Book 2 - Chapter 69 - Blind Retribution I (Patreon)

If Ranthia hadn’t known the base commander better, she might have thought that he was somewhat displeased. Fortunately, she—in spite of her preference to avoid him—knew him well enough to recognize the truth: he was pissed.

Not that Ranthia was entertaining any notions of guilt for shirking the man’s obstinate orders. The dwarven [Battlemaster] was only alive because Ranthia got the woman to the [Healers] so swiftly. The only reason that the casualties only numbered north of a hundred and twenty-eight was because she had drawn enough of the shimagu’s attention to give the [Battlemaster] freedom to act, driven off the twin, and then rejoined the field to slaughter shimagu until they were forced to withdraw.

“Excellent work, Grace.” The man saluted her in Reman style, with the falsest, thinnest smile Ranthia had ever seen painted over his half-bared teeth.

It was an absurd effort to save his own face and authority. As if anyone present doubted that she had acted of her own accord.

“Any time.” Ranthia answered, not bothering to conceal her own glibness.

She had no respect for anyone that would have consigned hundreds of his own people to death, just to preserve some assumption of a status quo.

Ranthia watched the funeral pyres alongside Avyna, as faces—many of them familiar—were consumed by the flames. Sertius, the legionary that had defended Avyna from his own superiors was on one pyre. Grudgingly bowing to Reman customs, the entirety of dwarven team Shattershot, men and women that Ranthia had hung out with, had their own. The Miasma had claimed proficient veterans of the war alongside the freshest recruits, and Ranthia hated herself for it.

She had to be better. She needed to be strong enough to stem the tide of death, no matter what the shimagu pulled.

“<Oh, my love, please! Like I said, feel free to go to bed. I can take care of the tasks that are keeping me occupied today without you. But you have been awake for three days! So go, get some rest, my love.>” Avyna repeated her offer while she put away the dishes.

Ranthia was exhausted enough that she could tell something was off, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. She had been surprised when she found Avyna at home, rather than at her shop, when she sought her beloved for the funeral. Yet Avyna’s sunny mood seemed to barely have been marred by the loss of acquaintances and customers. Which, yes, the elf was used to death, but…

Ugh, by Xaoc, it was hard to make her head follow a thought for very long.

Avyna was focused on some tasks around their home, but Ranthia still wasn’t sure what they were, even after asking.

“But…” Ranthia trailed off, as the thought escaped her. She failed to even notice that she’d spoken in Creation instead of High Elvish.

“<Sleep, my love. I know that you would appreciate the company, but I have much to do. Come, I can at least tuck you in and give you a good night kiss.>” Avyna offered.

Maybe that was it, Ranthia supposed her misery at a lack of snuggling could have explained her unease. She was being selfish. With a sigh, she assented.

And so, Ranthia found herself in bed. Alone. But she finally fell asleep sometime just after midday.

Fueled by her fears, frustrations, and desperation, the nightmares that she had silently dreaded came for her almost the moment that she succumbed to slumber.

Time was often strange while she dreamt. A few moments of wonder could absorb her entire night, or a thousand and twenty-four horrors could have played out in the span of a few paltry hours. Ranthia’s nightmares chose the latter form. Fragments of memory stitched together to form twisted horrors. While her body rested peacefully, her mind was tormented by its own abominations.

She relived the battle against the troll shimagu twin, except he slew Avyna while Ranthia desperately battled him throughout Coalition City. Carnage bloomed around her as they fought.

Then she fell, except there was nowhere she could send an image to. There was no escape.

Something seized her, and her body was crushed beneath countless blows while she was blinded by the moonless night.

And then everything was okay. For a few moments, until Avyna realized that she could do better and left—only to perish just outside Remera’s impossibly tall, jagged walls. Walls that unerringly prevented Ranthia from reaching her.

She turned and witnessed Pyra and Juvenae, trapped inside a blazing inferno, on the other side of those impassable walls that formed her cage—she struggled to find a way to save her friends while they screamed in agony. She tore her flesh against the barrier until they expired.

In the aftermath, the base commander seized her and carried her atop that accursed stone tower. He proved impossibly strong, and Ranthia was unable to escape his grasp while he forced her to watch as every last legionary and dwarf died to the Miasma classer, before every twin she had ever witnessed gathered and began to carve pieces out of her.

In the horrors conjured by her own mind, she perished at the hands of the shimagu. In a twisted realm, Xaoc denounced her as an agent of order and ordered his angels to destroy her soul once and for all.

Visions of blood, madness, loss, and regret tormented her again and again. Scenes were disjointed just as often as they were connected, yet her feverishly dreaming mind never quite seemed to notice the moments of nonsensical transition.

