Straylor Leonard
Sword & Shield
An unknown amount of time following the Argent Prince's benevolent raid (2017) …
A lone figure moved among the fungal forests of the lunar landscape. For generations, Lunarians' and philosophers gazed upon the twin moons orbiting Telath and guessed at their secrets. From his current position on its surface, however, Straylor wondered if anyone on the Empire knew that someone was now gazing back at them.
The days, weeks, and months that followed after crash landing and becoming separated from the Prince’s raiding party bled together in his mind. Something about the alien world jumbled his thoughts even as it was impossible to tell time as he circled the world he left behind, hopelessly trapped on Melora. By some miracle, the moon contained life and resources that Straylor could use. Water and food came by way of the exotic flora and fauna. He sought shelter beneath the canopies of the immense, colorful forests. His unique gifts and abilities proved particularly useful whenever he needed to dissuade the moon’s creatures from getting too friendly.
It didn’t take long for Straylor’s great mane and beard grow wild, giving him the appearance of a very old lion. His traveling clothes and cloak became worn but his other equipment'' were born from superior materials and magic. Spider silk covered most of his body, which was reified so that it shifted between drake scales and waterproof fur depending on his surroundings. He was armed with his twin short swords, a Secyclion-style shield, hand cannon, and as many slugs and bullets he could fit in the various pockets of his hooded traveling cloak. The amulets of power he had on his person contained enchantments from his former life that he brought with him due to an overabundance of caution.
For once, Straylor was right to overpack.
Unfortunately, Ziel Airlines lost his check-in bag' containing the precious items that he needed'' now with his inverted powers over the Material Plane. After what felt like a lifetime wandering the forests and learning how to survive there, Straylor began to make preparations for an expedition away from the familiarity of his camp. If he was going to be trapped on Melora, Straylor figured that he might as well learn as much as he could, and explore the moon’s surface in search for things he could salvage and use. Using his ability to wrap objects with his mind, the Medonian carved makeshift waterskins and packed what edible fruits, herbs, and mushrooms he could find for the long journey ahead.
--
Striker:
The fungal forest stretched as far as the eye could see, comprised of towering trees and giant-sized toadstools that formed a tapestry of bioluminescent hues. Brilliant blues, deep greens, and captivating purples painted the leafy canopy above the stranded spellbreaker, and weaving it all together was a perpetual gray mist that circulated through the tree-and-mushroom tops to blot out most of the starlight. The medley of iridescent glows emitted from Melora’s bizarre flora, however, provided ample illumination for the human to progress without tripping over a craftily-placed vine or a tiny bush.
He was being watched.
Several pairs of eyes of varying sizes peered at him from the shadows, then blinked and faded away into the background as if they had never been present at all. The sparse hairs that rose on the back of Straylor’s neck warned him of their constant presence around him, but thus far, the owners of those gazes had yet to reveal themselves. It had been a common occurrence ever since he had landed on the moon. Most of the time, he had been left to his own devices, although there were other occasions when he had been forced to flee or to fight.
With no map to guide him, the spellbreaker’s wanderings brought him to many strange places. Caverns occupied by strange, multi-eyed creatures with odd numbers of legs. Foothills comprised of tall, writhing purple grass that seemed more than eager to snatch him should he cross their invisible threshold. There was also an instance where he discovered what appeared to be a tiny yellow squirrel that suddenly ballooned into the size of a giant version of itself, only to skitter off into the unknown at the mere sight of the spellbreaker.
It was on one particular morning, evening, or somewhere in between that the spellbreaker discovered himself beneath a mesmerizing starlit sky. Rays of pure silver poured down from above, shining down upon a rare, open glade within the fungal forest. The clearing was circular in nature and no larger than a coliseum that Straylor might have once frequented during his journeys to Primus Gaudeo or Aelyria Prime. Carpeted in grass as blue as the sea, it was well-manicured and moist beneath the spellbreaker’s boots.
It was the large basin of glowing purple water in the center of the glade that would likely catch Straylor’s attention. From it flowed a river that meandered deeper into the shadows of the exotic forest. To what end, he could not ascertain from his position on the edge of the glade, but it was clear that it led somewhere. His travels had not brought him to this particular region of Melora before, but the silhouette of mountainous peaks in the distance, standing well above the fungal forest were apparently what the river led towards.
Other than the gentle swoosh of the water nearby, insects chittered from places unseen, and somewhere in the forest of radiant trees and giant mushrooms, the padding of many feet could be heard.
--
It was hard to admit that there was a certain beauty about the bizarre moonscape. Despite his isolation and general sense of despair, Straylor’s focus on survival kept his mind from spiraling. That was all the Medonian could do from losing hope completely despite his predicament.
There was also the constant feeling that he was being watched.
By what or whom was not evidently clear. Without his powers over the astral, Straylor’s survival was now limited by his talents based on the material and mundane. Not that those abilities were any less useful by any measure. His spellbreaking allowed him to craft and mould the materials around him to suit his purposes. Through careful trial and error, Straylor attempted to make crude waterskins from the flesh of the fungal trees, warping the fibers to become soft but durable like leather. The same process was repeated to create twine and rope; while the lunar dirt was clumped and hardened, turning them into flint to start campfires.
It didn’t take long for Straylor to realize that he needed to physically map his expeditions. He resorted to using a similar process, warping suitable flora that he sliced with his blades and then strengthened the layers so that it could withstand crude writing or carving. This way, Straylor could document his wanderings, making note of the resources or materials that were available in those areas for future reference.
He called the caverns occupied by many-eyed creatures with an unusual assortment of legs the “Millipede Cave”; the hills with writing purple grass was christened “Venus Valley”; and the yellow squirrel that comically ballooned when frightened was called ‘Pufferchu’ in his notes.
One day, Straylor found himself in a clearing surrounded by an ocean of blue trees. “Sapphire Woods”, he scribbled the name of the enormous expanse in his notes, named after the dazzling blue grass that carpeted the soft, alien earth. And in the center of the clearing was a glade with a river that flowed outward, farther than his previous expeditions ever took him. After carefully approximating the direction and features of the area on his crude map, Straylor traced the purple river as it disappeared deeper into the Sapphire Woods where enormous mountains towered over Melora like jagged swords.
His musings were interrupted by the sound of footfalls. Straylor turned that way and attempted to peer into the space between the astral and mundane. Could he sense anything with his mind’s eyes? Even in this kaleidoscope world, Straylor estimated that essence and Vis must follow the physical principles of existence. If they did, then the grandmaster might be able to determine if the owners of the padded footsteps was sentient or part of Melora’s menagerie.
--
Striker
Shadows filled the gaps in between the purple trees, mostly obscuring the spellbreaker’s vision except for the intermittent glow of unseen insects in the crisp night air. One of the miniscule creatures landed atop the human’s skin, its presence initially made known only by the telltale itch that tickled the top of his hand. It resembled a lightning bug in many ways, although its bulbous rear glowed a tantalizing orange in the inky dark, and it wielded two sets of wings on either side of its body. The visitor did not allow Straylor too much time to analyze it, though, as it quickly fluttered away a few seconds later, leaving a trail of iridescent light behind it.
Where the light ended at the edge of the gloomy “Sapphire Forest,” a pair of large, acidic-colored eyes bore into the spellbreaker.
A long maw brimming with razor-edged teeth flashed beneath, gleaming bone-white in the darkness. The familiar sound of padding feet grew closer as the beast ominously stepped forward, its dog-like head hunched low near the purple grass and its front and hind legs - scaly, thick, and muscled like those belonging to gojiras commonly ridden in the Empire – primed to spring. Given at least some of the creature’s resemblance to a canine, a growl should have been expected; however, what came forth from the depths of the unknown animal’s throat was instead an eerie hiss.
A forked tongue rolled out of its mouth and between its lower set of canines.
