Vincent Salvador

After taking down six rocs, the Sixty’s testing had to stop. The rest of the flock had begun to notice and their collective attention turned to this slice of the plains. Practicality demanded an immediate departure that not even Clarissa argued against. No one wanted to call down the whole lot.

The only pause in their departure was the observation of the grass. As collateral damage, there were several places where the ground had been heavily maimed. It was fascinating enough that Vincent found himself watching patiently. As before a bitter-smelling wax leaked and covered the broken stalk. That would appear to be all, but they stayed long enough for the next step to occur. Green growth exploded out of the wound, yellowing quickly after achieving regeneration. All around them, the patches of grass disappeared in an instant.

As they left, the swordsman looked back on a vanished battlefield. There was nothing to note that any struggle had happened at all. Pristine.

Their pace was quick-footed, propelled by the morale boost of victories and the pressure of the day nearing its end. The long march mixed with the roc fights meant that camping out on the floor was a real possibility. Overhearing Malachi, it was closer to definite. A first for the Sixty, but one they were prepared for.

Starting on the second floor they had begun bringing gear just in case. Better to risk a night on a floor than push on in exhaustion; that was the general idea. Vincent didn’t dispute the logic, though he despised the idea of bedding down on the ground. The swordsman knew that tonight would be restless without the comforts of his core-perfected bed.

At the furthest point of the floor, they found the next Gate. The border walls narrowed together until they connected at a cave atop an incline. A chill ran through the swordsman as he looked at the overly obvious sight. There was no hiding of the Gate this time nor any obstacle. Just a hole in the rock at the end of a climb. The Sixty approached with the expectation of an ambush.

Nothing.

The cave was a small space that couldn’t even fit their entire group. It felt to Vincent like an antechamber. Something insignificant, just a place to connect the floor’s exit. Without any props, it was a bare stone room with a golden gate in the wall. There was only the words of the lock.

Dark tidings, broken lands

Tainted soil, wild magic

Seek through the Heart

Failed casting, horror’s binding

Lingering stain, devouring hate

Endure within the Storm

Cursed ruin, poison air

Blasted bone, Dead sky

Kneel upon the Altar

Murmurs of repetition and low discussions filled the small cave with a soft clamor. The swordsman listened to it with half an ear. There wasn’t much he could add, nor really wanted to do. Riddles bored him. Vincent paid the conversations half a mind only long enough to confirm the general census. They would go to the middle of the plains and find something dangerous.

He scoffed. No one needed those warnings or hints… but I suppose there is reassurance in confirmation.

Vincent endured the circular talking as long as he could. The swordsman had stayed for the sake of his team. Determined to stay informed. Now that things were becoming a debate of semantics, the time to depart had arrived. They could be at it for a while. He needed some fresh air.

Molly would fill him in on the conclusions for the asking, anyways.

Outside, a bizarre night was falling. The ambient light was falling despite no setting sun. Instead, the sunstones were rapidly dimming. A chill edge appeared in the wind as the glare faded and the world shifted to a shade of orange. Islands of stinging light formed from the receding brilliance. Orange dwindled down to a red glow. The sunstones were reduced to pricks of light like stars, but the stone above was molten. Its smolder mellowed to a bruised red just short of dusk. Night time on the plains. The world had become dim shadows. What heat lines had hidden, the blurry darkness now did.

Though the experience had seemed rapid, the swordsman blinked to realize that over an hour had passed. Those from within the cave out in surprise at the change in illumination. Excited conversations bloomed in question about this floor’s clock.

This meant that the uncertainty of camping out had now been resolved. Just outside the cave, the Sixty made their camp. Inside would have been cramped, but mostly it was the promise of sore muscles from sleeping on hard stone. Only the Coward’s Club elected to bed down there rather than the tents. The swordsman had expected some chaos to the routine of their first night spent on a floor. People arguing over duties or simple disputes on how to do things. A clusterfuck since they were without any precedents from previous experiences.

The Council proved themselves that night. The evening turned out to be somber and solemn. Molly and Julia pulled out duty rosters with tasks already written out. Assignments were random and even included leadership. To keep weight down there were only four large tents, the pieces had been spread out amongst everyone. Some chores were individual though. Like Russel created palisades, Allen stoked to life fuelless fires, and Carlo collected moisture in the air to create a pool of water in a hardy ice bowl.

He did his part, hammered stakes, and helped drape the canvas over the frame. Absently the swordsman tossed his bedroll in a corner before seeking a better watch shift. Drawing the last shift wasn’t ideal. Vincent knew that he wouldn’t find sleep until late into the night, but trading it for a mid-shift should be easy. Most people would prefer the opportunity to sleep uninterrupted. The trade proved to be easily done. A small bidding war erupted and he walked away with a promise of a few cores. Which was a surprising, but satisfying profit.