The kraken, now legion—though tiny—grappled with her. Their tentacles pierced her flesh with ease as they assailed her. She was allowed to fight back, though every time she cut one, it cleanly split in twain and reformed into two krakens that continued their assault. Her flesh was rent, pierced, and torn. Her body knew the sensations all too well, a memory that her nightmares weaponized against her with relish.

And then, for a glorious instant, she was safe. She rested in a simple cot, hale and relaxed. Then came the pain of a blade piercing between her ribs. She tried to twist, but a pale and horrible creature with glowing red eyes seized her. Its fang-filled maw split open, and the stench of old blood threatened to overwhelm her. The beastly thing moved in close.

And with a terrified scream, Ranthia lashed out with a desperate punch.

Her punch connected. The unexpectedly real sensation—somehow materially different than any conjured memory—ripped Ranthia from her torment, back to the waking world. Just in time for her to register a pained cry.

Oh, gods and goddesses, she knew that voice by heart! Oh Xaoc, no, please tell me I didn’t!

Ranthia hurriedly sat up, gasping and almost dry heaving as panic assailed her.

Next to the bed, Avyna stood with her back turned. Her hand was raised to her face.

“Oh gods, what have I… <Gemheart, I am so, so sorry, I swear I didn’t…!>” Ranthia scrambled to her feet, her eyes blurry with tears.

“<It… It is okay. I am okay…>” Avyna answered quietly, her back still turned.

“<I’m so sorry! I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you! I would never!>” Ranthia pleaded, praying against all evidence that she was still trapped in her nightmares.

“<It is okay, my love. I had not realized you were in a nightmare; you seemed so peaceful.>” Avyna finally turned to face her, offering Ranthia a reassuring smile.

Which revealed the bruise that was already blooming across the left side of her jawline.

The apologies that Ranthia was scrambling to create died on her lips. She had hurt the woman she loved. The evidence of her grievous, unforgivable sin marred the perfect flesh of the only true source of happiness Ranthia knew. A dark, burning hatred—directed at herself—threatened to choke all sense and reason from her mind.

“<It does not matter. My love, I am sorry, but let us discuss this another time. I… I need your help.>” Avyna whispered. She started to tremble, but it wasn’t from her pain—it reflected whatever fear her words brought to the fore.

“<What’s wrong?>” Ranthia asked, while she shoved her guilt and self-loathing deep down. Emergencies always came first.

Avyna started to speak, then stopped herself and took a deep breath. The words came so fast that Ranthia had to accelerate her perception just to keep up.

“<The caravan was supposed to have been here today. Had there been a planned delay, they would have sent word. Our merchant caravans do not just run late. My daughter is with that caravan; I meant it to be a surprise. The base commander said he sent scouts to investigate, but I just spoke to one of the scouts and she told me that none of them had been dispatched, nor had they heard anything about this.>”

Ranthia processed her elf’s words, then nodded and sprinted for her armor.

“<I’ll find her, gemheart. I swear.>” Ranthia vehemently promised after she shifted into her equipment.

Avyna worriedly chewed at her lip, but she nodded.

“” A mother, fearful for her daughter’s safety, pleaded.

It was a side to Avyna that Ranthia had never seen before. Elf or human, it seemed that the all-too-rare good mothers were the same. Ranthia felt a discordant pang of jealousy in her heart, but she had no time to waste on such inanity. With a final look at the bruised woman she loved, torn between her regret and the determination that she clung to, Ranthia hurried out of the tent.

She needed answers from the base commander before she left Remera to hunt for the missing caravan—if he truly sent scouts, she needed to know who to expect. Ranthia raced through Remera to the command tent of the day.

The base commander was, of course, absent. The waning crescent of the moon suggested the night was still young, but without a crisis, the man was prone to end his day with the setting sun. Ranthia strode across the mostly quiet tent to his desk, which was manned by one of his advisors.

“Where’s the base commander?” She demanded.

The analyst raised a hand to stall her, while he continued to write whatever unimportant drivel held his attention. Not that Ranthia had any intention of waiting. She slammed her fist into the desk as hard as she dared—being a better person meant that she shouldn’t break useful furniture just to get some peon’s attention, no matter how overwhelmed by emotion she was—and repeated her question.

The analyst looked up angrily—his handwriting had been devastated by the impact—then blanched when he realized that he had locked glares with an Unhappy Sentinel.

“He… he asleep!” The advisor croaked out an almost coherent answer before he gulped nervously.

The poor guy nearly choked on it. Not that Ranthia had the headspace for banalities like sympathy. She spun and checked the guards stationed on the tent… there, that one had Gale, Brilliance, and Gravity for his [Warrior] classes. Which probably marked him as a speedster.

