, and a single cliffside. The castle was large, but there were rubble openings on its walls. And what it was on the outside was hardly its extent.

The adventurer, using her monocular, was covertly gazing at this castle from atop that short cliff afar, unnoticed so far.

Months of investigation. Months of traveling and interrogating. Months of using every connection she had; every resource available; every favor owed… All had finally led her here, to this place. She knew what was happening not within but beneath; she knew, vaguely, the cryptic cult that called it home; and she knew that there were children in there right now.

And her initially observations had already proven her gathered intelligence correct…

These cultists were armed and numbered.

Cloaked figures dotted around in patrols; fallen knights and armored mercenaries were positioned in the old towers; bastards even had panting gremlins mounted on defensive cannons… Ugh, terrible machine-tinkering creatures. She even noticed what seemed to be remnants of the Demon-King's long-shattered armies. Astonishing, truly, to think those bunch were still around… She had thought them extinct by now.

Hm… Well, their defensive composition overall remained unchanged from what she had observed the last time she reconnoitered this place. By now, the cult knew it was being targeted, although they did not know by whom or what—only that a few of their followers had gone missing.

She was right to be cautious; there was no way she could take on this castle by herself… She had made the right call, she concluded.

Retracting her monocular, she stood up and withdrew from the cliff's ledge, standing out of sight.

Now began the waiting… Would a favor be honored or would it not? Would he come through or would he not? She had to wonder… It had been years, after all, since the last they had spoken, and her correspondence had been rather abrupt—never mind her request being a tall order.

Yet her answer eventually appeared in the distance afar; as one stallion accompanied by a dozen more rushed down from the hill ahead, followed behind by wagons of morions and steel, pikes and shots, fire and power.

She could not help but smile as the lead stallion so galloped fast and swift her way ahead of all the rest, the man atop which was caped with authority, donning a feathered hat himself.

«Uola seiñor!» she greeted with a wave.

«Cariça, mon amiga!» the lead man, an officer, shouted with a wave in kind, his stallion quickly coming to a clopping halt before her sight. "Old friend! It has been a long while!" He was pleased to see her.

"You came through…" she remarked, perhaps relieved. She could see that the train of men was not stopping. "You brought bombards?" she noticed…

"Of course I would, old friend!" the officer friend so replied; "And, yes, your letter was thorough. I come prepared for both an assault and siege." Yet his eyes then momentarily drifted, having astutely noticed… "Is that a ring on your wedding finger?"

"Huh?" She looked at her hand—that particular finger—, caught… "Oh, uhm…" For some reason, she felt awfully embarrassed; she hid her hand behind her back, blushing. "Yeah… I…"

"Ha!" And he was quite amused. "You, you were the last woman in this world I would have imagined… Oh, it seems you have changed."

The adventurer's mask-obscured eyes remained evasively away, atypically nervous… "To an extent, yes… But as I have learned, things believed to be inconceivable are…in truth…conceivable." Quite literally.

"Indeed…" The friend, however, prioritized his focus. "Now, as much I would be pleased by hearing your romance, show me what you found."

-|-

The officer friend's eyes glared down from the short cliff's ledge, peering through his own spyglass telescope. "Necromancers…" His tone had shifted to a cold grimace. «Démonyos malvados…»

"Yes," she confirmed, "but their garrison remains undifferent to what I detailed."

"Excellent… Vigilant, but they seem unprepared for the likes of us." He retracted his spyglass and glanced at the adventurer. "The stolen children you mentioned are in there, then?"

"I know for fact."

"Hm. Well, you were right to consult me; I can already guess your plan." He evaluated the terrain and surrounding topography. "This ridge has a good view. Bombards will be placed here… They can provide you your opening."

"You anticipate me well…" Indeed, he did… However, there was a tension in her posture—a hesitancy within…

Even after all this time, she was still uncomfortable with certain things.

"As you see," she began to say, "they are…defended; deaths will be…unavoidable." She looked at him. "You will get in trouble, no? With the local lords and your own superiors—your governor? This…is without permission."

"Ha!" he laughed, «Aora me aces essa pregunta!» He was amused by her concern. "Let them complain; my men marched this far without issue. And the viceroy will understand; I will convince him." His breaths softened, posture relaxing… "I would not be here to this day if it was not for you, my friend. I owe you…" he remarked, eyes drifting back down to that castle afar; "But this… This is not even my favor to you, but a favor to all mankind. And there is no greater virtue than to die in service against evil to our Father in Heaven; to die saving innocents like children."