A warning? A threat? A signal, it proved to be, as another creature exactly like it suddenly sprang out of nowhere from Straylor’s right side, as if it had simply decided to ignore the intervening space between the human and the edge of the forest. Its claw-ending legs reached for the spellbreaker’s face, promising to tear it apart upon contact. That sinister, yellow tongue followed close behind, the saliva that could be seen atop it steaming with what Straylor could only recognize as something hazardous for his health.
The first hybrid that he had seen charged him now, its reptilian legs barely touching the moon as it bounded towards him. Behind it, three tails writhed of their own accord from its lizard-shaped torso, each ending in spikes the length of the spellbreaker’s forearm. That the pair had selected this particular area to ambush the human was a testament to their hunting prowess, for his back was now to the “Purple River,” and he was being confronted from the front and to his right.
And to the left, it seemed.
Indeed, the master swordsman would catch a hint of a noise coming from that direction. It was faint, not unlike someone attempting to skulk on the balls of their feet. Other than the fleeting sound, there were no signs of the third creature, if a third one existed at all. Perhaps it had been a trick of the spellbreaker’s imagination, or maybe it had been another inhabitant of the moon that had wanted no business in the altercation.
Behind him, the purple water fell eerily silent, as if consciously holding its breath for the unfolding battle.
--
Night fell unnaturally on the moon. And the orange lunar dragonflies made nighttime all the more beautiful. But it didn’t take long before Straylor was reminded that Melora’s allure stemmed largely from its unknown dangers.
Emerald eyes peered out from the shadowy areas of the forest beyond as a scaled lupine creature emerged. The lunar wolf-lizard’s hiss turned out to be equal parts distraction and signal as an identical creature materialized on Straylor’s right side. The spellbreaker reacted instantaneously, an ability borne out of mastery honed over the past decade. Straylor’s martial mind registered his foes -- their claws, teeth, venomous saliva -- just as he rolled under the swipe aimed for his head. And in that same movement, Straylor’s right hand tore Leviathan from its scabbard and aimed its opening arc to disembowel the second wolf-lizard that attempted to mar his beautiful face. On the upswing of his demon blade, Straylor drew a tight circle over his head to protect his passing form from any surprises.
When he recovered back to his feet at the end of the evasive roll, Straylor’s left hand retrieved his shield with an easy swing. He heard the first hybrid bounding toward him, the clicking of its three tails. The swordmaster’s eyes narrowed as he noticed that the incoming hybrid was not sprinting as much as it was gliding on the azure grass. Straylor kept the river at his back and the two creatures in front of him. The fact that these predators already attempted to flank him once suggested some type of intelligence akin to lions and wolves.
If the second hybrid was dead, then Straylor would sprint forward to meet the charging wolf-lizard. He couldn’t afford to let the fight come to him and let the hybrid dictate the terms of their encounter a second time. Straylor’s feint was intended to draw the wolf-lizard’s assault forward on their first pass so that he might learn his foe’s rhythm and attack pattern. His shield could deflect the three spiked tails while Leviathan parried its claws and kept its fangs in check.
But if the other hybrid was still alive, then Straylor would trace the purple waters behind him and prepare to unleash the defensive maneuvers of Zinn’Sunn’s classical form: One Hundred Shields. Straylor imagined a line in front of him wherein his sword and shield would create an impenetrable wall of tight slashes and blocks meant to preserve stamina and close any openings. .
--
Striker
Starlight bathed the open glade in a silvery glow, painting the purple trees in the backdrop with a luminous sheen that was both beautiful and eerie to behold. It was beneath their glowing leafy canopies that the ambush unfolded, initiated by the ominous hiss that was the hybrid’s battle-cry and the screech of steel as Leviathan burst forth from its scabbard in immediate response. In the hands of the master swordsman, the black blade hungrily awaited the taste of monster flesh.
And the moment came sooner than expected.
Finely-honed instincts warded Straylor from the second beast’s surprise attack, the creature’s flesh-rendering claws within mere inches of his unshaved face when Leviathan suddenly ripped across the air and intercepted the airborne denizen’s belly. A high-pitched shriek rolled from the hybrid’s forked tongue as the spellbreaker’s sword sliced through reptilian flesh, muscles, and tendons with a single stroke. Black blood sprayed all over the forest floor. The counterattack had the added effect of redirecting the lunging creature’s momentum in the same direction of Straylor’s unwinding sword, its heavy body crashing against the grass, where it curled and thrashed on the ground in patent agony.
By the time Straylor rolled to his feet, his shield brought to bear, the remaining wolf-lizard was already upon him. It was fast, faster than a creature with such legs should have been able to move, yet the mere seconds in which it had reached the spellbreaker was a testament to its predatory capabilities. Its left hand swiped forward with five claws half as long as Straylor’s short sword promising to tear through him upon contact. Rather than cutting into human meat, though, they clashed harmlessly against Leviathan, the sturdy blade batting them away as if they were five separate blades. Strangely enough, there was only moderate force behind the attack, meaning that the hybrid’s natural weapons either did not require such strength or it, too, was feinting.
The beast’s three tails suddenly swerved in from Straylor’s left, striking his shield once, twice, and then again with their spiked ends. Each blow was sufficient to send a tremor through the spellbreaker’s wrist and up his forearm. When none of the three attacks struck true, though, the hybrid snarled and suddenly stopped its charge.
Its dog-like eyes narrowed upon the swordsman as if reconsidering its course of action – a most peculiar reaction for an animal.
Hunched low to the grass with its three tails writhing dangerously above it, the hybrid approached slowly, keeping out of Leviathan’s reach while maintaining its placement directly in front of Straylor. It was almost as if it recognized the human’s precarious position with his back to the still and quiet purple river that loomed behind him.
--
The second beast was dispatched quickly but Straylor knew that the first Three-Tailed Wolf was not going down without a fight. If the Medonian didn’t know any better, he might have assumed that the hybrid was studying him.
He recalled their first pass. Straylor managed to intercept the triple strikes with his shield. The wood had been reified long ago to withstand even the toughest blows. And by now, his sword’s brother had defended against opponents far more deadly than the lupine creature. Yet Straylor could not shake the feeling that the creature was holding back. Like him, it, too, was trying to get a feel for his fighting style and rhythm.
The wolf’s emerald eyes met Straylor’s hazel orbs as they reached a momentary impasse.
That moment did not last long.
Realizing that the Three-Tailed Wolf’s greatest advantage was its speed and apparent phasing ability, Straylor turned the table on his foe. He recalled a story that the Old Man told him about lions in Eunesia. According to legend, the first bronze-skinned islanders once discovered an isolated pride of lions during their journey seeking uninhabited isles. Even in their isolation, the lions adapted to be an apex predator for the flightless fowl that dwelled there. But when the Eunesians arrived with arrows and javelins, the lions could do nothing against the onslaught. Their existence only prepared them to be predators. They did not know how to be prey.
Straylor reached deep into the wellspring of his martial prowess and injected liquid lightning into his legs once again. He was not yet an expert in the ecology of Melora but Straylor estimated that the Three-Tailed Wolves evolved to ambush and kill very fast prey. The creature’s hesitation suggested that his appearance here was unnatural, unexpected. And so he applied the Hydra Form to abuse that split second’s hesitation. Using his shield as a wall to protect him as well as obscure his sword’s position, Straylor feinted a direct frontal charge only to change directions at the last moment.
As he sprinted, dashed, and leaped, generating more and more momentum, he drew the hybrid’s defenses high and jabbed with Leviathan to sever one or more of the tails -- or at least gave the appearance of doing so. But Straylor was actually aiming for a thrust straight into the beast’s long face.
--
Striker
Their eyes locked dangerously, but it was the hybrid that blinked first.
Straylor was gone, suddenly several paces past where he had been standing only seconds prior. Although he lacked the ability to teleport, his body seemed to shimmer out of sight as he lunged at the strange creature with lightning-quick speed, his body hidden behind his outraised shield the entire time. Such tactics were not uncommon throughout the Aelyrian Empire. Long before Abestat had fallen to the Xet, when its garrison had favored the phalanx formation, its soldiers would often march upon their enemies while completely protected behind their lengthy tower shields.
