Dalric decided to land a good distance away from the camp and walk the rest of the way. He figured flying directly to the entrance may put them on edge, maybe even instigating conflict on its own. If he was going to try and look as non-threatening as possible, he might as well go the distance. It may all be for nothing in the end, but it was worth the try.

He dispelled the illusion that made his armor appear green. Now was the time to be seen in pristine white. No color was more universally seen as non-threatening. If they worshiped Ray, the Boundless Sky, they could even welcome him because of the form alone. Although that also relied on no one being able to tell his wings weren’t natural.

Landing so far away, the walk that awaited him was quite lengthy. He intended that. Hovering high in the sky gave him a great overview of the jungle, but being on the ground amongst the foliage gave him a better perspective. He would have liked to have spotted some kind of easy identifier he could use to figure out where in the world he was, but he hadn’t spotted anything that jumped out to him during the flyover. That being the case, maybe a more intimate understanding of the land and its inhabitants would do it.

He kept himself partially distracted casting small spells while he walked and surveyed the area. He continued to stumble upon herbs and plants and even poisons, but as the exotic plants came in bulk he noticed he hadn’t spotted any animals. Any big ones at least. There were lizards, spiders, birds, assortments of bugs, and carnivorous plants, but nothing sizable. Unlike earlier, the spells he cast weren’t overly drawing on the ambient ahjer. The jungle denizens shouldn’t be wary of him anymore.

But as he continued, nothing notable came into sight or crossed into the bounds of his ahjer sense. There weren’t even snakes. Contemplating it, he was fairly certain he hadn’t spotted any snakes at all throughout his entire time in this jungle. That was shocking, this seemed like the type of jungle multiple species of snakes would thrive it.

Hmm. What could cause that?

He brainstormed a handful of possibilities, but none of them narrowed down where he was. He’d known soon enough either way, but that didn’t stop him from running through some thought experiments while still practicing his spells. Doing both did start to tire him out after a while however. Incantations required far less mental stamina than manually manipulating ahjer, but at the rate he went it was only a matter of time. The double dutch mental gymnastics did burn time effectively though. By the time he had had enough, he was within five or so kilometers of the camp.

As a precaution, he decided a quick nap would be beneficial. If a battle was to occur, he’d struggle to subdue them peacefully while mentally tired. For his conscience's sake, he’d like to avoid accidentally killing anyone. Plus, that could have cascading effects that hindered his movements and inquiries in the area.

Not that it’ll matter long term.

He originally enjoyed not having to feel the Gods’ revolting voices polluting his mind, but now the silence just filled him with apprehension. They’d return, and there was nothing he could do about it. It would be better to get it over with quickly. This limbo state he walked in brought no joy.

He found a large tree to climb and set a dome of protection around himself. He layered that dome with one that siphoned impure ahjer, another that detected large clumps of pure ahjer, and a final one that served as camouflage. The complete system absorbed ahjer to help rejuvenate him, detected any nearby threats, and kept him hidden. It was a fairly involved process, tiring him out more, but he felt it was necessary. Everything finished, he molded the large branch he stood on into a flat bed and promptly knocked out.

The nap ultimately only lasted a bell. He’d need a full night’s rest eventually, but for now he felt suitably re-energized.

Two and a half kilometers later, a patrolling squad caught him. Or more accurately, he caught them.

“Ahh! Fuck is that?!”

Oh? They speak...some form of Hellgurian... I’m seeing connections but they’re not making sense.

“Stop! Who the fuck er you?”

Well, they’re not worshippers.

Dalric spoke in the clearest Hellgurian he could manage, “My name’s Dalric, I’m a traveller looking for shelter.”

There were four of them. Three wielded spears, and the last held a mace. Their ahjer levels were rather decent, fairly high actually for mere patrol duty at a forward base. That either spoke to the camp not being one or their goal here requiring higher than average security. Dalric guessed it was the latter, there was a high chance the tigers weren’t the only threats around.

They all wore rather poor leather armor however. The make of the armor wasn’t the issue, quite the opposite, it was the lack of enchantments. Without enchantments, leather armor protected as effectively as paper. Even though the leather looked high quality on its own, it would be sliced through effortlessly.

The temperature was another thing. Both the jungle and sun radiated heat nonstop. Even at night, the winds were warm. Dalric’s armor regulated his temperature, but theirs did not. That must have had adverse effects, especially considering they wore helmets.