The adventurer, quiet, simply acknowledged with a shy nod… « Ad aeterníam… »

However, her officer friend then sharply noticed… "We've been spotted." Indeed, the castle watchmen were beginning to react. "We have no time to waste. My men will focus on taking the castle, you slip in and cut off the snake's head."

Mounting back onto his stallion, the officer swiftly galloped off. «Vamos! Vamos!» his echoing voice shouted loudly to his men; «Rodearemos esso castyo profano y pour el nome de noustro Padre arrastaremos a todos los necromantes a yhamas del Cielo!»

-||-

Dark hall of grey murky stone, walls and structure rumbling from cannon ball impacts above.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The opening bombardment had sheered the castle's own cannon defenses. The Rejinards were now engaged in heavy fighting throughout the castle and courtyard, having taken the walls. The cultists were tenaciously defending every conceivable corner, however it should not be too long until morion steel and fire vanquished them.

The adventurer was able to slip herself through during the storming chaos; exploiting an opening, she sleeked her way into the castle and from there into its deepest bowels beneath, undetected so far.

Oddly, despite where this bleak narrow hall led, it was quiet and empty. She was expecting to encounter resistance, but there was little in defenses down here. The cultists must have panicked from the sudden Rejinard arrival and assault; for they had seemingly poured everyone out to fight in the yard above.

Either the cultists were assuming that the Rejinards were bluntly interested in their fort in itself and were without awareness of the dark operations beneath… Or the cultists did not understand basic principles, such as leaving behind a defensive reserve.

Although, perhaps the adventurer had reasoned too soon…

For her pointy ears began to lightly twitch from echoing sound, noticing…

Emanating from the turn ahead were grunts and defiled groans accompanied with incomprehensive vocalizations halfly humanesque. To describe them would be a crime.

She paused against the wall; instead of turning the corner, she tactically glimpsed from the edge…

Zombies—because of course. Necromancers were not without their profane violations of life… Merely glowing-eyed corpses strung a puppet by their half-decayed essence equally interlinked with that of the puppeteer—similar to golems, in a way, yet of rotting flesh. She counted five. The zombies were stationary yet clumsy, their motor functions observably deteriorated.

Eliminating the source puppeteer would quickly disable the zombies; however, she could not identify to whom those abominations were bound. She would have to individually dispatch them to pass through—the only efficient method of which being the severance of their central nervous system. She unsheathed her side-sword, a thin blade of decisive piercing thrusts and dueling elegance; her firearms would give away her presence.

Sword in hand, she lanced forth with wisp-dusty speed, hurling neither cry nor scream. Her blade pierced clean through the upper neck of the first zombie who grunted with a groaning wheeze; rotted blood bled as its uniform glowing eyes dimmed, spine having been split from its brainstem.

The other zombies immediately reacted with a squealing shriek of hazardous spit. The adventurer hopped backwards as three tried to pounce at once, only to fall over. As they stumbled to get back up, she tried to make her strikes only for another zombie, fastest of them all, to deny and charge as if a rabid beast.

The narrowness of this hall limited her maneuvering—one of her advantages. Since these abominations were more arcane than biological in nature, being bitten would not be dangerous for her; those claws, however, most certainly were.

She had to be careful.

Her masquerade-obscured ignited eyes glowed sharper as her cognition sped up, time slowing down, her reflexes becoming faster and more decisive. She swayed and weaved, evading the claw-bearing strikes by the ravenous zombie, keeping herself moving backwards—less a fight and more a locked dance. Before, in rapid succession, she kicked the zombie back, sliced its gut clean open with the tip of her blade as to stun, before crouching down as she thrusted the thin blade up through its jaw and straight into its head.

Its glowing eyes flickered as she withdrew her rot-bloodied blade, the zombie falling. She pierced its neck and spine for safe measures; sometimes a zombie's cerebrum could partially regenerate.

The other three zombies meanwhile were still unable to get back up, it seemed. Their brains and nervous system were too damaged to allow for intricate motor coordinations. She simply dispatched each neck by neck, before she hastily continued on her way, moving fast.

Those zombies had to have been stationed for guarding; she must be getting closer, she reasoned.

Good.

She wanted to get there before the Rejinards finished above and began to follow.

-||-

A circular chamber of rock and stone, darkly lit with arcane lights most gloomy. Wispy and dusty, a smooth misty hue encompassing.