It was quiet after the encampment settled down. First watch starred out into the dark plain and most slipped into the tents. Only a few stayed outside to socialize. Vincent was used to there being more of a festive mood in the evenings. Even without floor-clearing celebrations, there was always a little jubilation at night. Full of that high cheer that came from surviving another day. It was missing. Everyone was on edge. The strain of sleeping outdoors pulled at their eyes, stiffened their stride. Being afraid of the dark didn’t seem silly when you knew monsters were real.

When his shift was on deck, it was a relief. Vincent had tried to sleep out of boredom and to escape the strained atmosphere. Every attempt is useless. Reduced effectively to staring up at the fluttering canvas. Guard duty might just be staring elsewhere, but it was better than failing to find sleep. Painful seconds spent trying to not not force a dream. Dreadful. Quietly watching the shadowy plains was much more comfortable.

In truth, mesmerizing.

The stretch of plains before them was illuminated by the perimeter fires. Set back from the barricades so that those on watch could see outwards without ruining their night vision too much. With that stage lighting, he watched a beautiful show. The wind swept in a thousand patterns that crisscrossed amongst each other in a delicate dance. Great thrusts gave way to dainty strokes that then wove into tangling races. Patterns without end. In his mind, Vincent saw sword duels. The movements inspired epics of skill. Each blade of grass was a sword in the storm, reflecting the push and pull of warring armies. All presented by those witchy winds that were ever moving, ever blowing.

He watched in silent contentment. Between fire and palisades, there was peace.

One hour flowed into another with no less awe. Absently, the swordsman was aware that his watch was coming to a close and the heaviness of his eyes meant that sleep would be welcoming. The winds had stirred him to easy calm, ready to accept that warm silence.

Alarm.

His eyes darted in search, a jolt of fear ran through him. Something had set off his instincts. Adrenaline poured and the heart raged to be freed. It took precious seconds for the waking mind to catch up to the sleeping self. There was a wind blowing wrong. Several furrows of the grass were moving against the breeze. Each heading straight for the camp.

A smaller one raced ahead of the others, almost as if being chased. His eyes widened with comprehension. The swordsman darted forward, drew his sword, and raised a cry of warning. Shadows parted the grass. Hissing was the only hint of the expected beast. Rose light slashed as fangs struck. Blood welled on his arm where leather yielded to the snake’s bite. Though the skin began to burn, Vincent could pay it no mind. The decapitated monster was just the vanguard. A young reptile hurrying to grab a morsel before the adult swallowed it all.

Behind Vincent came the racket of a waking encampment. His warning had set those heart-blooded procedures into play. Soon the Sixty would all be on the move, but that would still take time. The false furls of wind were coming faster. Hurling toward heat signals that must have seemed like a beacon for food on the chilly night of the fourth floor. Buying time was the obvious move, he was happy to oblige.

A fight was sweeter than sleep.

The swordsman charged toward the signs of a large enemy, hoping to cause disorder. In his mind’s eye, the giant snake would coil and roll. Acting as a wall of flesh for many of its rivals. Mana surged around him and with perfect cuts, he sent flying slashes of pure intent in a spread. The grass bowed uncut as the crescents passed through to gouge into the scales of several hidden snakes. There were sprays of blood as the snakes thrashed at the sudden attack.

Vincent ignored all but the biggest in his path. Spiteful fangs met his approaching lunge, a feverish warmth spread at his side. He snarled at taking another wound and dived deeper into his Mana. Seeking and traveling into the oneness of the blade. The snake’s head snapped, the swordsman followed. His sword plunged between scales. Rose light burst, a deep tide of blood flowed free.

Ducking, he avoided the tail and rolled to puncture another hole. The giant snake jerked away to circle around. It lashed out at rivals streaming past, but kept a yellow eye on Vincent. Surrounded, the swordsman waited for the next move. Using the time to draw Mana for a fatal move. His sword drank greedily, taking every drop. The giant snake snapped forward to rake his face with envenomed fangs. He stepped aside and countered. Blood flowed across its snout as the monster pulled back. The coiled body jerked and then suddenly snapped close to strangle him.

The swordsman spun, releasing the built up power.

A ring of razor sharp Mana expanded outwards. Snake flesh parted two-thirds to the head, giving the monster two tails for the briefest of seconds before death mercifully claimed it.

Vincent flung the blood free of his blade and turned to assess the battlefield. The barricades were holding. Enough reinforcement had come to defend them indefinitely, soon the rest of the Sixty would arrive to make the fight an offensive. He decided it was time to reposition behind the palisades, but the world whirled. The venom burning in his veins surged forward while exertions had left him temporarily weakened.

A deep breath. His grip had gone loose with sweat, but the swordsman was focused inwards. The need to stoke his Mana alight drove the world away.

There was a war going on in his flesh. The malefic force raged, destroying everything out of hand. Battling its way to his heart through under-defended veins. Vincent pulled at his source and drenched himself with strength. He took a direct hand in directing the repulsing forces, imaging flaming swords in his blood to scour the invading toxin.