Like many of the foes that had fallen to Abestat over the centuries, the hybrid was unable to determine where Straylor’s sword was positioned, and what’s more, where it would come from when finally revealed. The creature’s mouth drew backward, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth as it hissed again at the oncoming spellbreaker. One minute he was directly in front of the hybrid, and the next he was coming in from the side to deliver an initial feint and then a straight thrust towards the Meloran denizen’s canine face.
Fast, too fast.
The hybrid’s clawed right hand rose to intercept the feint, only to realize a split second later that Straylor’s sword was redirecting towards its head. In a surprising display of battle awareness, the hybrid swiftly twisted its head to the right. It did not avoid Leviathan’s vicious bite; indeed, the black sword drew a deep gash across the hybrid’s left cheek, but the movement had saved the fiend from what would have been the end of its life.
With a painful shriek, the half-dog, half-lizard reeled backwards on all fours, its three spiked tails snapping wildly around and in front of it. None of the attacks appeared to be directed at Straylor, and the spellbreaker would realize that the hybrid’s flailing was simply its attempt to keep him at bay and dissuade him from following up on his initial onslaught. Its clawed hands, too, swiped back and forth as black blood dripped from its face and stained the purple grass.
Suddenly, the wounded creature arched its back and raised its head to the air, issuing a shrill hiss that seemed to echo throughout the glade and into the night sky.
Behind the hybrid, three more pairs of acidic-colored eyes opened in darkness.
The padding of their feet could be felt beneath Straylor’s boots as the bleeding creature’s reinforcements arrived. Two had been difficult enough to contend with. And now, it seemed, there were four.
Without warning, a flash of blinding light suddenly filled the clearing, eliciting a chorus of painful shrieks from Straylor’s would-be predators.
“Over here, hurry!” a deep, raspy voice called from the shadows. Near the edge of the quiet river, a tall, humanoid-shaped figure appeared. How long he had been present was impossible to tell, but a heavy, tattered blue cloak and hood covered him. Clutched in his right hand, which was mostly hidden by the folds his outer-garment, was a long wooden rod that bore remarkable similarities to a shepherd’s staff.
The light slowly faded and along with it the agonized wails of the four hunters.
--
Straylor felt Leviathan’s hunger grow as it tasted the Three-Tailed Wolf’s blood. And its master would have been more than willing to let his demon blade feast if not for the beast’s ominous cry. Within moments, the Sapphire Forest was littered in green eyes as more of the hybrids emerged, answering his injured foe’s call to arms.
The Medonian was tempted to charge again and end the reptilian creature’s life. That moment’s hesitation was enough to change his reality. A blinding flash filled the clearing and Straylor instinctively fell to a crouch with his shield held between himself and the bleeding hybrid. When his stars left his eyes, Straylor heard someone calling him out from the shadows.
It had been months since Straylor heard anyone speaking in Common. And the sound’s owner sounded unintelligible to him for a few seconds. A cloaked figure emerged from the darkness and bade Straylor over. He briefly glanced at the hybrids and then back at the stranger -- and then sprinted toward the shepherd on the Moon. He resisted the temptation to take Leviathan on a detour, uncertain how much longer the creatures might be stunned for.
--
Striker
A chorus of furious hisses from behind Straylor signaled that his attackers had reoriented themselves, and it was shortly followed by the heavy thumping of multiple sets of clawed feet atop the luscious grass. The chase, it seemed, was on again, and the three-tailed wolves were eager to find and finish off their prey.
The cloaked figure did not wait long for the spellbreaker to join him before he, too, turned and ran parallel with the purple river. Although he was a few inches taller than the Medonian human, the shepherd was not exceptionally fast, his long strides labored by what appeared to be a large carriage. A great bulge appeared underneath his clothing at his backside, although what exactly was hidden beneath was unclear.
“Your bravery will get you killed,” the shepherd hoarsely rebuked. “The Nazghari can smell their own kind’s blood from miles away. The more of their blood you spill, the more you’ll attract. That’s how they hunt.” His dialect was distinctly Common, although his voice was raspy and sounded as if he had smoked a hundred times more cigars than the Argent Prince of Moonstone himself.
As the shepherd glanced over his shoulder towards the glade, a hint of starlight poked through the shadow of his hood, illuminating an older but handsome face set with high cheek bones and framed by wisps of long yellow hair that shimmered silver in the night. There was something undeniably regal about his visage, and unlike Straylor, his skin was surprisingly clean and his complexion clear.
The hisses grew closer, and even a cursory glance behind would reveal that several Nazghari had already gained ground on the fleeing pair and were steadily approaching. Even more alarming was the fact that the four three-tailed wolves that Straylor had engaged in the open glade had multiplied to double that number during the interim.
“Your sword,” the shepherd grimly said, his hooded head inclining towards Leviathan, which was soaked with Nazghari blood. “We must hurry into the river. Otherwise, there will be no escaping them.”
Through the forest they ran, the trees casting eerie shadows across the floor. Branches cracked and snapped as they passed them, and strange animals chittered and screeched from unseen perches and holes. It was almost as if the forest had come alive and was reaching for the spellbreaker and his new companion.
Another opening in the forest suddenly appeared in sight, and the familiar sound of running water reached Straylor’s sharpened senses. It was towards this break in the tree line that the shepherd ran, and waiting for them as they burst through the iridescent leaves was a small rowboat that was sitting on the riverbank.
“Faster!” the man urged. Upon reaching the boat, the shepherd climbed in as quickly as his large form would carry him. Two oars were inside as well as a front row and a back.
He was about to yell something to Straylor when a Nazghari suddenly appeared out of nowhere, its sleek and muscled body already launched through the air and towards the shepherd and the boat.
--
Patience and self control won out and Straylor was rewarded with a few spare moments before the tables turned on him. Cursing under his breath, the Medonian sprinted after the Shepherd without even bothering to look behind him. He could hear the three-tailed wolves, their vicious hisses taunting his undefended rear. While his Mosaic armor anticipated the battle and traded warm fur for drake scales, Straylor had no intention of testing his reified spider silk against a pack of the hybrids at once.
It didn’t take long for the grandmaster to fall in pace with the much-larger humanoid, running parallel against the purple waters. He took note of the Shepherd’s cornbread colored hair and striking features, which were in stark contrast to his haggard appearance. Despite being berated, Straylor found himself suddenly energized by the man’s words. That someone else was speaking Common on this alien, dangerous world was like a balm to his desperate isolation.
“I did not set out today seeking these …Nazghari”, Straylor replied hoarsely. It was not as deep nor as raspy as the Shepherd’s but his words felt almost unfamiliar after being without a conversation partner for so long. “Nor did I expect anyone else. I was separated from my companions and thought I was the only one left.”
Then the Nazghari’s ferocious song grew louder and Straylor stole a glance over his shoulder. His hazel eyes widened at the sight. Somehow, the three-tailed hybrids’ numbers had more than doubled since their initial encounter in the clearing. The Shepherd’s voice called him back to their desperate flight. Straylor looked down at the demon blade still clutched in his right hand and twitched his wrist as though he was drawing a small ‘C’ in the air by his side. This brief flourish used to clear gore from his Damascus steel between engagements. But Straylor knew that it would only be partially successful with Leviathan. His reified sword drank in the blood and gore of its fallen foes, absorbing it, and using it to ease its own hunger and grow stronger still.
So Straylor kept running.
Soon they were entering the forest, the trees and roots seemingly closing in all around them. But the Medonian maintained his course, darting here and there, leaping and deftly dodging obstacles as they came. He could have run faster, much faster, but Straylor was anticipating the wolves’ signature stratagem: they could teleport. He saw it once when the second hybrid attempted to outflank and outmaneuver him with the attack that would have been impossible for most prey to anticipate let alone defend against.
Then it happened.