Ranthia pointed at him.

“Wake the base commander and get him here immediately. Go!” She ordered.

The man, to his credit, saluted and darted out of the tent promptly and without question.

Ranthia simmered while she waited impatiently, until, at long last, the base commander arrived. He looked weary, but his lightly armored uniform was crisp and neat.

“Sentinel?” He asked as soon as he arrived.

“There’s a missing elven caravan and you lied about sending scouts.” Ranthia snapped. It wasn’t quite what she meant to say, but it was challenging to set aside how combative her mood made her.

The man rolled his eyes and dropped into his chair—the advisor had abandoned the desk as soon as he had entered the tent—and accepted a mug of strong tea from a different advisor. He made a show of taking a purposefully slow sip from it before he answered.

“I am not going to waste key resources to investigate what happened to non-Legion personnel, especially not for those that insist on trying to churn a profit in a war zone.” He finally stated, calmly.

“You’re an idiot.” Ranthia bluntly retorted. “Remera is reliant on the assistance of our allies, and doing the bare fucking minimum to protect them is obviously the smart thing to do! Give me eight of our best scouts; I’ll have this resolved by dawn.”

“We only have twelve scouts worth their salt in Remera thanks to that stunt the slimes pulled. That would leave us all but blind until you deigned to return them.” The base commander countered. A hint of heat seeped into his voice despite his usual self-control.

“Fine, six then. We don’t have time to play stupid games! This search should have gotten underway hours ago!” Ranthia snapped.

“I will not waste a single scout on such a frivolous matter, nor am I letting our only proven defense against the shimagu twins just walk away.” The base commander warned her.

Ranthia raised an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t answer to you. I have worked with you as a courtesy. Never forget that.” She was unable to keep the snarl out of her voice.

“Enough of this. Escort this woman back to her tent.” The base commander ordered the stationed guards, an angry scowl writ across his features.

“On my authority as Sentinel Grace, stand down!” Ranthia snapped over her shoulder at the guards.

The men looked visibly panicked. She had just rendered the lines of authority perilously muddied—there was no clear path for them to have a happy future. Not to mention that the men were hopelessly outclassed and out leveled if she resisted.

“I am the one in charge of this base, girl!” The base commander roared, his face reddened with rage.

Ranthia leaned in close.

“Before you do something incredibly stupid, stop and think for a moment about what will happen if each of us demands the guards arrest the other. Which of us has greater authority might be murky, but one of us would be far deadlier as an adversary than the other. Sir.” Ranthia hissed quietly.

She had no time to waste on an inane pissing match with an inflexible brick of a man!

Ranthia turned and marched from the tent—vaguely proud of herself for not raising either middle finger on the way out—while the base commander mostly-silently fumed. Once outside, she raced to the area where the available scouts tended to hang out in case an emergency cropped up.

There were only three scouts present.

“The base commander refused to sign off on this, but we have a missing caravan with supplies and goods that were bound for Remera. Any volunteers?” Ranthia asked.

She hated to involve others, but every experienced scout that she brought helped to mitigate the real risk that she might pass the caravan by without knowing. It wasn’t like there was a road between Coalition City and Remera; caravans and convoys moved as they saw fit across a wide area.

Two of the scouts immediately volunteered. One was the ‘monkey man’ that Ranthia had worked with many years ago, a proven veteran who had recently returned to Remera from a stint with one of the Legions. The other was a woman that Ranthia vaguely recognized, and she dashed into a nearby tent to get someone else who she thought would want to come.

The three scouts hurriedly geared up, then followed Ranthia to the front gates.

“I’m sorry, Madam Sentinel, but I was told to not open the—” A pale legion soldier waited at the gates.

“Open the damned gates or we’ll find out how long it takes me to go through them.” Ranthia bluffed angrily.

It would take her ages to carve through Skill-reinforced stone that thick, and it wasn’t like she could actually risk destroying the gates—if Remera was wide open, Avyna would be in peril.

A dwarf [Gravity] Mage laughed, then called for the others on duty to join him in opening the gates before they ended up “sliced ta bits.” Ranthia somehow doubted the dwarf honestly believed that she could slice the gates to bits, but even if he just found the power plays between humans hilarious, his words somehow pushed the gate team into acting.

The gates of Remera rose, and Ranthia with her three scouts made their way out into the night, bound for the broad ‘path’ toward Coalition City.

Ranthia and the scouts spread out as they searched. Despite autumn’s usual trends, rainfall had remained sparse, which left the terrain firm enough that even wagons and their beasts of burden weren’t guaranteed to leave a clean trail. In fact, the first worn grooves that Ranthia found were discounted by the experienced scouts; they were unanimously confident that those were old wounds left on the terrain sometime shortly after the last proper rain.

