Jarvyk Entry 43
The casting of spells never ceases to amaze me. Intricate gestures and riddled incantations mask rites of sacrifice and deals with unworldly powers. I think most who engage in such activities know, and care, little of those sources. These thoughts and more swirl around in my head as the training of so many days narrates their movement. “Slice down to get the hand and then back across under the elbow. Chop from above to distract and then buffet with the shield. Stab for effect but lunge in to kill.” Oh, it would have surprised old Bransen, distressed even, to hear any thought like that. It’s in there though, dancin’ around between the bear riding lessons and the hand to Clanggedin. My focus is the destruction of evil magic and that cannot be separated from the existence of other magics; good or benign.
I honestly had remorse for what my mind had done, but it soon passes. I remember how many times I’ve pulled these guys out of the fire, and how many returns on that we’ve all enjoyed. Now here we were, Bransen casting magic into the sky and Ashton but a thought in the anti-magic memory. The mission was clear and we all knew the danger but still, Ashton? I’d say it wasn’t fair if the old tart hadn’t deserved it so much. Hell, we all deserve our share of death. Poor Ashton’s was all self inflicted. What happened to his father wasn’t much his fault, ‘cept maybe for parts I don’t know about, but the reactin’ done thereafter was all his. Ashton coulda’ made the whole incident a footnote in his memoires but that just wasn’t his way. The blood of his blood done wrong by him, by his woman, and with what energy he had in him it was going to be made right. That sorta thing puts a man at odds with fate. Play those cards at the table and all betters start gunnin’ specifically for your coin. So, believe me when I say that Ashton is my dearest friend and imploding into a disgusting pile of good couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man.
Hell of a boost in combat too, let me tell you. Nobody wants to see a man go down in battle when he has some interest in the fella. That part ain’t hard to figure. But when the luckiest bloke you’ve ever heard of says don’t worry much about death I can fix that, and then goes on about it for a week, well you sorta have free right ta’ let emotion take over from more reasonable pursuits and just give it all you got. I felt that way when Ashton fell. A sense of vengeance, justice, and anger firmed up inside me and when that fear of death could not be found that newly crafted ball of torment came barreling out at full force.
The energy began as we rested in splendor of Bransen’s imagination, a mansion brought into being from nothing. Our needs were met and out bodies cared for. Nothing was wanted for, save Ashton and he soon came around. We gave the poor buggar time to regroup then filled him in on his confirmed mortality. His response was heady and technical, but I think he got the idea; don’t get hurt, you’re squishy. I’m told that the spell what killed him didn’t have anything to do with being squishy but it killed him and not me AND I was targeted with the thing, so I can pretty much assume that squishy has SOMETHING to do with it.
Satisfied that my point had gotten across in some measure it was naught but rabblerousing and a bit o’ slumber for the rest of the night. Morning came late and the stubborn snake pit beckoned the moment we stepped foot back on soil. I’d be glad to have the whole compound behind us.
We didn’t take long finding trouble this trip. First it was a giant construct thing, apple of Ashton’s eye it was. I figured for sure that thing would attack. It was big and lumbering and I just knew it was going to dent Ambrodius, the fantastic new blade I’d just picked up. Thing hadn’t been with me long and there were still so many good deeds that could be done with it. The last thing I needed was that baby out of commission.
Fortunately, the thing didn’t budge an bleedin’ inch. Soon as we were sure, and Ashton’s curiosity about related things satisfied, we made our way down to a little hallway Deg had scouted. It was the egg room from one of Deg’s previous scouting missions. We’d been lookin’ for that place and the fight that was sure to follow. In true Phoenix fashion, we flubbed the approach. Deg was as quiet as anybody I’ve never heard and by the time the rest of us were ready to engage there wasn’t much left but the crying.
A quick battle took place between us, a few enemies, and a couple of cowardly dogs what vanished up in thin air. I’m assured they went to Carceri, as though that’s supposed to make it all better. Invade a room full of evil leaders and powerful minions, kill half of them, and that’s a GOOD day? I don’t think so. Those runnin’ tarts need to be tracked down and dealt with. I intend to do so at the earliest possible convenience, mine or otherwise. We’ve got this cagewright menace on the run, now it’s time to dive down their throat and cut our way out of their disgustipated belly.