And like a serpent coiling itself before a strike, Straylor willed his muscles to turn his physical form into a blur once again. He registered the Nazghari’s position relative to his own and that of the Shepherd within that briefest instant, drinking in the details of the terrain and his surroundings. He estimated the number of paces it might take for the pack to reach him, their trajectory, and velocity. Then Straylor compressed the infinite number of possibilities and options into a singular purpose, his blade turning into the quill that penned his fate.
Dashing forward with uncanny speed, Straylor fainted a charge only to duck and roll beneath the hybrid’s airborne form. On his first pass, Straylor drew a crimson line cleaving the beast’s stomach. As he exited the maneuver, he positioned his shield to ward off any of the hybrid’s last ditch attempts to lash out with one or more of its spiked tails, claws, or teeth.
--
Striker
A startled cry erupted from the shepherd’s hood as the Nazghari leapt viciously towards him. With one leg inside the boat and the other still on shore, the cloaked man threw his arms up helplessly in preparation for the three-tailed wolf’s deadly strike. His wooden staff crossed his body in the process, a meager protection against the likes of the hissing hunter in front of him. If the shepherd was even remotely versed in the arts of staff wielding, he did not show it.
A sudden yelp sounded through the air as Straylor’s sword, Leviathan, punctured through the Nazghari’s belly. The momentum of the creature’s aerial assault brought it ripping across the black sword, opening its entire stomach and spilling a medley of dark red guts, appendages, and blood atop the grassy floor.
The shepherd’s eyes were wide in astonishment and relief in the following instant, although any gratitude that he might have conveyed to Straylor was forgotten as the edge of the forest that they had just plunged through abruptly filled with many sets of acidic-yellow eyes. The trees themselves seemed to quiver in fear as a chorus of hisses sang the promise of death.
“Run! There are too many of them!” the shepherd shouted as he pushed off the shore. As the boat lurched away from the bank and dipped into the purple river, the cloaked man hurriedly scrambled inside in a less than graceful manner. “Close your eyes!” he then yelled in warning.
Barely a second passed before a brilliant light suddenly gathered atop his plain staff and sailed towards the forest, bursting in a yellow flash.
The explosion of light did not last for long, but for now, the spellbreaker had the opportunity that he needed to flee into the slowly-drifting boat.
The hooded shepherd already had an oar in hand and was beginning to paddle like a wild man, his movements frenetic and neither those of a fisherman or a sailor. Regardless, the boat was soon upon the river and about to drift along its current. “Come on! Get in!” he growled. Despite his earlier efforts to assist Straylor, his voice left no room for doubt that he had no qualms about leaving him behind either if left with no other options.
--
Straylor’s mastery over the Hydra form was testament to the Old Man’s teaching. The drunk Secyclid taught him to use unconventional warfare and to win by any means necessary. Even as Leviathan tore through the hybrid’s stomach, he wondered what his old masters would have thought of their pupil slaying aliens and demons.
Another flick of his wrist and Straylor sprayed another streak of black blood along the banks of the purple waters. Then the chorus of Nazghari alerted him that the dead scout by his feet was just only their opening gambit. Or, perhaps, this newcomer got overeager and left the pack in hopes of getting first dibs on their prey.
At the Shepherd’s warning, Straylor closed his eyes and fell into a crouch. He instinctively placed his shield between himself and the remaining hunters. And when the burst of blinding light subsided, the Medonian wasted no time sprinting toward the stranger and his boat. A few heartbeats later and Straylor nimbly lept from the edge of the Sapphire Forest onto the fleeing watercraft. He bent his knees low, absorbing the impact so that he didn’t rock the boat.
If he made it on the vessel, Straylor quickly dipped his demon blade into the violet waters of the alien river before sheathing it.
--
Striker
The rowboat shuddered beneath Straylor’s weight when he landed, lurching sideways such that its outer edge nearly dipped underneath the surface of the river. Some water splashed him in the face and onto his boots in response, but he managed to keep his balance as the shepherd, too, frantically dropped his oar, fastened his hands onto the sides of the boat, and also attempted to steady it.
The vessel was soon drifting down the river in the direction of the ominous mountain peaks in the distance, leaving a shore full of Nazghari hissing angrily at the two escapees. Among them, one of the three-tailed wolves stared coldly at Straylor, dark blood dripping down its canine face where Leviathan had slashed him.
“We were lucky,” the hooded man finally rasped when Straylor pulled his black sword from the water. Of signs of the Nazghari entrails, there were none apparent as the river seemed to have cleansed the blade. Purple droplets of residual water, however, lingered on the Damascus steel longer than they should have.
The current was gentle but strong enough that it did not require the shepherd to constantly paddle. Indeed, it pulled the rowboat onward, providing a rather scenic route for the pair as iridescent trees glowed and shimmered on either side of the river. For how long the channel meandered, it was impossible to tell, but the Sapphire Forest was quite expansive, and there did not appear to be an end in sight as the twists and turns of the river made it difficult to gauge its length.
The shepherd, as if sensing that their journey was going to be a long one, turned to Straylor. His blue eyes were surprisingly gentle as he drew his hood back and freed his mane of golden hair, which was streaked with wisps of gray. He did not appear old enough to have earned those signs of age, yet the crow’s feet that were discernible on the sides of his eyes spoke of many, many restless nights beneath the stars.
“Who are you and how are you . . . here?” he asked, his tone almost accusatory. A shrill cawk! then echoed from the shadows of the tree line to their left, causing the shepherd to momentarily divert his attention, hunch low, and peer in the direction of the noise as if expecting something horrific to suddenly burst through the brush.
When nothing did, though, he breathed noticeably easier and returned his attention to the bearded spellbreaker. “You said there were others?” His gaze swiveled to Straylor’s left and right before he finally sighed and shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on seeing them again. They’re probably dead already.”
The shepherd did not want for bluntness.
--
The thrill of battle soon died down and Straylor’s blood cooled as his breathing steadied again. He felt the slight bobbing of the small wooden boat as it meandered lazily along the waterway he would later call the Amethyst River. Its violet waters seemed to have cleaned his demon slayer sword, no small feat to say the least. He could still feel Leviathan’s hunger as he sheathed the dark blade back into its metal scabbard.
In the back of his mind, Straylor relived the battle time and again. He tried to memorize the three-tailed wolves’ movements, sought to pinpoint the weaknesses in their tactics; and he also saw the green eyes of their alpha, the one he scarred. For some reason, Straylor knew that their last bout was only the opening gambit to their inevitable final confrontation. Wolves on Telath were not known to be forgiving creatures. They hunted with stealth, cunning, and scent. He could only imagine how much more dangerous these Nazghari were compared to their earthbound relatives.
His hazel eyes traced the endless rows of luminescent trees and far away he saw steep summits of unknown mountains dotting the lunar skyline. Did Melora have seasons like they did on Telath? His surveys into the rich academic writings of the Rainbow Towers suggested that the seasons were a result of Telath’s position among the stars. If Melora’s rotation was similar to his homeworld, then Straylor shuddered to think what winter might be like on the moon.
But the biggest question of all was the Shepherd who found him.
Straylor regarded the humanoid, his blue eyes, and mane of golden hair. His appearance suggested someone who had seen many more seasons than most. Yet the Medonian could not be sure if this man was just one of many moon people or another voyager stranded with no means of getting home.
“I am called Felix,” Straylor said after a pause. “We arrived by ...ship. Powered by magic and --”
During the first few days ...or weeks ...maybe even months, it was hard to tell, Straylor wandered the moonscape in search for the wreckage of the Argent Prince’s ‘ship’. Calling it a vessel was generous since it was essentially a circular platform rigged to keep its occupants inside while the Arch Elementalist used his magic to blast them to the high heavens.
His train of thought was interrupted by the loud noise from the treeline. Straylor’s hand flew to his blade’s hilt but when no more Nazghari emerged, he relaxed again and turned back to the Shepherd. He nodded at the stranger’s next question and frowned.