Ranthia deferred to their expertise. Their assistance was invaluable and Ranthia hoped she would somehow manage to shield them from any harm they might suffer over their ‘insubordination.’ The base commander was plainly incensed beyond the norm with her, but the entire situation was his fault. For Xaoc’s sake, had the spineless man had just done his actual fucking duty…

Ranthia exhaled and pushed her frustration aside. She was getting distracted by what the future held, but she had more important things that required her focus and utmost attention.

Dawn was painting the sky with its vivid hues when one of the scouts finally found the caravan’s tracks.

“Something forced them to turn, right here. Not just one wagon either, but the whole caravan went. Dunno what put the big gouge in the ground, but odds are they came under some sort of attack.” The female scout explained.

Ranthia nodded. That much, at least, had been plain to her as well.

“Let’s hurry and follow their tracks.” Ranthia ordered grimly.

Were they too late? Ranthia had no idea, but she silently hoped for the best. There was no use praying—the caravan had either escaped or fallen by that point. The trail that they followed had almost undoubtedly been created well before nightfall.

And if that was true, it had been more than half a day since whatever incident or attack struck the caravan.

“There!” One of the scouts called out, as he circled around a mesa.

Ranthia wasn’t close enough for [Combat Awareness] to ping, but she wasn’t stupid—they were operating under the assumption that the elves had been attacked. Which meant running up to them while shouting ‘There!’ was a bad idea. She accelerated her perception to its limits and tapped every bit of speed she could muster to close the tiny gap between herself and the lead man.

She was just in time to deflect a hastily fired arrow with one of her bracers. Had there been any true Skills behind the shot, there was no way that she could have saved him.

“Allies! We’re with Remus!” Ranthia hurriedly called out.

The wagons were completely wrecked. A handful of elves—several visibly wounded—were gathered amidst the splintered wood and tattered cloth. The one with a bow—[Laborer] tagged—eyed them warily, but he finally lowered his weapon.

Ranthia and the scouts approached, while Ranthia continued to speak to keep the elves from getting jumpy.

“Sentinel Grace. We came from Remera, looking for you. We were worried that something must have happened to your caravan when you didn’t show.” Ranthia explained.

“It was an ogre.” The elf with the bow answered with a hoarse voice.

“<Tell the human that it was a shimagu.>” A different elf suggested, in High Elvish.

“Duh. But you should have mentioned the wings.” A feminine voice added, more quietly, in Creation.

“<We do not even know if we can trust them!>” Another feminine voice whispered, so low even Ranthia barely picked it up, in High Elvish.

“<Avyna, a Silverleaf Trader [Merchant], personally requested my assistance. At her behest, I’m here to offer whatever aid that I can.>” Ranthia called out, in High Elvish. She was only a few steps away from the wreckage that the elves used for shelter, with her wary scouts trailing a dozen or so paces behind her.

“Mom did?! …Oh, it’s you.” The owner of the first feminine voice rushed into view, only to stop and scowl.

Ranthia hadn’t seen her in many years, but she recognized the young woman immediately: Caelillia, Avyna’s one and only daughter. The young (and yes, Ranthia knew Caelillia was several times her own age, but it helped her own mindset if she thought the daughter of the woman she loved to be ‘young’) elven woman had a nasty wound on her side, but she was on her feet and carried a wooden staff, ringed with metal on both ends, in her hand.

“I’m glad you’re safe.” Ranthia sighed with relief, while she examined the young woman. Okay, so safe was a bit of an overstatement—the girl was stoically running around with a wound that would incapacitate most of the greener legionaries. But she was alive, and that meant everything. Ranthia had endured a knot of fear that wound itself tighter around her heart with each moment that they followed those stale tracks. She had been terrified that she would have to tell the woman she loved—after she struck Avyna no less!—that her daughter was dead.

The urge to rush forward and embrace the near total stranger was oddly intense. She was only barely acquainted with the young elf in the most literal sense, but Avyna spoke often—with naked pride—of her daughter in the quiet downtime that they shared. A significant portion of the mail that Avyna received from other caravans and traders related to the girl—not that she ever wrote Avyna herself. It was odd to know so much about the girl, yet simultaneously Ranthia was barely known to her.

“Yeah, totally safe. Most of our cargo is pulp!” The young elf grumbled, before she moved back and lowered herself back to the ground—using her staff to support the bulk of her weight. She tried to hide it, but a slight hiss of pain slipped through her teeth until she settled herself.

“Scouts, help with the wounded. Let’s get everyone bandaged up as best we can, then figure out the best way to proceed back to Remera.” Ranthia ordered, slipping back into her Sentinel Grace ‘mask’ for a moment.