His heart began to steady as the venom was pushed back. The world grew still and clear as the fever dropped. There was a lingering tremor in his limbs, the last visages of the toxin unrelenting as it was cleansed. He needed to get back. In his current condition, Vincent couldn’t guarantee his survival. Not isolated as the swordsman currently is.

One step forward was all he got before a dark shape snapped out from a hollow of shifting grass. The step turned into a desperate dive and the sword came up in an even more hopeless shield. Fangs clanged against steel as the impact tossed him wildly away. His sword landed elsewhere unseen. It slithered forward, giving Vincent no time to recover. A roll saved him from the second attack and on the third, the swordsman threw himself to his feet. He felt the wind of the monster’s passing. The search for the missing sword became frantic.

The giant snake pursued without pause. Lost in the grass, the sword beyond his reach. Vincent turned to lash out with his fists, a rough attempt to deflect and distract. Forming a sword of pure Mana was proving difficult. A leap of logic and thought that for some reason eluded him. Almost a wall or gap. The best he could conjure was an unstable dagger worth one slash, but useless in defense. His power felt useless and unwilling without steel in hand.

“I need a sword!” cursed Vincent. He was getting further away from the Sixty. Between the search and the monster’s aggression, the snake had taken over the momentum of the battle. Death was beginning to bear down as a certainty. “A sword or something! A stick! Or… a blade of grass?”

It was a thought born of rising despair. He turned to it with frantic hope, unhesitating. Memories of childhood vibrantly rose to life. Swinging with a cardboard tube, slashing with a stick, and waving a long piece of grass against the wind. A dagger of rose light formed. With violent intensity, Vincent knew it to be sharp. Impossibly sharp, an edge that could not be denied. The swordsman risked kneeling to slash close to the ground. One single movement and he rose with a single stalk that burst with power.

His Mana instantly took the shape, the memory of imagined swordplay giving it stable strength. Vincent leaped at the looming beast. Matching its lightning strike with his own. First, the swordsman defanged the monster and next, he ducked in close. Fearlessly the swordsman claimed space within the coiling body. Rose Mana bloomed and blood rained down.

Vincent stepped out of the corpse’s ring. He turned to rejoin the Sixty, but was distracted by finding the detached fangs at his feet. Glinting viciously despite the yellow foam. They called to him, offering a vision of inviting violence. A single scratch from them had value. The water bottle almost came unbidden as his hands flung the cap free and poured out the contents to cleanse the shards. It would be possible to claim the fangs via the core, yet that seemed wrong. These ones were separated by him and those would at best be clones.

They were heavy in the hand, inspiring careful possession. Though the venom was washed away the silent danger never left the fangs. Thinking about Molly’s power over the dead, the swordsman sunk his Mana into the bone. In his mind, one word rang out into the flow, “mine.”

The process was quick, a feeling of ownership echoing back being the signal of success. He put the fangs away and charged the backs of the monsters assailing the barricades. There was little for him to do as the rout of the snakes had already begun. His thoughts turned to the fangs while finishing off the remainder.

I bet Valerie could do something with them, decided Vincent. Perhaps not now, but when we clear the fifth… a new sword for me!

The rest of the night went smoothly once the cleanup was done. Cores got collected and the shift changed. Whoever could got some sleep. Vincent was pleased to be among them. His lights went out almost immediately. The morning came in the same odd manner as the night did. Purple gloom disappeared to red heat, then orange took over before the ceiling was completely obscured by the glare of light. The chill breezes were gone and replaced by dry hot wind. Steam rose from the landscape as the morning dew quickly backed off. Before they could get moving, the day’s heat had settled back in.

Over the hills and down them, the Sixty marched. Heading straight down the middle of the floor, as best they could. There was little doubt in anyone’s mind that the Heart of the poem referenced the center. That was a safe guess, no tricks were likely when the challenge implied wasn’t in the finding. Instead, worries found fertile soil in the descriptions.

Vincent saw the same look on many faces; all asking, “What is this nightmare place?”

It was hard to imagine that the golden plains had any break between the border walls much less some spot of horror. The swordsman reflected upon it without fear. There was always a sense of adventure in seeking out new things. Plundering dangers and facing down threats. Vincent adored his life here for those opportunities. The Pit was especially good at securing a constant flow of adventures.

When they were approaching the approximate center, there seemed to be nothing to find at first. Even atop a tall hill, there was only endless grass in sight. The change that came upon them suddenly started with a smudge on the horizon. Missable at first, then baffling. Each step forward didn’t enlarge the anomaly. The dark mass was spreading. Clung to the ground and reached like roots into the sky. It spread until the smudge was a border, a dome shape that glistened and phased its visibility.

The Sixty halted at that line, every eye hardening in expectation. Vincent slipped to the front and volunteered for the breach. His curiosity was making him giddy.

That positivity died the moment he passed through. Beyond was not an adventure, but a hellscape they would have to endure. Force themselves to walk across that madness. The land was dead and weeping, the sky screamed and fire ran pitifully wild. Through the poisonous haze stood crumbling ruins where a foulness pulled at his soul.

Without a signal, all of them took a step back together.