“How did you find me? How did you get here?”
--
A lone figure moved among the fungal forests of the lunar landscape. For generations, Lunarians' and philosophers gazed upon the twin moons orbiting Telath and guessed at their secrets. From his current position on its surface, however, Straylor wondered if anyone on the Empire knew that someone was now gazing back at them.
The days, weeks, and months that followed after crash landing and becoming separated from the Prince’s raiding party bled together in his mind. Something about the alien world jumbled his thoughts even as it was impossible to tell time as he circled the world he left behind, hopelessly trapped on Melora. By some miracle, the moon contained life and resources that Straylor could use. Water and food came by way of the exotic flora and fauna. He sought shelter beneath the canopies of the immense, colorful forests. His unique gifts and abilities proved particularly useful whenever he needed to dissuade the moon’s creatures from getting too friendly.
It didn’t take long for Straylor’s great mane and beard grow wild, giving him the appearance of a very old lion. His traveling clothes and cloak became worn but his other equipment'' were born from superior materials and magic. Spider silk covered most of his body, which was reified so that it shifted between drake scales and waterproof fur depending on his surroundings. He was armed with his twin short swords, a Secyclion-style shield, hand cannon, and as many slugs and bullets he could fit in the various pockets of his hooded traveling cloak. The amulets of power he had on his person contained enchantments from his former life that he brought with him due to an overabundance of caution.
For once, Straylor was right to overpack.
Unfortunately, Ziel Airlines lost his check-in bag' containing the precious items that he needed'' now with his inverted powers over the Material Plane. After what felt like a lifetime wandering the forests and learning how to survive there, Straylor began to make preparations for an expedition away from the familiarity of his camp. If he was going to be trapped on Melora, Straylor figured that he might as well learn as much as he could, and explore the moon’s surface in search for things he could salvage and use. Using his ability to wrap objects with his mind, the Medonian carved makeshift waterskins and packed what edible fruits, herbs, and mushrooms he could find for the long journey ahead.
--
Striker:
The fungal forest stretched as far as the eye could see, comprised of towering trees and giant-sized toadstools that formed a tapestry of bioluminescent hues. Brilliant blues, deep greens, and captivating purples painted the leafy canopy above the stranded spellbreaker, and weaving it all together was a perpetual gray mist that circulated through the tree-and-mushroom tops to blot out most of the starlight. The medley of iridescent glows emitted from Melora’s bizarre flora, however, provided ample illumination for the human to progress without tripping over a craftily-placed vine or a tiny bush.
He was being watched.
Several pairs of eyes of varying sizes peered at him from the shadows, then blinked and faded away into the background as if they had never been present at all. The sparse hairs that rose on the back of Straylor’s neck warned him of their constant presence around him, but thus far, the owners of those gazes had yet to reveal themselves. It had been a common occurrence ever since he had landed on the moon. Most of the time, he had been left to his own devices, although there were other occasions when he had been forced to flee or to fight.
With no map to guide him, the spellbreaker’s wanderings brought him to many strange places. Caverns occupied by strange, multi-eyed creatures with odd numbers of legs. Foothills comprised of tall, writhing purple grass that seemed more than eager to snatch him should he cross their invisible threshold. There was also an instance where he discovered what appeared to be a tiny yellow squirrel that suddenly ballooned into the size of a giant version of itself, only to skitter off into the unknown at the mere sight of the spellbreaker.
It was on one particular morning, evening, or somewhere in between that the spellbreaker discovered himself beneath a mesmerizing starlit sky. Rays of pure silver poured down from above, shining down upon a rare, open glade within the fungal forest. The clearing was circular in nature and no larger than a coliseum that Straylor might have once frequented during his journeys to Primus Gaudeo or Aelyria Prime. Carpeted in grass as blue as the sea, it was well-manicured and moist beneath the spellbreaker’s boots.
It was the large basin of glowing purple water in the center of the glade that would likely catch Straylor’s attention. From it flowed a river that meandered deeper into the shadows of the exotic forest. To what end, he could not ascertain from his position on the edge of the glade, but it was clear that it led somewhere. His travels had not brought him to this particular region of Melora before, but the silhouette of mountainous peaks in the distance, standing well above the fungal forest were apparently what the river led towards.
Other than the gentle swoosh of the water nearby, insects chittered from places unseen, and somewhere in the forest of radiant trees and giant mushrooms, the padding of many feet could be heard.
--
It was hard to admit that there was a certain beauty about the bizarre moonscape. Despite his isolation and general sense of despair, Straylor’s focus on survival kept his mind from spiraling. That was all the Medonian could do from losing hope completely despite his predicament.
There was also the constant feeling that he was being watched.
By what or whom was not evidently clear. Without his powers over the astral, Straylor’s survival was now limited by his talents based on the material and mundane. Not that those abilities were any less useful by any measure. His spellbreaking allowed him to craft and mould the materials around him to suit his purposes. Through careful trial and error, Straylor attempted to make crude waterskins from the flesh of the fungal trees, warping the fibers to become soft but durable like leather. The same process was repeated to create twine and rope; while the lunar dirt was clumped and hardened, turning them into flint to start campfires.
It didn’t take long for Straylor to realize that he needed to physically map his expeditions. He resorted to using a similar process, warping suitable flora that he sliced with his blades and then strengthened the layers so that it could withstand crude writing or carving. This way, Straylor could document his wanderings, making note of the resources or materials that were available in those areas for future reference.
He called the caverns occupied by many-eyed creatures with an unusual assortment of legs the “Millipede Cave”; the hills with writing purple grass was christened “Venus Valley”; and the yellow squirrel that comically ballooned when frightened was called ‘Pufferchu’ in his notes.
One day, Straylor found himself in a clearing surrounded by an ocean of blue trees. “Sapphire Woods”, he scribbled the name of the enormous expanse in his notes, named after the dazzling blue grass that carpeted the soft, alien earth. And in the center of the clearing was a glade with a river that flowed outward, farther than his previous expeditions ever took him. After carefully approximating the direction and features of the area on his crude map, Straylor traced the purple river as it disappeared deeper into the Sapphire Woods where enormous mountains towered over Melora like jagged swords.
His musings were interrupted by the sound of footfalls. Straylor turned that way and attempted to peer into the space between the astral and mundane. Could he sense anything with his mind’s eyes? Even in this kaleidoscope world, Straylor estimated that essence and Vis must follow the physical principles of existence. If they did, then the grandmaster might be able to determine if the owners of the padded footsteps was sentient or part of Melora’s menagerie.
--
Striker
Shadows filled the gaps in between the purple trees, mostly obscuring the spellbreaker’s vision except for the intermittent glow of unseen insects in the crisp night air. One of the miniscule creatures landed atop the human’s skin, its presence initially made known only by the telltale itch that tickled the top of his hand. It resembled a lightning bug in many ways, although its bulbous rear glowed a tantalizing orange in the inky dark, and it wielded two sets of wings on either side of its body. The visitor did not allow Straylor too much time to analyze it, though, as it quickly fluttered away a few seconds later, leaving a trail of iridescent light behind it.
Where the light ended at the edge of the gloomy “Sapphire Forest,” a pair of large, acidic-colored eyes bore into the spellbreaker.
A long maw brimming with razor-edged teeth flashed beneath, gleaming bone-white in the darkness. The familiar sound of padding feet grew closer as the beast ominously stepped forward, its dog-like head hunched low near the purple grass and its front and hind legs - scaly, thick, and muscled like those belonging to gojiras commonly ridden in the Empire – primed to spring. Given at least some of the creature’s resemblance to a canine, a growl should have been expected; however, what came forth from the depths of the unknown animal’s throat was instead an eerie hiss.
A forked tongue rolled out of its mouth and between its lower set of canines.
