My assumption that the so-called “elves” had come to our rescue had been, well, premature. The respite given to us was brief, and no sooner had the heat of our encounter with the aberration subsided than we were given the treatment befitting our true condition — prisoners. Our captors did not tie our hands, but placed bags over our heads, so we couldn’t tell which way we were being made to march. Not that it mattered; we wouldn’t have been any the wiser without the covers. I complied quietly, weighed down by the misery of recent events, but the same could not be said of Boga, or even Leslie. I could hear the former grumbling more or less incessantly — it was clear that he blamed me for the loss of Lelya and Edogai, and I couldn’t argue with that. At least he was doing me the courtesy of not saying it outright. Leslie, on the other hand, was attempting to communicate with the elves, but the most she got out of them was a disgruntled “This is no time for questions.”
Thankfully, the trail was mostly covered in grass or mud; moving blindly over any other kind of terrain would’ve been grueling. We marched for what felt like an hour, before a distant whistle cut through the silence. A rough shove sent me sprawling to the ground, and the grunts from my companions suggested the same had happened to them.
Then, an eerie voice echoed through the forest, incomprehensible except for its tone — drenched in hatred and disdain. After the voice, the stench of sulfur and rotting blood seeped through the fabric of my shroud. The elves began to shout, and the whistling of arrows filled the air.
I scrambled to my feet and ripped the bag off my head. There was no time to play the obedient prisoner, not while a skirmish raged around us. For my effort, I was rewarded with a blunt strike to the spine, sending me tumbling back to the ground, in agony. Through the haze of pain, I heard Boga’s voice, “I can help! Let me help!” but his plea was cut off by the same treatment I had just received.
When I regained my senses, I saw that one of the elves was strangling Leslie with the very shroud they had placed on her. I moved to help, but the turmoil developing around us gave me pause: Aside from those focused on restraining us, the entire elven company was locked in battle with creatures like the aberration that had killed Lelya and Edogai.
The creatures, formless things made of a tar-like substance, seemed to grow from puddles of fetid oil seeping from the soil itself. The pools crept around trees, sapping the life from everything they touched, then gathered the resulting husks into bizarre humanoid constructs. Even the elves' flaming arrows did little to contain them. Within minutes, chaos had set in completely.
The assault did not come from one single direction, but from beneath and all around us, as though we’d stepped on a giant anthill and the enraged soldiers came swarming out. But even amidst the madness, one construct stood out — five meters tall, swinging a tar-coated tree trunk entangled with elven corpses, which had somehow become grotesquely fused to the weapon. Many of the elves froze, staring in horror at this new abomination.
I should have been petrified too, but instead, found myself watching the elves: taller than most humans, clad in green-dyed leather of varying designs and shades, their braided hair revealing pointed ears tattooed with arcane patterns. In that terrible moment, their unusually proportioned bodies stood still, transfixed by the sight of the towering aberration, as it tore through their ranks with ease.
It was then that I locked eyes with the female elf who had been in charge of us: Her pale-gray skin and white braids were striking. When our eyes met, I saw urgency and fear in hers. “I want to help, just tell me how!” — I offered before I could think.
She frowned, but answered flatly, “Kill, and do not be killed.” Her eyes lingered on me for a heartbeat longer before she leaped into the fray.
The battle, however, was hopeless. The elven leaders had fallen. I caught sight of one, half-embedded in the corrupted titan’s torso — kept alive, suffering, if only to torment us with the sight. Overwhelmed and out of options, I blasted the abomination with a Brimstone Cascade… but something went wrong. As I did so, the glare of day dimmed into blackness, and an insidious presence emerged from the far corners of my thoughts, addressing me with chilling clarity:
“Lo, the flames once more… Ever the flames. Thou dost wield them so readily, dost thou not? As though ruin be all thou knowest, all thou hast ever been fit for. Thou wouldst think thyself a champion, a saviour — yet behold what thou hast wrought: Edogai and Lelya… Dost thou even recall their visages? How their eyes did beseech thee, e'en as their flesh did wither 'neath the blight? Thou wert meant to save them, yet thou didst but scourge them unto ashes. Such was thy remedy. Flame. Destruction. An ending.”
I froze as the words burrowed into my thoughts. This wasn’t real, I told myself — it couldn’t be. But the voice persisted, cold, vicious.
“And now, behold thee once more. Calling forth thy beautiful... flames. Such fervor. Yet, what hast thou truly mended, o bringer of ruin? How many souls hast thou kept from doom? Thou dost masquerade as a hero, though truly thou art a herald of desolation. Eager to guard, to spare, yet bound to annihilation. Thou art accursed, and all life shall wither under thy hand. This is thy purpose.”
The voice wound itself around every doubt, every mistake I'd made.
“They were already lost,” I muttered, trying to push back. “They were lost.”
“Were they?”
My body tensed as though it were no longer mine, as though it wanted to move without me. My hands twitched, fire curling at my fingertips before I even thought to summon it.
That was it — the damned spell, Brimstone Cascade! I had been careless and somehow fumbled it, and now the corruption was upon me, in me, twisting itself into those accusing voices.
