FINAL CORE - Chapter 121 (Patreon)

The intangible, pure, radiant brightness of the soul is matched only by its ability to darken.

While it is true that we are strung along by the binds of fate in this world, it is also true that the strings of fate are many, they twist and wind, curling and knotting this way and that. It is inevitable that we follow them to the end, to death; however, what we do along the way is mostly of our own choosing.

Fate isn’t so much a force that guides with one, single intent in mind, as it is rather the many roots of a tree. If one were to leave a tree and burrow into the soil, one could choose a root of thousands to take, and that root might branch out further, connecting to other trees’ roots, to the fungi in the soil, and to the waters of the river, which branches into many wide oceans.

Destiny is a tunnel that we can never escape, this is true. However, the tunnel has many branching paths.

Some of them lead to brightness.

Some of them lead to darkness.

It is within the context of a living life to be able to choose one’s own destiny. There are those in poor circumstances who do not have this luxury at present, oftentimes, yes, but do not use them as an excuse for your own failings when you are not yourself in such a constricting position.

To do so will be to follow one of destiny’s less desirable pathways.

You have the ability to choose. Quit fooling yourself.

Choose to be happy.

~ Final entry of a personal journal, written by Valin Miladrius in his cell, shortly before his execution

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Aurin, The Meek

Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman}

Location: Floor -83 of the Subtower of Isaiah

Aurin stares out into the darkness of the world outside of the tower, looking through one of its many open facades. His eyes stare past the thumb he holds before his vision, held up into the air at the end of his outstretched arm, as he measures the distance between heaven and the world.

The base of his thumb connects to the foreground, below his feet, and the tip of his thumb touches the blackened, lightless sky above them, past the rim of the massive, floating island crushing down over their heads like an imprisoning weight, keeping them, their world, and their cherished hopes separate from the glory of the gods.

“How far away is it?” asks a man next to him.

Aurin turns to look at the other crusader, a man of significant power too, and turns around, placing a hand on his shoulder as he passes to return to the march.

“Closer than we think,” replies Aurin, nodding to the man, as he picks up his greatsword and eyes the crusade, still thousands strong, and all of them march forward unto and for the glory of heaven with bright hearts and vivid souls. He watches them move, without distress or angst, without a single hint of hesitation, as if they were entirely inhuman, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Closer than we think,” he repeats to himself, marching back into the swarm that finds no rest.

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Witch Spillaholle

???, Female, Witch of the Red-String

Location: The Dead City, A Quaint House

Troublesome.

Deeply, deeply troublesome.

Witch Spillaholle takes a sip of her tea. However, her discomposure is revealed by the very unusual rattling of the saucer and cup held in her otherwise steady hands. It isn’t moved by a shaking brought on by fear or hunger, but rather by the simple, strong striking of her heart. Even if she is sitting in her chair, perfectly at peace, her body does not seem to come to rest, and it bothers her with the most troublesome things imaginable.

Thoughts.

Feelings.

Emotions.

The witch narrows her eyes, managing to take a sip of her saucer with her lips, which she desperately wants to purse tightly shut. However, she fails to do even that, as the corners of her mouth are locked into a smile that won’t go away, her body disobeying her mind’s desires.

She takes a sip of her tea, drinking far too much at once and then coughing, setting the saucer and cup back down onto the table as shakes off her hands, splashed with room temperature tea, and lays them on her lap.

What should she do?

She is certainly an adult, capable of living her own life and making her own decisions of mind and body. There is inherently nothing wrong with what happened. However, something is deeply troubling.

It would seem that her heart has taken over the faculties of her mind and body, overpowering both of them with its will.

She stares out of the window, out into the night as she thinks about him, them, about what happened and where it led and… well, what it means.

What does it mean?

Are they… together, her and that man? Or was it a one time thing? Should she ask? No. If she asks, she’ll look foolish, and it will only cause trouble. It would be for the best to fully ignore that anything happened at all and pretend that life is what it always was. A person of her stature isn’t meant to lose herself to such base things as the passions of the soul.

She nods to herself, deciding this is the best thing to do.

— However, her nodding causes her to yelp in surprise as she, having mindlessly wrapped her finger up tightly in her hair during this process of thought, yanks on it herself and jumps up in surprise, the sensation reminding her too sharply of his fingers in her hair. Glass clatters as she knocks into the table, her cup and saucer falling to the floor and breaking.

“Spooky butt?” asks a voice from the side. Witch Perchta looks in from the kitchen, where she’s baking again. “You okay?”

Spillaholle exhales, lifting the tips of her fingers and then slowly dropping them at the same rate as her exhalation, before she then turns around. “Witch Perchta, I merely spilled my tea,” she says. “Go back to whence you came.”

“I’ll get you a rag!” says Perchta cheerfully. Ever since the crusade had left the city, with the monsters of the tower having retreated back to defend it and its poisoned defenders, she has been very cheerful, as she seems to think that she has won.

She may have. Or she may not have.

Tea drips down her dress, dripping to the floor like the sweat of two bodies.

— Witch Spillaholle screams, grabbing her hair in distress to rid her mind of such thoughts, which are interrupting her ability to sit quietly and relax.

“Spilli!” says a concerned voice, running out in surprise and grabbing her. “What’s wrong?!” asks Perchta.

Spillaholle stares at her, her expression going blank. She’s showing too much. It’s troublesome.

“I spilled my tea again,” replies Witch Spillaholle calmly and quietly.