A warning? A threat? A signal, it proved to be, as another creature exactly like it suddenly sprang out of nowhere from Straylor’s right side, as if it had simply decided to ignore the intervening space between the human and the edge of the forest. Its claw-ending legs reached for the spellbreaker’s face, promising to tear it apart upon contact. That sinister, yellow tongue followed close behind, the saliva that could be seen atop it steaming with what Straylor could only recognize as something hazardous for his health.
The first hybrid that he had seen charged him now, its reptilian legs barely touching the moon as it bounded towards him. Behind it, three tails writhed of their own accord from its lizard-shaped torso, each ending in spikes the length of the spellbreaker’s forearm. That the pair had selected this particular area to ambush the human was a testament to their hunting prowess, for his back was now to the “Purple River,” and he was being confronted from the front and to his right.
And to the left, it seemed.
Indeed, the master swordsman would catch a hint of a noise coming from that direction. It was faint, not unlike someone attempting to skulk on the balls of their feet. Other than the fleeting sound, there were no signs of the third creature, if a third one existed at all. Perhaps it had been a trick of the spellbreaker’s imagination, or maybe it had been another inhabitant of the moon that had wanted no business in the altercation.
Behind him, the purple water fell eerily silent, as if consciously holding its breath for the unfolding battle.
--
Night fell unnaturally on the moon. And the orange lunar dragonflies made nighttime all the more beautiful. But it didn’t take long before Straylor was reminded that Melora’s allure stemmed largely from its unknown dangers.
Emerald eyes peered out from the shadowy areas of the forest beyond as a scaled lupine creature emerged. The lunar wolf-lizard’s hiss turned out to be equal parts distraction and signal as an identical creature materialized on Straylor’s right side. The spellbreaker reacted instantaneously, an ability borne out of mastery honed over the past decade. Straylor’s martial mind registered his foes -- their claws, teeth, venomous saliva -- just as he rolled under the swipe aimed for his head. And in that same movement, Straylor’s right hand tore Leviathan from its scabbard and aimed its opening arc to disembowel the second wolf-lizard that attempted to mar his beautiful face. On the upswing of his demon blade, Straylor drew a tight circle over his head to protect his passing form from any surprises.
When he recovered back to his feet at the end of the evasive roll, Straylor’s left hand retrieved his shield with an easy swing. He heard the first hybrid bounding toward him, the clicking of its three tails. The swordmaster’s eyes narrowed as he noticed that the incoming hybrid was not sprinting as much as it was gliding on the azure grass. Straylor kept the river at his back and the two creatures in front of him. The fact that these predators already attempted to flank him once suggested some type of intelligence akin to lions and wolves.
If the second hybrid was dead, then Straylor would sprint forward to meet the charging wolf-lizard. He couldn’t afford to let the fight come to him and let the hybrid dictate the terms of their encounter a second time. Straylor’s feint was intended to draw the wolf-lizard’s assault forward on their first pass so that he might learn his foe’s rhythm and attack pattern. His shield could deflect the three spiked tails while Leviathan parried its claws and kept its fangs in check.
But if the other hybrid was still alive, then Straylor would trace the purple waters behind him and prepare to unleash the defensive maneuvers of Zinn’Sunn’s classical form: One Hundred Shields. Straylor imagined a line in front of him wherein his sword and shield would create an impenetrable wall of tight slashes and blocks meant to preserve stamina and close any openings. .
--
Striker
Starlight bathed the open glade in a silvery glow, painting the purple trees in the backdrop with a luminous sheen that was both beautiful and eerie to behold. It was beneath their glowing leafy canopies that the ambush unfolded, initiated by the ominous hiss that was the hybrid’s battle-cry and the screech of steel as Leviathan burst forth from its scabbard in immediate response. In the hands of the master swordsman, the black blade hungrily awaited the taste of monster flesh.
And the moment came sooner than expected.
Finely-honed instincts warded Straylor from the second beast’s surprise attack, the creature’s flesh-rendering claws within mere inches of his unshaved face when Leviathan suddenly ripped across the air and intercepted the airborne denizen’s belly. A high-pitched shriek rolled from the hybrid’s forked tongue as the spellbreaker’s sword sliced through reptilian flesh, muscles, and tendons with a single stroke. Black blood sprayed all over the forest floor. The counterattack had the added effect of redirecting the lunging creature’s momentum in the same direction of Straylor’s unwinding sword, its heavy body crashing against the grass, where it curled and thrashed on the ground in patent agony.
By the time Straylor rolled to his feet, his shield brought to bear, the remaining wolf-lizard was already upon him. It was fast, faster than a creature with such legs should have been able to move, yet the mere seconds in which it had reached the spellbreaker was a testament to its predatory capabilities. Its left hand swiped forward with five claws half as long as Straylor’s short sword promising to tear through him upon contact. Rather than cutting into human meat, though, they clashed harmlessly against Leviathan, the sturdy blade batting them away as if they were five separate blades. Strangely enough, there was only moderate force behind the attack, meaning that the hybrid’s natural weapons either did not require such strength or it, too, was feinting.
The beast’s three tails suddenly swerved in from Straylor’s left, striking his shield once, twice, and then again with their spiked ends. Each blow was sufficient to send a tremor through the spellbreaker’s wrist and up his forearm. When none of the three attacks struck true, though, the hybrid snarled and suddenly stopped its charge.
Its dog-like eyes narrowed upon the swordsman as if reconsidering its course of action – a most peculiar reaction for an animal.
Hunched low to the grass with its three tails writhing dangerously above it, the hybrid approached slowly, keeping out of Leviathan’s reach while maintaining its placement directly in front of Straylor. It was almost as if it recognized the human’s precarious position with his back to the still and quiet purple river that loomed behind him.
--
The second beast was dispatched quickly but Straylor knew that the first Three-Tailed Wolf was not going down without a fight. If the Medonian didn’t know any better, he might have assumed that the hybrid was studying him.
He recalled their first pass. Straylor managed to intercept the triple strikes with his shield. The wood had been reified long ago to withstand even the toughest blows. And by now, his sword’s brother had defended against opponents far more deadly than the lupine creature. Yet Straylor could not shake the feeling that the creature was holding back. Like him, it, too, was trying to get a feel for his fighting style and rhythm.
The wolf’s emerald eyes met Straylor’s hazel orbs as they reached a momentary impasse.
That moment did not last long.
Realizing that the Three-Tailed Wolf’s greatest advantage was its speed and apparent phasing ability, Straylor turned the table on his foe. He recalled a story that the Old Man told him about lions in Eunesia. According to legend, the first bronze-skinned islanders once discovered an isolated pride of lions during their journey seeking uninhabited isles. Even in their isolation, the lions adapted to be an apex predator for the flightless fowl that dwelled there. But when the Eunesians arrived with arrows and javelins, the lions could do nothing against the onslaught. Their existence only prepared them to be predators. They did not know how to be prey.
Straylor reached deep into the wellspring of his martial prowess and injected liquid lightning into his legs once again. He was not yet an expert in the ecology of Melora but Straylor estimated that the Three-Tailed Wolves evolved to ambush and kill very fast prey. The creature’s hesitation suggested that his appearance here was unnatural, unexpected. And so he applied the Hydra Form to abuse that split second’s hesitation. Using his shield as a wall to protect him as well as obscure his sword’s position, Straylor feinted a direct frontal charge only to change directions at the last moment.
As he sprinted, dashed, and leaped, generating more and more momentum, he drew the hybrid’s defenses high and jabbed with Leviathan to sever one or more of the tails -- or at least gave the appearance of doing so. But Straylor was actually aiming for a thrust straight into the beast’s long face.
--
Striker
Their eyes locked dangerously, but it was the hybrid that blinked first.
Straylor was gone, suddenly several paces past where he had been standing only seconds prior. Although he lacked the ability to teleport, his body seemed to shimmer out of sight as he lunged at the strange creature with lightning-quick speed, his body hidden behind his outraised shield the entire time. Such tactics were not uncommon throughout the Aelyrian Empire. Long before Abestat had fallen to the Xet, when its garrison had favored the phalanx formation, its soldiers would often march upon their enemies while completely protected behind their lengthy tower shields.