Carved into the center of this chamber was a large circle, etched upon which was that very signa of the arcane itself surrounding within and around which were special glyphs of guiding code and encoded meaning. Hooded figures formed their own perimeter around this circle, equal distant to one another. At the very heart of the circle—the middle of the sigil—was a stone slab or bed…with chains and locks.

Blood, bone, limbs, and guts—bits and pieces of child—were splattered everywhere.

These cultists, these necromancers, cared little for the fact that their castle was falling. Their ritual had to continue.

"Damnation to this accursed world!" shouted their leader, frustrated. "Another failure… Next, next one! Bring out the next! We still have time!" He waved and rushed. "We are close, I know it!"

"This is obsession!" One of the followers broke from his complacency. "We have tried and tried for months and years, but the results are the same! We are missing something, clearly!"

"Shudder that mouth, you imbecile." Of course, the leader defied the defiance. "The ritual itself, I know we have perfected it now! What we need is the right child with the right breakage, and we have broken each thoroughly—we just need the most perfect one." He turned his attention to a certain hidden door, a tall and bulky half-naked orc standing near it. "I said bring forth the next one, you idiotic greenie! We haven't the time!"

"Bugh…" The orc, skin pigmented blue, begrudgingly complied.

Stepping through and beyond, the next of their victims was thus dragged out and into the chamber. Weakened and bruised; tortured and abused; they wore nothing more than tattered rags for clothes—if such could be called that. Yet eyes emptied of soul, there was neither a tremble nor cry; only dissociated silence.

The orc dragged this child to that stone bed, tossing them onto it before locking their limbs into each chained slot. The orc quickly left the circle.

"Begin!"

Voices bellowed a chant of words and phrases, outlined eyes brightening before igniting into radiance barely visible; wisp-dusty eminence began to bend and turn as if flowing along the circle and glyphs. Abhorrent a chant theirs was, indeed; it cut at the ears, yet the humming tune was enough to resonate with lingering souls.

An accumulation began to cluster in a forming spiral directly above, sparkles and dust of black and cyanic-grey; though the essence was not of their own per se. For attracted to ritual's mellow tune, following along the spell's flow as if hypnotized, were echoes. Echoes of the forgotten—the condemned—buried within this castle; echoes of the very failures whose residuals had been shackled to follow the hum.

A compilation of despoiled souls; a collection of violated echoes; a compound of decaying essence that was trying to be forced into something greater.

As the ritual continued, phrases and words chanting along with humming tunes and movements more complex, the responding echoes spiraled lower and lower in ghostly but growingly visible streams; the cultists, deafened ones they were, could not hear the restless echoes' imprinted screams. Compounding more and more as if being merged and squeezed, the circle radiated with increasing potency and shine still vague.

It was hard to know which belonged to the dead and which belonged to the living; the essences mixed and joined as one, or so it seemed.

The dissociated child showed no fear, though began to tremble.

Before, with a turn of phrase, the essence composite latched onto the child, their own eyes flicking on into activation. Something was happening; their very nerves began to glow in kind, the ignition so intense as to be a flare. Yet it did not end there. The compounding essence flowed into their own, wisp and dust subsuming and enveloping figure whole.

The ignited eyes flickered and throbbed as sharp devouring pierces, metaphysical, stabbed, cut, and tore at their mind, spine, and flaring nerves. And it was at this point the child broke their stoicism; they began to scream and cry; for their muscles began to twitch and convulse, as if body and soul were assimilating whilst being assimilated.

"I-i-it hurts! It-it-it hurts! Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!"

Yet more and more of the compound essence joined with theirs as they joined with it, subsuming and consuming—assimilating and transmutating. The cultist leader grinned for a moment, feeling as if on the cusp of final success…

Yet would that this were a simple process—one that could be so easily forced.

For the child unleashed a scream that tore their own throat and ripped their voice, pain indescribable. Their contorting body began to rapidly bloat and cramp, pressure increasing, their eyes squeezing out from their very sockets… Before pop. A misty burst of wispy dust, sparkly guck, and bloody guts.

The child was no more; pieces scattered all over and about. Their echo, however, would join with the rest—enslaved by spell.

"Damnations!" And the leader cursed the Gods. "Next one." he immediately ordered.

Anticipating this predicable outcome, the orc had already preemptively prepared the next victim, a girl who had bore witness to what had just happened. Any dissociation had vanished; for she knew her fate.

Trembling with widened tearful eyes, the girl was horrified and terrified. "I… I… I don't… I don't wanna be here! Mommy, Gods, someone, I don't…" she hyperventilated with weeps.