Perchta blinks, looking at her and then down at the ground. “…Oh… huh,” says the witch, not noticing anything out of place with this explanation at all as she shrugs, grabs her friend, and begins dabbing her off with a dish towel. “Hold tight, we’ll get you cleaned up in a jiffy!” beams Perchta, humming to herself.

What is she going to do?

Witch Spillaholle stares up towards the ceiling, desperate to find anything that will let her mind return to peaceful blankness.

— Perchta smears the rag over her face, trying to try it off.

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Isaiah

“This fucking guy…” mutters Red to herself. “Chief!” she barks, pointing down to the ground. “This asshole is tearing through the tower like it’s nothing!” she explains, speaking about the dragonslayer, who is guiding the crusade as its spear-point.

“Indeed,” says Isaiah, rubbing its chin as it stares off into the distance, thinking.

Red grabs its arm, shaking it. “Hello?” she asks, are we going to do something about it or not?” asks the uthra.

Isaiah looks at her, tilting its head. “I find it beneficial to prioritize problems,” says Isaiah.

“Between you and me,” begins Red, nodding her head down to the ground. “This guy’s a pretty big fucking problem,” explains the uthra. “Should we drop a slime on his head like we did with that one guy back in the day?”

“No,” replies Isaiah, looking out towards the west.

“What?” Red looks around herself at the other uthra who are currently resting on the branches of the very-big-tree in their ‘nests’, which, given their human size, are sizable constructions filled to the brim with soft fabrics and their personal treasures. Magenta shrugs, disturbing Beige, who is laying there in the nest the two of them are sharing.

“White, Gray,” asks Isaiah. “How much gold do we have?”

“So much,” replies White, shaking his head. Gray pats him on the back. “So… so very much.”

Isaiah nods. “Thank you. Your efforts will not be wasted, White,” says Isaiah. The uthra really outdid himself during his mining phase. “Not a single second of it,” says the entity, crossing its arms behind its back.

“Chief?” asks Red, clapping the back of her hand into an open palm. “What’s. The. Plan?” she asks, likely feeling like she’s the only one trying to take initiative.

Isaiah smiles. “Today is the day of rest, Red,” says Isaiah. “There is no plan and no work today, at least not for us.”

“…Really?” asks Red incredulously. “We’re in a life or death situation, and you want to take a day off?” she asks.

“No,” says Isaiah. “I want you to take a day off,” it replies, waving a hand into the air. Orange, having waited for her opportunity to lunge, shoots down like a bolt of lightning and grabs Red off of her feet, placing her into her own nest before she even has a chance to complain.

“But I don’t dislike the ‘dropping a slime’ idea, in a manner of speaking,” remarks Isaiah, lifting a finger as magic begins to swirl around it as it eyes the distant city in the west. “We still have something left open, that I would like to close off.”

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Witch Perchta

???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater

Location: The Dead City, A Quaint House

Perchta hums to herself, wobbling around the house as she hangs up the rag. Life is great. Everything is great. Her friends are here and happy. She’s here and happy. Their home is coming together, this little house that they’ve occupied. It was rather rough at first, since the people who used to live here before she killed them had unfortunate taste in furniture. But with the help of the members of the sect, who exchanged some furniture, and a few loving touches, it’s really coming together to be a perfect, beautiful home!

She never wanted to live in the city again, honestly.

Perchta looks out of the window, watching as hooded members of the sect quietly walk by outside on their duties. But they’re good neighbors.

She opens the door, calling them over. “Here, fellas,” says Perchta, holding out the tray of freshly baked cookies, which are for her friends, for them to take one each. “Have one! Keep up the good work!” says the giddy witch to two strangely nervous looking cultists.

“Th- thank you very much, Witch Per-” starts the first man, reaching out.

— The metal tray in her hands becomes oddly bright for a moment. She looks down at it for a moment in confusion, wondering why it's glowing. That is, until she realizes that it isn’t. It’s a reflection from something glowing up in the sky.

She lifts her head just in time to fly out of the way as something massive impacts down onto the city, the air, and the house, with everything all around it exploding in a horrific, flameless eruption. Wooden debris and stones shoot out through the night, as does her tray of cookies, which vanish into the mess as she tumbles over the stones from the force of the blast.

Witch Perchta lifts her head after a moment, covering her face against the winds as she tries to process what just happened, her gaze looking back at her destroyed house, which is simply entirely gone.

Standing in its place, having been crushed, is a massive, heaping hunk of shining, pure gold the size of a titan.

And etched into the outer surface is a message, carved in with a talon.

‘Dear Witch Perchta,

Please accept this as payment for the damages caused to your old house in the forest.

Kind Regards,

Your Neighbor’

Her eyes go wide as she stares at it in quiet disbelief, not really reading it, even though she’s reading it, as she just stares at where her house was a second ago. Her house…

Her house.

Witch Perchta screams a loud, feral, animal scream from the bottom of her heart that cuts through the night, carrying as far off as there are ears to hear it as she runs back towards the destruction, screaming the names of her friends, her boots crushing some old cookies.

______________________________

Isaiah

Isaiah stares with its hands behind its back, and Red is whistling up on the tree, clearly impressed.

Offensive measures are unusual for it to undertake in such a fashion. However, it would be most rude to simply leave their open debt untouched and unspoken about. If it has the medium to pay it back, it should do so.

It narrows its eyes.

Today’s debt wasn’t about the house, though.

It was about Green, who they lost because of the witch.

Isaiah turns around, returning to its day off with the uthra in the tree. The debt is repaid.