Like many of the foes that had fallen to Abestat over the centuries, the hybrid was unable to determine where Straylor’s sword was positioned, and what’s more, where it would come from when finally revealed. The creature’s mouth drew backward, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth as it hissed again at the oncoming spellbreaker. One minute he was directly in front of the hybrid, and the next he was coming in from the side to deliver an initial feint and then a straight thrust towards the Meloran denizen’s canine face.
Fast, too fast.
The hybrid’s clawed right hand rose to intercept the feint, only to realize a split second later that Straylor’s sword was redirecting towards its head. In a surprising display of battle awareness, the hybrid swiftly twisted its head to the right. It did not avoid Leviathan’s vicious bite; indeed, the black sword drew a deep gash across the hybrid’s left cheek, but the movement had saved the fiend from what would have been the end of its life.
With a painful shriek, the half-dog, half-lizard reeled backwards on all fours, its three spiked tails snapping wildly around and in front of it. None of the attacks appeared to be directed at Straylor, and the spellbreaker would realize that the hybrid’s flailing was simply its attempt to keep him at bay and dissuade him from following up on his initial onslaught. Its clawed hands, too, swiped back and forth as black blood dripped from its face and stained the purple grass.
Suddenly, the wounded creature arched its back and raised its head to the air, issuing a shrill hiss that seemed to echo throughout the glade and into the night sky.
Behind the hybrid, three more pairs of acidic-colored eyes opened in darkness.
The padding of their feet could be felt beneath Straylor’s boots as the bleeding creature’s reinforcements arrived. Two had been difficult enough to contend with. And now, it seemed, there were four.
Without warning, a flash of blinding light suddenly filled the clearing, eliciting a chorus of painful shrieks from Straylor’s would-be predators.
“Over here, hurry!” a deep, raspy voice called from the shadows. Near the edge of the quiet river, a tall, humanoid-shaped figure appeared. How long he had been present was impossible to tell, but a heavy, tattered blue cloak and hood covered him. Clutched in his right hand, which was mostly hidden by the folds his outer-garment, was a long wooden rod that bore remarkable similarities to a shepherd’s staff.
The light slowly faded and along with it the agonized wails of the four hunters.
--
Straylor felt Leviathan’s hunger grow as it tasted the Three-Tailed Wolf’s blood. And its master would have been more than willing to let his demon blade feast if not for the beast’s ominous cry. Within moments, the Sapphire Forest was littered in green eyes as more of the hybrids emerged, answering his injured foe’s call to arms.
The Medonian was tempted to charge again and end the reptilian creature’s life. That moment’s hesitation was enough to change his reality. A blinding flash filled the clearing and Straylor instinctively fell to a crouch with his shield held between himself and the bleeding hybrid. When his stars left his eyes, Straylor heard someone calling him out from the shadows.
It had been months since Straylor heard anyone speaking in Common. And the sound’s owner sounded unintelligible to him for a few seconds. A cloaked figure emerged from the darkness and bade Straylor over. He briefly glanced at the hybrids and then back at the stranger -- and then sprinted toward the shepherd on the Moon. He resisted the temptation to take Leviathan on a detour, uncertain how much longer the creatures might be stunned for.
--
Striker
A chorus of furious hisses from behind Straylor signaled that his attackers had reoriented themselves, and it was shortly followed by the heavy thumping of multiple sets of clawed feet atop the luscious grass. The chase, it seemed, was on again, and the three-tailed wolves were eager to find and finish off their prey.
The cloaked figure did not wait long for the spellbreaker to join him before he, too, turned and ran parallel with the purple river. Although he was a few inches taller than the Medonian human, the shepherd was not exceptionally fast, his long strides labored by what appeared to be a large carriage. A great bulge appeared underneath his clothing at his backside, although what exactly was hidden beneath was unclear.
“Your bravery will get you killed,” the shepherd hoarsely rebuked. “The Nazghari can smell their own kind’s blood from miles away. The more of their blood you spill, the more you’ll attract. That’s how they hunt.” His dialect was distinctly Common, although his voice was raspy and sounded as if he had smoked a hundred times more cigars than the Argent Prince of Moonstone himself.
As the shepherd glanced over his shoulder towards the glade, a hint of starlight poked through the shadow of his hood, illuminating an older but handsome face set with high cheek bones and framed by wisps of long yellow hair that shimmered silver in the night. There was something undeniably regal about his visage, and unlike Straylor, his skin was surprisingly clean and his complexion clear.
The hisses grew closer, and even a cursory glance behind would reveal that several Nazghari had already gained ground on the fleeing pair and were steadily approaching. Even more alarming was the fact that the four three-tailed wolves that Straylor had engaged in the open glade had multiplied to double that number during the interim.
“Your sword,” the shepherd grimly said, his hooded head inclining towards Leviathan, which was soaked with Nazghari blood. “We must hurry into the river. Otherwise, there will be no escaping them.”
Through the forest they ran, the trees casting eerie shadows across the floor. Branches cracked and snapped as they passed them, and strange animals chittered and screeched from unseen perches and holes. It was almost as if the forest had come alive and was reaching for the spellbreaker and his new companion.
Another opening in the forest suddenly appeared in sight, and the familiar sound of running water reached Straylor’s sharpened senses. It was towards this break in the tree line that the shepherd ran, and waiting for them as they burst through the iridescent leaves was a small rowboat that was sitting on the riverbank.
“Faster!” the man urged. Upon reaching the boat, the shepherd climbed in as quickly as his large form would carry him. Two oars were inside as well as a front row and a back.
He was about to yell something to Straylor when a Nazghari suddenly appeared out of nowhere, its sleek and muscled body already launched through the air and towards the shepherd and the boat.
--
Patience and self control won out and Straylor was rewarded with a few spare moments before the tables turned on him. Cursing under his breath, the Medonian sprinted after the Shepherd without even bothering to look behind him. He could hear the three-tailed wolves, their vicious hisses taunting his undefended rear. While his Mosaic armor anticipated the battle and traded warm fur for drake scales, Straylor had no intention of testing his reified spider silk against a pack of the hybrids at once.
It didn’t take long for the grandmaster to fall in pace with the much-larger humanoid, running parallel against the purple waters. He took note of the Shepherd’s cornbread colored hair and striking features, which were in stark contrast to his haggard appearance. Despite being berated, Straylor found himself suddenly energized by the man’s words. That someone else was speaking Common on this alien, dangerous world was like a balm to his desperate isolation.
“I did not set out today seeking these …Nazghari”, Straylor replied hoarsely. It was not as deep nor as raspy as the Shepherd’s but his words felt almost unfamiliar after being without a conversation partner for so long. “Nor did I expect anyone else. I was separated from my companions and thought I was the only one left.”
Then the Nazghari’s ferocious song grew louder and Straylor stole a glance over his shoulder. His hazel eyes widened at the sight. Somehow, the three-tailed hybrids’ numbers had more than doubled since their initial encounter in the clearing. The Shepherd’s voice called him back to their desperate flight. Straylor looked down at the demon blade still clutched in his right hand and twitched his wrist as though he was drawing a small ‘C’ in the air by his side. This brief flourish used to clear gore from his Damascus steel between engagements. But Straylor knew that it would only be partially successful with Leviathan. His reified sword drank in the blood and gore of its fallen foes, absorbing it, and using it to ease its own hunger and grow stronger still.
So Straylor kept running.
Soon they were entering the forest, the trees and roots seemingly closing in all around them. But the Medonian maintained his course, darting here and there, leaping and deftly dodging obstacles as they came. He could have run faster, much faster, but Straylor was anticipating the wolves’ signature stratagem: they could teleport. He saw it once when the second hybrid attempted to outflank and outmaneuver him with the attack that would have been impossible for most prey to anticipate let alone defend against.
Then it happened.
