She awoke, senses dull. All the effort she could manage went into raising her head, though it was almost by instinct. Her mind was foggy, as if between sleeping and waking.
Her ears rang, muffled shouts and thumps breaking through the high-pitched whine. Her vision was blurry, only faint shapes appearing through the ocular fog. It was the smells that hit her first.
Fire. Dirt. Death.
She inhaled sharply, sitting upright as the world came into focus. A fire burned around her, her cart reduced to cinders and still-burning planks. Blood sprayed from her hair as she whipped her head around, but she did not notice.
Where is my baby?!
With a shake, she realized he was still there, cradled in her arms. She must have covered him with her body when the cart was destroyed. She said a quick prayer, grateful for her instincts. Poking him gently in the cheek, she was relieved to see his little face scrunch.
She said another quick prayer of gratitude for her child’s safety before trying to stand, and failing. She fell back on her backside, cradling her child in the crook of her right arm while catching herself with her left. Only now did she lift her head, inspecting her surroundings rather than what was directly before her.
The fungal wetlands roared with powerful magic and clashing steel. A myriad creatures with mushrooms bursting from their bodies assaulted the caravan guards, while other fighters that were not part of the caravan at all attacked both the fungus people and the caravan. It was a chaotic melee, a free-for-all.
Suddenly, she was yanked to her feet by her left arm, yelping in pain. Her husband dragged her through the ankle-deep water, looking to and fro anxiously, likely hoping to avoid notice.
“We have to get clear of the fighting,” he whispered, a finger to his lips, still dragging her behind him.
Her legs began to work as her mind finally caught up with the situation. She ran behind him on her toes, doing her best to reduce the splashing she made.
“Gah!” her husband gasped, followed by a rush of air.
“Melvin!” she screamed, staring in shock at the shaft of an arrow buried in her husband’s back.
He turned toward her, his mouth opening and closing as if to speak, but he had no air to form words. He pointed toward the mycelium forest, his eyes urging her on, pleading with her to leave him behind.
Yet before she could even comprehend the message, his head slid from his shoulders. A great beast of a man shoved his headless body aside, and she only had time to open her mouth and emit a silent scream before a meaty fist darkened her world.
A woman crouched in the tall grass, her hands on the ground, palms flat. Her white braid swayed slightly, nearly brushing the ground between her two hands. Her eyes snapped open, glowing a blue colder than the northern peaks. She stood, grimacing, staring ahead at the blue glow on the horizon.
It was past midnight; the sky should not be blue.
She trudged forward, the grass plumes brushing her shoulders. She gripped a warhammer in her left hand, a bec de corbin, with a sharp spike jutting from the top to complement the flat head and wicked spike at the back, like a dragon’s claw. This weapon was peculiar, as unlike a bec de corbin, it had a blade at the end of the haft. Such a weapon must trade leverage for versatility.
Perhaps its bearer needed no additional leverage.
Cresting a hill, her eyes glowed fiercely, a tower of blue flames reflected in them. The fire burned dozens of feet into the air, strangely emitting no smoke. The mana currents suggested it burned even further underground, extending all the way into the plains. This conflagration marked the transition point, where the target of the pyre’s fury existed both below and above ground.
The woman exhaled, her sigh resigned, and slowly turned around, as if facing the inevitable. Before her stood a ‘man’ in black plate armor, intricate, ghastly blue lines etched into it, glowing. Leathery wings lay against its back, and slitted blue eyes studied her from beneath its helmet.
“A demon. Not a Baron. Probably not a Marquis. A Duke, then?” the woman reasoned aloud, her voice a hoarse croak.
The demon did not respond, merely observing her with its arms crossed. She turned slightly, shrinking her surface area.
“You’ll make a lady blush, staring like that,” she chided, wearing a slight smile and batting her eyelids.
The demon shifted its gaze, making eye contact with her.
“A lady—human. You still identify as such?” it asked, its voice like the earth grinding during a landslide.
“Staring at her and asking her business—not a good first impression,” the woman responded, the flirtatious smile sliding from her face like a mask.
The two stared at each other for several moments, their eyes meeting in mutual caution and curiosity. Eventually, the demon turned, motioning toward the flames with his head.
“The fungus is being trimmed. The process will end in minutes. I would advise against traversing the flames until then. I see that you are immune to their mind-altering effects, but they are still hot,” it explained, spreading his wings, as if to take off.
“Who are you to so casually ‘trim the Gloam’?” the woman asked, still holding her warhammer.
“We are Nemesis, and we currently have no quarrel with you or anyone else, so I will bid you good day and beseech you to heed my well-intentioned warning: mind the flames. They burn with purpose, but they would not reject a meal if it ventured in willingly,” it bid, vanishing in a shockwave of air.
The woman, staring out at the wall of blue fire, hooked her warhammer to her belt and sighed, sitting cross-legged atop the ridge.
“Guess I’ll wait, then.”
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