With a surge of will, I forced my hands to still, forced the flames to die before they could ignite. The whispers did not stop, but they faded — echoes in the wind. I breathed hard, trembling, relieved that I was still me, though the corruption wasn't gone — I could still feel it there, lurking, waiting for me to slip again. “I’m fine,” I whispered, though my body screamed otherwise. “I’m going to be fine.”
As my focus shifted from my own trembling hands to the chaos of the battlefield, I began to grasp the full extent of the slaughter around me. The elven company, once a disciplined and graceful force, had devolved into scattered, panicked survivors. The constructs were everywhere; each elf who fell was swallowed by the black tar and added to their number.
Boga’s voice snapped me out of my trance. “Move, damn it! Get out of the way!” — I turned just in time to see a massive appendage, slick with oil and writhing like a serpent, crash down beside me. The earth shook, and my legs buckled beneath me.
My mind raced. I had to do something, but I could still feel the corruption lurking at the edge of my thoughts. I wouldn’t… couldn’t risk another Brimstone Cascade — not yet.
“We’re going to die here,” Boga muttered under his breath, his voice raw with desperation. I scanned our surroundings and saw Leslie gripping an egg with three fingers and aiming it at a cluster of lesser abominations, while brandishing a ritual rattle with her other hand and chanting — presumably to ward off the attackers. Whatever this all meant, it seemed to be working; the creatures were frozen in place, eyeing Leslie with a mix of curiosity and fear.
“Run! We need to run!” Boga yelled. The situation had deteriorated greatly: Flames now raged through the forest, consuming both the corruption and our captors. The chaos had escalated beyond what anyone could manage. With no captains left to lead them, the elves were in full retreat. Some, overcome with despair, chose to throw themselves into the fire rather than being seized by the oozing creatures.
The greater abomination, however, was unrelenting. Neither fire nor weapons did much to slow it down. If anything, it had absorbed even more elven bodies into its cursed form; the victims jutted from its tar-covered surface, writhing in agony as the flames climbed and licked at them. It was as if the creature was fueled by their torture, thrived on their suffering — but the flaming tar boiled, and poured in streams from the monstrous entity.
Lysindra grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the battle, her strength surprising. She was urging us to flee, but I hesitated, watching the abomination stagger for a moment, as if struggling under its own weight. A twisted hope flickered in my chest. I needed to see it fall. I needed that one victory, to make this chaos, this nightmare, worth something.
This one win. Please.
The abomination paused, as if taking a deep, shuddering breath, readying itself for something greater.
“Get down!” Lysindra’s voice cut through the din, and she shoved me into the foliage just as a deafening boom erupted from the monstrosity. A shockwave tore through the forest, the heat searing my skin even as I lay half-buried in dirt and leaves. The blast knocked the wind out of me, leaving only a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
When I finally managed to sit up, glowing ash drifted through the air like snow, settling over the smoldering remains of the battlefield. Where there had once been a dense forest, there were now only scorched trees and bodies — or what was left of them.
I blinked, trying to clear the dust from my eyes. Then I saw Lysindra. She was not far; her body, twisted among debris and ash. I noticed she wasn’t moving, and my heart seized. Scrambling to my feet, I stumbled over to her, my limbs aching from the blast. She was breathing, but barely. Her body was battered, burns covering her arms and legs, blood seeping from an ugly wound.
Boga and Leslie were already fleeing, but something inside me rebelled at the thought of leaving her there, broken and alone. The corruption stirred in the back of my mind, whispering, “Let her depart, as the others before. She is already forlorn.”
The corruption wanted me to leave her behind, to turn away and save myself, but I wouldn’t. Not after what she’d done. I wasn’t keen on trading another’s life for mine, again.
With a surge of effort, I lifted Lysindra into my arms. Either she was light, or I was numb — all I knew was I’d carry her across the forest, if need be; and the irony was not lost on me — that a mere two days ago, if I had to pick one member of our company to abandon, it would have been her.
In hindsight, this brief brush with corruption taught me much about its true nature — it could perhaps be described as some form of pure, aimless hatred. When corruption gripped me, I was filled with nothing but overwhelming hate, and the deepest loathing I felt was for myself. But I hated the corruption itself too, so I leaned on that hatred to defy it.
I stumbled after Boga and Leslie, carrying Lysindra as we put as much distance between ourselves and the fire as we could.
When we finally stopped, my legs gave way as I lowered Lysindra onto the ground. I fumbled through my pouch for curative herbs, hands shaking as I worked to treat her wounds. It was too dark to see properly, and I had little left in the way of supplies, but I managed to stabilize her. The burns were bad, the wound was worse, but she was still breathing. She was going to make it.
It turned out the female elf from earlier had fled the fire alongside us. I overheard her talking with Leslie, and the two seemed to have struck up something resembling rapport — a significant improvement in diplomatic relations, given the tense nature of our earlier encounters. As I approached, I noticed Leslie clutching her stomach, pain written across her face.