The orc dragged her, of course, though she began to pull and fight.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

"Ugh! Quit your resistance, girl!" The leader did not have the patience for this. This one was older than the others, hence her resistance. "You are clearly in need of more breakage! Send her back to the ogres! Let them loosen this one more."

The girl froze, a sinking pit forming within. "N… N-no, no! N-n-n-no! No, no! I don't wanna go back there! It hurt, it hurt! I don't wanna go back there! Please don't take me back there, please!" Her resistance only amplified.

The orc, annoyed, grabbed the girl's arm with a squeeze that could break bone and pulled her up to his eyes. "Shoit oip." He closed his fist and—

"That is enough!" Abruptly, a voice so appeared, followed by a cock.

The orc turned along with the other bewildered cultists' eyes, surprised to find himself now held at gunpoint by a new face, half-masqueraded. The adventurer had just arrived from this chamber's tunnel; stepping closer, she stood and stared them down, revolver drawn and aimed.

"Who the fuck is that?" The leader was confused though alert. "When did you even…" He had dozens of minions in the way hither, yet none of them had sounded the alarms.

The orc, meanwhile, was able to see the badge. He growled, throwing the girl down as if trash. "Adventurer!" he snarled with a vendetta and impulsively charged.

Bang.

A single shot to the neck, and the orc fell down; rendered unconscious on the spot, the orc could not even choke or gag as blood gushed out. The sound of her gunshot stunned the ritualists still.

"Sweetie, are you alright?" Her first focus was on the child, to whom she approached and kneeled.

"No…" the child, stinging with bruises both fresh and old, was honest. "I'm in so much pain…"

It was obvious from the looks.

The adventurer, having assessed the child's state, had little further time to afford this moment. "Crawl to the back and wait. I will finish this and take you home." She stood up and returned her attention to the cultists…

By now, they had unsheathed their own weapons which they had kept hidden beneath their robes. Maces, spiked flails, and such.

"Not another step closer, half-elf!" The leader threatened with this staff. "Hm… Or vampire kin? Those ears… What are you even supposed to be, huh? A Far West lover, musketeer?"

"Just a traveler, passing through." the adventurer replied, casually stepping closer until she was within optimal distance. She could see the pool of blood; the scattered bits and pieces—eyes, tongues, limbs, guts, fragments, and the like. The quantity suggested…excessive practice… She did not even want to fathom how many children. "Surrender and release the children." she suggested, remaining stoic despite the tacit scowl.

The leader growled, though not at her. "What are you morons doing?! We outnumber her! Kill her and drag the girl back here!"

"I gave you your only chance." Eleven in total, she counted, including their leader. "Prepare to be erased." She unholstered her other revolver. Five in right; six in left; she had eleven shots.

Bang, bang. Bang, bang.

Before the ritualists could acknowledge their leader's orders, two shots from two guns, four round balls, pierced two necks and two heads. The cultists immediately fumbled as they tried to react, stumbling to act as their primeval panic made them duck and cower.

Yet as if each of her eyes' shared visual scope split into two independent loci, as if each hemisphere of her brain was granted temporary motor autonomy, both of her hands targeted, aimed, and fired both revolvers simultaneously, tracking with precision. Four more dropped dead.

However, such was not without limitations. Whilst she had targeted the cowards, two cultists mustered the will to finally charge her down with a hurling cry.

Her dual-wielding attention quickly snapped back. She leaped a dodge and seamlessly—as if the same motion—kicked one of them in the groin hard enough to knock him out from the pain; she used the last shot in her right revolver to quickly pulp his brain and pop his essence, before almost simultaneously evading the swingling flail of the second cultist, straight into the face of whom she promptly threw her empty firearm, knocking him down too.

However, before she could dispatch the knocked down cultist, a fury of energized arcane bolts came sorcering her way.

"UGH! EVERYONE IS SO USELESS!" The cultist leader was furious. His eyes ignited, his staff's tip glowing, he unleashed his wicked magic.

Reacting as fast as she could, the adventurer grabbed the knocked down cultist and held him up, defensively utilizing his figure to absorb the on-coming bolts. As she expected, her cultist-turned-meatshield was pulverized into cauterized flesh and arcane sludge. Tossing her used up meatshield aside, she began to dash and turn in a forward glimmery sprint, dancing with evasion and dodge as time slowed further from her speeding perceptions.

The leader realized she was a target difficult to track. His arcane bolts, slower than even arrows, were missing their mark.

The adventurer had her fixated target, upon whom she rapidly descended. However, perhaps having become too fixated, too engrossed and eager, in a single twist and poor motion, she tripped, lost her balance, and fell.