And like a serpent coiling itself before a strike, Straylor willed his muscles to turn his physical form into a blur once again. He registered the Nazghari’s position relative to his own and that of the Shepherd within that briefest instant, drinking in the details of the terrain and his surroundings. He estimated the number of paces it might take for the pack to reach him, their trajectory, and velocity. Then Straylor compressed the infinite number of possibilities and options into a singular purpose, his blade turning into the quill that penned his fate.
Dashing forward with uncanny speed, Straylor fainted a charge only to duck and roll beneath the hybrid’s airborne form. On his first pass, Straylor drew a crimson line cleaving the beast’s stomach. As he exited the maneuver, he positioned his shield to ward off any of the hybrid’s last ditch attempts to lash out with one or more of its spiked tails, claws, or teeth.
--
Striker
A startled cry erupted from the shepherd’s hood as the Nazghari leapt viciously towards him. With one leg inside the boat and the other still on shore, the cloaked man threw his arms up helplessly in preparation for the three-tailed wolf’s deadly strike. His wooden staff crossed his body in the process, a meager protection against the likes of the hissing hunter in front of him. If the shepherd was even remotely versed in the arts of staff wielding, he did not show it.
A sudden yelp sounded through the air as Straylor’s sword, Leviathan, punctured through the Nazghari’s belly. The momentum of the creature’s aerial assault brought it ripping across the black sword, opening its entire stomach and spilling a medley of dark red guts, appendages, and blood atop the grassy floor.
The shepherd’s eyes were wide in astonishment and relief in the following instant, although any gratitude that he might have conveyed to Straylor was forgotten as the edge of the forest that they had just plunged through abruptly filled with many sets of acidic-yellow eyes. The trees themselves seemed to quiver in fear as a chorus of hisses sang the promise of death.
“Run! There are too many of them!” the shepherd shouted as he pushed off the shore. As the boat lurched away from the bank and dipped into the purple river, the cloaked man hurriedly scrambled inside in a less than graceful manner. “Close your eyes!” he then yelled in warning.
Barely a second passed before a brilliant light suddenly gathered atop his plain staff and sailed towards the forest, bursting in a yellow flash.
The explosion of light did not last for long, but for now, the spellbreaker had the opportunity that he needed to flee into the slowly-drifting boat.
The hooded shepherd already had an oar in hand and was beginning to paddle like a wild man, his movements frenetic and neither those of a fisherman or a sailor. Regardless, the boat was soon upon the river and about to drift along its current. “Come on! Get in!” he growled. Despite his earlier efforts to assist Straylor, his voice left no room for doubt that he had no qualms about leaving him behind either if left with no other options.
--
Straylor’s mastery over the Hydra form was testament to the Old Man’s teaching. The drunk Secyclid taught him to use unconventional warfare and to win by any means necessary. Even as Leviathan tore through the hybrid’s stomach, he wondered what his old masters would have thought of their pupil slaying aliens and demons.
Another flick of his wrist and Straylor sprayed another streak of black blood along the banks of the purple waters. Then the chorus of Nazghari alerted him that the dead scout by his feet was just only their opening gambit. Or, perhaps, this newcomer got overeager and left the pack in hopes of getting first dibs on their prey.
At the Shepherd’s warning, Straylor closed his eyes and fell into a crouch. He instinctively placed his shield between himself and the remaining hunters. And when the burst of blinding light subsided, the Medonian wasted no time sprinting toward the stranger and his boat. A few heartbeats later and Straylor nimbly lept from the edge of the Sapphire Forest onto the fleeing watercraft. He bent his knees low, absorbing the impact so that he didn’t rock the boat.
If he made it on the vessel, Straylor quickly dipped his demon blade into the violet waters of the alien river before sheathing it.
--
Striker
The rowboat shuddered beneath Straylor’s weight when he landed, lurching sideways such that its outer edge nearly dipped underneath the surface of the river. Some water splashed him in the face and onto his boots in response, but he managed to keep his balance as the shepherd, too, frantically dropped his oar, fastened his hands onto the sides of the boat, and also attempted to steady it.
The vessel was soon drifting down the river in the direction of the ominous mountain peaks in the distance, leaving a shore full of Nazghari hissing angrily at the two escapees. Among them, one of the three-tailed wolves stared coldly at Straylor, dark blood dripping down its canine face where Leviathan had slashed him.
“We were lucky,” the hooded man finally rasped when Straylor pulled his black sword from the water. Of signs of the Nazghari entrails, there were none apparent as the river seemed to have cleansed the blade. Purple droplets of residual water, however, lingered on the Damascus steel longer than they should have.
The current was gentle but strong enough that it did not require the shepherd to constantly paddle. Indeed, it pulled the rowboat onward, providing a rather scenic route for the pair as iridescent trees glowed and shimmered on either side of the river. For how long the channel meandered, it was impossible to tell, but the Sapphire Forest was quite expansive, and there did not appear to be an end in sight as the twists and turns of the river made it difficult to gauge its length.
The shepherd, as if sensing that their journey was going to be a long one, turned to Straylor. His blue eyes were surprisingly gentle as he drew his hood back and freed his mane of golden hair, which was streaked with wisps of gray. He did not appear old enough to have earned those signs of age, yet the crow’s feet that were discernible on the sides of his eyes spoke of many, many restless nights beneath the stars.
“Who are you and how are you . . . here?” he asked, his tone almost accusatory. A shrill cawk! then echoed from the shadows of the tree line to their left, causing the shepherd to momentarily divert his attention, hunch low, and peer in the direction of the noise as if expecting something horrific to suddenly burst through the brush.
When nothing did, though, he breathed noticeably easier and returned his attention to the bearded spellbreaker. “You said there were others?” His gaze swiveled to Straylor’s left and right before he finally sighed and shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on seeing them again. They’re probably dead already.”
The shepherd did not want for bluntness.
--
The thrill of battle soon died down and Straylor’s blood cooled as his breathing steadied again. He felt the slight bobbing of the small wooden boat as it meandered lazily along the waterway he would later call the Amethyst River. Its violet waters seemed to have cleaned his demon slayer sword, no small feat to say the least. He could still feel Leviathan’s hunger as he sheathed the dark blade back into its metal scabbard.
In the back of his mind, Straylor relived the battle time and again. He tried to memorize the three-tailed wolves’ movements, sought to pinpoint the weaknesses in their tactics; and he also saw the green eyes of their alpha, the one he scarred. For some reason, Straylor knew that their last bout was only the opening gambit to their inevitable final confrontation. Wolves on Telath were not known to be forgiving creatures. They hunted with stealth, cunning, and scent. He could only imagine how much more dangerous these Nazghari were compared to their earthbound relatives.
His hazel eyes traced the endless rows of luminescent trees and far away he saw steep summits of unknown mountains dotting the lunar skyline. Did Melora have seasons like they did on Telath? His surveys into the rich academic writings of the Rainbow Towers suggested that the seasons were a result of Telath’s position among the stars. If Melora’s rotation was similar to his homeworld, then Straylor shuddered to think what winter might be like on the moon.
But the biggest question of all was the Shepherd who found him.
Straylor regarded the humanoid, his blue eyes, and mane of golden hair. His appearance suggested someone who had seen many more seasons than most. Yet the Medonian could not be sure if this man was just one of many moon people or another voyager stranded with no means of getting home.
“I am called Felix,” Straylor said after a pause. “We arrived by ...ship. Powered by magic and --”
During the first few days ...or weeks ...maybe even months, it was hard to tell, Straylor wandered the moonscape in search for the wreckage of the Argent Prince’s ‘ship’. Calling it a vessel was generous since it was essentially a circular platform rigged to keep its occupants inside while the Arch Elementalist used his magic to blast them to the high heavens.
His train of thought was interrupted by the loud noise from the treeline. Straylor’s hand flew to his blade’s hilt but when no more Nazghari emerged, he relaxed again and turned back to the Shepherd. He nodded at the stranger’s next question and frowned.
“How did you find me? How did you get here?”
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