The others saluted and scattered amongst the elves. There were nine elves on their feet and another four were laid out prone. Ranthia suspected at least some of the ones laid out weren’t just unconscious, but she couldn’t get a clear enough look from where she stood for [Divine-Touched Identify] to tell which bodies were empty vessels, devoid of life.

“What happened?” Ranthia asked in general, while she tried to kneel next to Caelillia. The woman shielded her wounded side, glaring at Ranthia. Ranthia rolled her eyes and silently beckoned for the young elf to let her see the wound. In the end, Caelillia capitulated and hesitantly lifted her shirt and coat.

“A flying ogre, or at least I think it used to be an ogre, came out of the sky suddenly. Our caravan’s lead [Driver] sensed it coming, of course. She had us veer off and we avoided it. Thought it was done for a bit, but that monster followed. He came from the sky again and that time he somehow took out the lead wagon, then proceeded to smash through the rest. Subpar craftsmanship for sure—I’m going to be demanding a refund for my ownership interest in these, they held up practically to dwarven standards.

“Ah, right. Anyway, some of the younger elves got themselves killed. Those of us with the sense to get away from the wagons—even if we brought cargo with us—were left alone. That monster of an ogre just destroyed the wagons, crushed our beasts, and left. Zindis alone knows what such a beast might have been thinking.” The elven [Laborer]-turned-archer shuddered.

“This is a bad wound… I take it no [Healers] were in your convoy?” Ranthia frowned as she studied her not-quite-kin’s injury. Whatever hit her had punctured deep, been removed (which was seldom advisable), and there was wooden shrapnel all over inside of the bloodied tissue.

Caeli was even more impressive than Ranthia had known—it was the kind of wound that could bring a hardened veteran down, yet the young elf had been prepared to fight while bearing it. Ranthia couldn’t help but smile over a surge of (borderline nonsensical) pride for her beloved’s daughter.

“She snuck out and tried to heal the parasite out of the shimagu. He resisted it, as best we can tell, and… yeah, she’s in pieces. If you want to look, I bet you can find chunks of her pretty much everywhere.” Caelillia snarled ill-temperedly.

None of the elves were past their level 768 cycling class up and quite a few in the caravan hadn’t even completed their first cycle. As absurd as it was to think that a single twin—one that Ranthia could equal, at that—managing to take on an entire elven caravan, it wasn’t as impressive as she would have expected. Then again, the elves had always relied on the threat of retribution to keep the shimagu cowed; which raised significant questions about what the winged ogre was truly hoping to accomplish.

“Okay, Caeli, listen to me. I’m going to trust you to be honest when we start moving. If you think you can walk, that’s fine. But if you’re not sure if you can manage or if the wound gets worse, please for the love of the gods, let us know. We’ll find a way to carry you or maybe we’ll make something to carry those that—” Ranthia was interrupted when one of the scouts cried out for her attention.

The elves were already reacting, but the monkey-esque scout had lucked into being the first to notice the trouble on the horizon. Unfortunately, Ranthia was readily able to see the problem.

It was an all too familiar sight, one that plagued Remus since time immemorial and struck fear in the hearts of farmers and veteran Adventurers alike. Sentinel Aurora had mentioned the tactic once, but Ranthia had largely ignored it—she had never seen them venture beyond the Dead Zone and into the wastes.

Yet it was undeniably a flock of ornithocheirus, flying straight toward their position.

Ranthia was an experienced woman and was (presumably) one of the highest leveled Sentinels Remus possessed, yet the sight of the dread that haunted her entire mortal existence still caused her to freeze up for a precious moment. The memory of the murderbeasts reducing her long-lost body to bloodied, ruined meat often haunted her dreams.

A piece of her was reduced to the helpless young woman she once was. There was just something materially different about facing that particular horror from her past anew.

Ranthia shook her head to clear it and tried to force herself to think, only to realize that there was something else—the winged ogre, her familiar foe, was flying ahead of the ornithocheirus. The flock seemed to be chasing him.

Which was odd, Ranthia was certain that he could fly fast enough to escape them. Yet the savage smile on his face twisted into something particularly nasty when he locked eyes with her.

Oh.

A certain detached aspect of her mind felt ridiculous for not immediately grasping the situation; his plot was obvious enough. He dared to attack an elven convoy—and risked leaving survivors—because he fully intended to erase all evidence of his involvement. The ornithocheirus would see the survivors dead and tear apart everything else, searching for the scraps of meat he had left scattered throughout the wreckage. The plan straddled idiocy and brilliance. There were so many ways in which it could have gone awry, yet there was a savage cunning behind it.