“Let me have a look,” I said, motioning for her to reveal the wound. It was deep and ugly, the sort that called for needle and thread.
“You’ll want to bite down on something,” I warned her, and then used the last of my medical supplies to disinfect the wound and stop the bleeding. Her blood... under the pale moonlight, it looked far too dark, and it gave off the smell of decay — as though she'd been dead for a week. Had it become corrupted? We exchanged a glance. Her hand gripped my arm.
“I trust you to do what needs to be done”, she rasped, wincing as she handed me her dagger. “If it comes to that.” Without saying a word, I nodded, slipping the dagger into my belt.
The elf introduced herself as Anya-Rey. She was almost friendly with Leslie — perhaps elves and barbarians shared some long-lost kinship? — but remained wary of me. I couldn't blame her; I'd be wary too if our positions were reversed. Still, I couldn't help but admire how effortlessly she moved through the dark, and there was no doubt in my mind that she'd slit my throat if given a reason.
Boga announced he was going to scout for tracks. An hour later, he returned, holding tattered rags that looked like they had once been part of some expensive clothing. As he traced the patterns with a finger, he mused, “These could have belonged to a theurg of Prios.” I did not know what to make of this news. Despite my reservations concerning religious types, there could be a critical advantage in having a theurg on our side.
Boga also reported two sets of tracks: one led uphill, the other downhill. Anya pointed out that moving downhill would lead us to water — a necessity, given the wounded among us. I chimed in, agreeing that it would be crucial for treating injuries. Anya scoffed at my comment, then took Leslie by the arm and began leading her downhill. Boga gave me a shrug and followed them. Neither he nor Anya so much as glanced at Lysindra, who remained unconscious. “I’ve got you,” I muttered, lifting her into my arms again before trailing after the others down the path.
As we descended, an ancient fortress emerged from the cliffs ahead. Despite my exhaustion, I couldn't help but wonder about its function — and wish we weren't in such dire need of rest and supplies. A once-grand entrance, now partially obscured by thick vines and creeping moss, beckoned from the fortress's base.
Upon closer examination, I noticed faded carvings along the outer walls and pictograms and writings in old Symbarian covering the remains of a heavy copper gate. Beyond it, however, the ground was stained with old, congealed blood. I exchanged uneasy glances with Boga, Anya, and Leslie. I felt compelled to explore its halls, but to do so now would be... foolish. Worse than foolish. I looked at Lysindra and immediately knew the answer. So, I proposed that we leave immediately, and my plea was met with little resistance.
Further down the trail, we heard the distant rush of a river. With Lysindra still in my arms, I followed the sound. We finally came down to a river of roaring waters, and I could hardly believe my eyes when I spotted signs of a settlement — smoking chimneys! Torches mounted on poles alongside the margin, leading to... people! We saw villagers carrying on with their chores by the riverbanks, and cabins not far ahead which looked newly built — truly, a sight that felt like salvation after everything we had endured. Dogs barked as we approached, their voices heralding our arrival to the small community. From between the wooden homes, the settlement's patriarch emerged, followed by a small group of men and women, their faces wary but not hostile.
I barely had the strength to stand by the time we crossed the threshold. I stumbled toward him, my breath ragged, my body trembling with exhaustion. “Please!” I gasped, nearly collapsing at his feet. “She needs help. Water. Clean bandages.”
The man, tall and weathered, looked down at me with a mixture of surprise and concern. He quickly motioned to two women behind him, and they rushed forward to take Lysindra from my arms. I tried to follow, my instinct driving me to stay with her, but my legs refused to cooperate. The ground rushed up to meet me, and everything tilted sideways for a few moments.
“You must rest,” the man said gently, placing a firm hand on my shoulder to steady me. “We will help your friend. My daughter, Silfara, is skilled in healing. She will personally see to her recovery.”
I nodded weakly, grateful. There was no fighting it; I had reached my limit. The man introduced himself as Taraban; he helped me to my feet and led me to a cabin nearby, offering us lodgings for as long as we needed. I found myself bathed and dressed in fresh clothing before I even realized what was happening — and soon after, we were invited to dine at his house.
At dinner, Taraban told us how the settlers had crossed the Titans. Fourteen families had begun the journey; only six survived to establish this village on the banks of the Malgomor. Boga, meanwhile, pelted Taraban with questions about the river and nearby settlements, eagerly sketching a map as he answered. I paid little attention, as my thoughts remained with my companions.
Silfara’s assurance had brought some comfort, but I couldn’t shake the unease that lingered — I worried for Lysindra, and for Leslie as well. Once resupplied, I'd put my medical skills to use again. For the time being, I just felt so very tired, and... what was this heaviness pressing against my chest?
Taraban poured me another drink, the faint smell of herbs lacing the liquid. I lifted the cup, but something strange began to gnaw at the edges of my awareness. Where was Anya? Had she left the table? My hands felt numb, my limbs heavier than before. The fire's crackle seemed increasingly distant. The faces around me blurred. Had the room always been this warm? I tried to rise, but the darkness came before I could.