In that immediate moment, the leader seized his change. "Haha!" He unleashed not bolts but crystalized spikes.

«Medusa merdosa!» Quickly, the adventurer rolled herself left, barely missing the spikes, before flinging herself back up and immediately firing a quick shot without aiming—panicked.

"Gagh!" The bullet had struck, although only his stomach.

Retaking her bearings, she watched the groaning cultist leader fall down, grasping his bleeding gut.

"What happened here?!"

Her attention swung about to a sudden shout…

A twelfth cultist, she saw, had abruptly arrived from that hidden door.

"Infinite curses! What have you done, vile wench?!" Weapon drawn, he just charged.

She had one final shot which she wanted to reserve. Thus, she allowed this cultist to charge and make a single attempt to strike, which she promptly dodged while simultaneously grabbing his arm, twisting it, hearing the bones crack, snapping the arm. The cultist was staggered and stunned, wheezing with such pain; she proceeded to do the same to his neck. He dropped, breathless.

Breaths panting, sweat dripping, her masquerade-obscured eyes scanned… All threats eliminated. The girl, she momentarily eyed… The child was fine; rolled up back corner, eyes staring with horror, shock, yet also seemingly awe and relief…

The adventurer too was relieved.

Rejinards should have taken the castle by now; they should be on their way soon. Once they arrive, they will hunt for any leftover stragglers and help search for the rest.

It was over… Or, rather…

Almost.

For, indeed, she heard those grasping groans.

Her masked eyes turned to that cultist leader still alive, as if a humanoid worm squirming himself backwards with a trail of blood.

Silent, she began to slowly make her way to him.

"Curse you!" The cultist leader seethed, clenching his grip and fist; "Infinite damnations rain upon your bloodline, infernal twitch-eared elfling! All of you are being deceived! Can't you see Deceived!"

The adventurer by this point in her career had heard more than enough villainous monologues. No justifications could change what this cult had done. Frankly, she cared not for whatever greater schemes; this was completely personal—considering the fact she had to step over their bloody leftovers.

"You know," she simply began to say, cocking her revolver's hammer, "many years long ago… I would not have understood this. I would have looked at these sights with indifference, as if it was a natural expectation; as if it was not my place to judge, condemn, or forbid; as if all of this was normal for you." Arriving to him, she stared him down. "But now? Now I know this not normal… That this is…abhorrent; that this is wrong."

"You…are a fool." The cultist leader squeezed his bleeding gut. "A naive…fool, like the rest of them."

"Yes… I am." the adventurer simply replied. "I do not know if what I do is right or wrong. But I am a mother now… I have my own children…" With a developing scowl, she aimed right at his forehead. "And I know that I am doing this for them."

Yet before she could conclude her own monologue with a final shot straight into his frontal lobe…

"You cannot stop us all, adventurer…" The cultist leader offered his own presumed-to-be final remarks. "I… I am but one amongst many who knows…the truth—the lie that is this world!" He bit his lip with his shout. "Yes! A lie! This whole world, our entire world, is a lie—a LIE! A concoction! We are rats in a cage! All of us! But… The great shade specter—the revenant mother—shall free us all!"

The adventurer froze, standing there with a change in posture. "…what…" She needed process his words, in a different tongue… "What did you just say?"

"The shade specter," he endured on, "the revenant phantasm will free this world…as it had done countless others in the ethereal void—yes, we know there are more!" He grit his teeth, clenching tighter his bleeding grip. "Even without me, the rest of our covenant will continue…until we've brought into this world a great shade specter—a grand wraith…and with its power, we will destroy the Gods and the things that control even them! We will free this world! Free! FREE US FROM OUR CAGE! You will see! You will all see!" He began to cough and cackle.

"…a great shade specter, a grand wraith…" Lowering her revolver, the adventurer turned her sight to their magic circle—that stone bed and the scattered pieces of child. «…a phantom.» She was hardly a Violet-Coat, but she was still able to connect together…what these idiots had been attempting. "You have…no idea…what you were trying to do." Looking at him with a changed mind, she kneeled down and began to hastily address his wound. "You will not die, then."

"What… What are you doing?! Finish me! Finish me!" he squealed; "I am dead! I am already dead!"

"No. Not yet." she plainly stated; "Not until you have told me everything that you know—from whom and where you learned…any of these things." Her ignited cyanic eyes, tinting the lenses of her masquerade, glared into his own. "And I still know how to make your kind talk, [denizen]."