Said detached aspect of Ranthia mulled over the merits of the strategy, while the rest of her was immersed in a dark blend of outrage and fury.

“Scouts, get everyone out of sight! Camouflage and hide all presence of life! And do something about the smell of blood and meat! I’ll… I’ll hold them off!” Ranthia ordered, her nerves narrowly buoyed by her emotions.

There was no mesa between the flock and the camp, but there was a large enough lumpy rock formation that offered at least some height. Ranthia threw an image onto it and shifted, before she dismissed her image from the wreckage. There was no time to do anything but hope the scouts and upright elves could (and, in the latter case, would) follow her orders.

Ranthia pushed the fears from her mind and began to dance, joined by one image after another. An impossible to miss sign of life that the stupid flying scourge—and the mindless beasts that followed him—could never hope to ignore.

The winged ogre entered a dive. The flock followed, of course.

Ranthia wished that she could be surprised when the ogre aborted his dive shortly before he got close enough for her to throw a knife or three. It was a feat borne of both Skills and raw stats, but the winged ogre halted his dive and shot upward again. It wasn’t a maneuver that the ornithocheirus could match—few even made a clumsy attempt—and they locked onto a new target. The nice, temptingly wiggly ones on the ground.

“Your death will be slow and agonizing, you piece of shit!” Ranthia yelled after him.

The winged ogre had changed since she last saw him. The twin looked more like a dinosaur than an ogre, with a darker and more rugged hide, but she had no doubt that it was the same man. The ogre barked a keening laugh as he made his escape—though he no doubt waited somewhere overhead to watch the show.

Not that Ranthia had time to worry too much about him—the swarming flock was upon her.

The beasts likely originated from Remus. The bulk of them had levels just shy of two hundred—somewhat high by Reman standards, but low enough that they had little hope of surviving the wasteland beyond the Dead Zone.

The last time Ranthia had pitted knives against the ornithocheirus, she had been a Ranger—the survivor of one round gone wrong, made bold and reckless. She couldn’t trust her memories of the size of the flock that she had pitted herself against that day. In the depths of those fear-laden memories, her nightmares had multiplied the swarm into something absurd and improbable. She had ‘succeeded,’ but she ended up trapped in a dying body—back when she was deluded enough to think that single image had been something precious.

Back then, her dance had been insufficient to keep her safe. But she wasn’t an Adventurer that fled from the scourge of the skies any longer, nor was she a Ranger that barely stood out amongst her peers. No matter what her fears whispered—she was no longer someone that anything that originated in the Dead Zone could hope to prey upon. She had fought and destroyed far worse than the approaching beasts. She was a Sentinel, one that wielded adamantium and thirty-two years of combat experience—including expertise against vast forces of hostiles.

And that meant something. She screamed those words—internally—at her primal terror.

[Name: Ranthia]

[Species: Human]

[Age: 40]

[Mana: 553160/560830]

[Mana Regen Rate: 353821]

[Stats:]

[Free Stats: 0]

[Strength: 35248]

[Dexterity: 74966]

[Vitality: 75384]

[Speed: 73347]

[Mana: 56083]

[Mana Regeneration: 68767]

[Magic Power: 57811]

[Magic Control: 46289]

[Class 1: [Diffuse Reflectance – Mirror (641)]]

[Mirror Spirit: 641]

[Scattered Reflections: 641]

[Echoes Reflected: 323]

[Pure Reflections: 641]

[Persistent Imagery: 641]

[Ideal Reflectance: 641]

[Distorted Likeness: 209]

[Reflections of Reality: 422]

[Class 2: [She who Dances with Chaos – Void (649)]]

[Void Affinity: 649]

[Rhythmic Grace: 649]

[Void Edge: 649]

[Flowing Momentum: 649]

[Vision of the Void: 649]

[Sustained Chaos: 610]

[Echoes of Devastation: 649]

[True Grace: 435]

[Class 3: [Harbinger – Adamantium (201)]]

[Adamantium Authority: 201]

[Adamant Commander: 201]

[Unbreakable: 201]

[Mine!: 107]

[Adamantium Symbiosis: 201]

[One With Chaos: 163]

[Higher Power: 138]

[General Skills:]

[Divine-Touched Identify: 649]

[Ranthia’s Covenant with Xaoc: 185]

[Sentinel’s War Supremacy: 649]

[Submind: 649]

[Combat Awareness: 649]

[Fast Learner: 520]

[Image Recall: 301]

[Sexy: 310]

Ranthia had often lamented that her dance had been reduced to little more than the art of butchery, but it was seldom so evident. Her images broke as they danced around her, and she only bothered to bring herself back to ten images when three (or fewer) remained. By and large, they had served their purpose in drawing the attention of the ornithocheirus, though they inflicted just enough harm to the beasts that Ranthia kept them around.

Besides, it was kind of nice to have the option to shift to a new image when [Combat Awareness] warned her of an attack that would be difficult to dodge. The creatures still had a penchant for suicidal divebombs and a wingspan that covered a significant span of the formation that she danced upon.

[Void Edge] had no place in the culling of enemies so weak, so she used it sparingly. [Echoes of Devastation] ensured each blow slew or, at the very least, crippled every target she struck. And a crippled ornithocheirus was no threat—even assuming one wasn’t promptly torn apart by its own kind. The density of hostile claws, teeth, and divebombing flesh made total avoidance impossible. But her vitality and reflexes were enough to keep her relatively undamaged, at least with the guidance of [Rhythmic Grace] and [Combat Awareness]. Her images helped to clear the broken bodies of winged beasts from the formation while she danced and meted out an overabundance of death.

And through the carnage, Ranthia’s terror receded. Much like the war goblins, she faced a scene straight from her nightmares and she didn’t just overcome it—she dominated the so-called threat.

The ornithocheirus had no chance of survival beyond Remus’ soft, lush lands. Whereas she no longer had any place amongst the delicate existence that hid within the Dead Zone. The conclusion was an inevitability.

Then an arrow tore through her awareness. None of her Skills warned her of its arrival, but it was hard to miss the wooden shaft when it flew less than a hand’s width from her head. Inexplicably, the arrow somehow missed her, her images, and every last swarming beast in the—

The arrow exploded. In lieu of an arrow, the air filled with tiny barbs of high-velocity wood that tore through the vicinity with reckless fury. Ranthia had to shield her face and endure the shards of wood that peppered her armor and her flesh. Her images shattered. And every single ornithocheirus in the area was shredded—somehow struck with far greater force by the splinters than she was.

Ranthia slowed her dance—she didn’t dare to stop with an unknown threat in the area—and pivoted to face the direction the arrow had come from. Just in time for a flash of white light to appear in front of her—faster than she could react—which was seamlessly replaced by an elf.

“<You were right! There is someone here! Hello, you seem to have some wood sticking out of your… well, everything!>” He called out exuberantly in High Elvish.

[Mage – Brilliance] level 1024, [Mage – Arcanite] level 1024, [Mage – Lightning] level 1001.

Ranthia barely had time to parse her immediate concerns about how absurdly dangerous the man was before an elven woman arrived. Her movements spoke of a casual jog, yet she practically blurred into existence next to the first elf.

[Ranger – Gale] level 1873, [Mage – Wood] level 1902, [Ranger – Forest] level 1812.

“Apologies, I had assumed you were a higher level.” The woman stated. She made a casual, waving gesture with her hand and every last splinter that was sticking out of Ranthia’s skin and armor pulled itself free, before they dropped harmlessly to the ground.

The man was dressed lightly in a set of mistweave worn over some sort of light, blue armor that Ranthia couldn’t even discern what it was made from. His hair was short, spiky, and white, with a pair of short, pointy horns half-hidden within it. The woman was clad in leather, and, more interestingly, had a mistweave blindfold wrapped around her eyes, not unlike Ranthia’s. Her curling horns resembled those Ranthia had seen on some cattle.

“I’m fine, I appreciate the assist. I’m Sentinel Grace.” Ranthia saluted, Remus style.

She was still reeling, but she could do that much.

“Mm, yes. Explain the situation.” The woman clearly didn’t care about pleasantries.

She could have at least offered her name!

“The elven caravan was attacked by the shimagu—they’re over here. It was one of their twins, then he tried to lead that flock of ornithocheirus to let the dinosaurs finish them off. I and a few other scouts from Remera came looking for them and intercepted that ploy.” Ranthia explained, turning as she prepared to sprint back to the caravan.

But neither of the elves budged.

“Those things aren’t dinosaurs. Did you kill the twin?” The male asked in Creation, his tone plainly disinterested.

“No, he didn’t engage me. The coward flew away.” Ranthia answered as she tried to beckon toward the elven survivors.

Wasn’t that why the powerful duo had come? Surely they were there to save their people and mete out revenge upon the shimagu for daring to attack an elven caravan.

“<Yeah, not sure why I expected you to have done better.>” He muttered in High Elvish.

Ranthia just bit her tongue and fought down the childish urge to start an argument with two obscenely high leveled elves. Instead, she sprinted toward the caravan.

Caelillia had made her wound worse. The brave, reckless young woman had insisted on crouching, ready to spring into action—with a stick, no less—had the ornithocheirus reached them. The elven duo had followed Ranthia in and the blind(?) woman had wordlessly removed the wooden debris from the wound, which left it bleeding profusely.

Gods and goddesses, she already looks pale. Ranthia fretted. One of her scouts had minor healing in his third class, but he couldn’t do anything for a wound that severe. And no one else was volunteering assistance.

“Does anyone have any healing abilities or potions that might help Caeli?!” Ranthia called out, desperate.

Remera was hours away. Even if Ranthia carried the girl herself, she wasn’t completely confident that her lover’s daughter would be okay.

“There’s potions in that crate she’s guarding.” One of the hale elves from the caravan called out.

Caelillia glared at him, but Ranthia glared at her just the same. She hadn’t even noticed that the severely wounded young elf had dragged the crate that she had been using earlier over to her new location.

“Let me see those.” Ranthia ordered.

“No way, they’re for my mom. You don’t understand how valuable these are!” The young elf refused.

“Then I’ll apologize to her and pay her back, if she’ll even let me. Do you seriously think she’d want to risk losing you, just to save some merchandise?” Ranthia retorted.

The young elf couldn’t quite meet her mistweave-covered eyes, so Ranthia took the petulant expression as agreement. With deft fingers, she pried the crate open and leaned over to look through it properly. The bottles were made from some sort of perfectly clear crystal and were labeled with engraved script in High Elvish—which meant that Ranthia could (more-or-less) readily read them. The “Flesh Restoration Potion” sounded promising. Ranthia snatched it up and, against her expectations, found instructions engraved on the back of the bottle. It recommended drinking half of the potion, then slowly pouring the rest on the wound directly for optimal results.

While the others got what was left of the convoy ready to move, Ranthia coerced a stubborn young elf into finally drinking half of the potion, then poured the rest into the wound. Once Caelillia was treated, Ranthia instructed the girl to lay down for the moment while she sought to find a way to comfortably—and safely—transport the elf alongside the other wounded.

When she returned, the wound seemed to be gone—it was like a [Healer] had gotten their hands on the girl.

“…Okay, yeah, that’s impressive.” Ranthia whispered to herself.

A short time later, beneath the late morning sun, the group got underway. It had taken more than a little needling and negotiation, but everyone that was both intact enough and strong enough was dragging a make-shift travois with bits of salvaged cargo and/or at least one injured elf. Two of Ranthia’s scouts struggled to work together to pull one of the lighter ones and the monkey man had his own. Ranthia pulled one of the larger ones, and they finally had enough volunteers amongst the elves to haul the rest.

Caelillia, for her part, was stubbornly carrying the heavy crate, paranoid that the scraping wood would vibrate and jostle the potions and might break one. Ranthia supposed she understood the sentiment—the crystal bottles at least looked fragile, though it hadn’t felt particularly flimsy in her grasp. Still, it wasn’t like she had tested the emptied bottle, and she was willing to trust that the girl knew what she was doing. Especially since her wound had been entirely restored.

If Caelillia wasn’t hurting herself, she was welcome to do whatever she thought was best.

It was after lunch time—which created more than a few complaints—by the time the group arrived at Remera. The gates were noticeably slow to open, but they finally did just before Ranthia was close enough to physically reach out and touch the gate. Past the levitated stones, guards stood ready with spears—though many of them lowered them when they saw her.

Ranthia strode in first—for once not shifting past the gate, people were already tense enough—and let a [Healer] poke her. After she was cleared, tensions relaxed a bit more and the others were hurriedly brought in. Once Caelillia was healed—which allegedly required only a few points of mana—Ranthia eagerly led the young elf home.

Honestly, she wished Caelillia would have let her carry the crate, but the young elf was stubborn. Ultimately, it was too minor a matter to be worth arguing about.

“<Mom!>” Caelillia called out, as soon as they entered the tent, her eyes already locked on Avyna.

“<My sweet Caeli!>” Avyna cried out. She rushed to her feet and ran over.

“<We just got held up; everything was fine.>” The young elf boldly lied to her mother.

Avyna took the crate from her daughter and roughly set it aside, before her eyes started to water. She seized the girl and pulled her daughter into her arms, then grabbed Ranthia’s wrist and pulled her into the hug too. Caelillia stiffened more than a little at being in a group hug with Ranthia involved, but Avyna desperately clung to both of them while she shook with emotion.

“<You both came back to me. Thank you. Thank you both.>” Avyna whispered fiercely.

A heartbeat later, Caelillia narrowed her eyes. Clearly, she was making assumptions about how Avyna saw through her flagrant lie.

“<Moooom! You told me you got rid of that Skill!>” The young elf screeched in melodramatic outrage.