Dalric would conclude they weren’t a powerful or affluent force, but they had one piece of equipment that stopped him from claiming so. Long, rounded slabs of enchanted metal hung across all of their backs. They resembled a notoriously destructive piece of weaponry he’d encountered while hunting demonists. Dalric remembered them vividly as hunting demonists were one of the very, very few times he could be happy with his actions. He didn’t know their name, but he knew they sold for heaps of gold. None of the four in front of him were demonists, so they had to have bought them.

Unless...

The one with the mace had spoken first and they were also the one that replied, “Sound like a priest Dalric, you an angel?”

Not worshippers of Ray, but they know the story of the angels?

Dalric hesitated to claim he was. The angels were a race of pure white-skinned valinoids. They looked largely identical to humans aside from their average height of nine feet and the four massive crystal-like wings, much larger than the two that sprung from Dalric’s back, they had. The four men in front of him seemed to hold some sort of reverence for them, but the issue was they went extinct millennia ago. They had risen against the Gods and paid the ultimate price. That was the story, at least. Dalric’s intimate knowledge of the Gods meant he knew it was a lie, but the validity of the story didn’t change the fact they had all died out one way or another.

“I’m—”

Kill them.

A heavy, aggressive presence invaded Dalric’s consciousness. It ripped at his thoughts and sense of self. Though his current body rebounded in shock, Dalric himself felt only a smidge of surprise. The presence was all too familiar.

Kill them all.

But it was also different. Fainter, diluted, unfocused.

Kill them all. NOW!

The weight of the presence felt crushing. It was akin to the burden a mountain could levy if placed on his head. For as powerful as it was however, Dalric could only remark at how flaccid he thought it was. The Gods never yelled. They never had to. If he didn’t immediately comply, they’d make him. He could neither fight nor resist.

Now though, now it was a contest.

He fell to his knees, his ahjer spiraling out of control as he fought to control his own mind. Blood dripped from each of his facial orifices.

“Ahhhh!”

That wasn’t Dalric screaming. He didn’t have the strength or focus to spare for such. It was one of the four on patrol. They had been confused when he fell to his knees, stunned when his ahjer wrecked the dirt and trees around him, but it was when the river of blood poured from Dalric’s eyes and ears that terror struck them. The one mace wielder was the first to bolt. Weary of what was to come, he began slowly backing away when Dalric fell to his knees. The other three’s survival instincts weren’t as strong.

They paid for it with their lives.

Dalric’s raw ahjer burst forth from his body, crushing two of them instantly and severely injuring the third. They didn’t even get a moment to process what occurred. They had backed up a few feet when his ahjer spiralled out of control, but the extra distance meant nothing. Laying on the floor unconscious and largely broken, the only surviving member of the trio would soon follow them into death.

Dalric couldn’t afford to be too concerned about the ongoings around him. He’d mourn their deaths later, for now he struggled to prevent the entire camp from meeting the same fates. That at least one got away comforted him a little, but he feared that feeling wouldn’t last long. He was losing.

It started with his extremities, his hands and feet rebelled against his control. He fought to remain sovereign, but the Gods continued to claim more and more of him. Soon both of his arms and legs were theirs to command. If they continued their design to usurp Dalric, they would have almost certainly won, but they didn’t. The second they controlled his arms and legs, they focused their energy on sprinting towards the last remaining guard of the four that approached him.

It was a notably awkward sprint, without control of his torso the movements were very off. That slowed them down tremendously. The mace wielder hadn’t gotten far in his hasty retreat, but the lack of coordination in Dalric’s run gave him time.

For his part, the man raced frantically. He made use of every second Dalric saved him by fleeing with every ounce of his being. It didn’t help much. Once Dalric began breathing down his neck, his only option was to yell and beg desperately for help. Help wouldn’t arrive in time.

Dalric’s right hand first reached his shoulder, less than a fraction of a second later his left hand gripped the top of his head. Before the man could get a word of begging in, the back of his skull met the middle of his back. His body immediately went limp, hanging lifelessly in Dalric’s hands. Dalric, still in control of parts of himself, could intimately feel the cracking of his spine. He could gaze into his shocked, frightened, and desperate eyes and see that no life remained. He could hear the silence of a once lively human cruelly and savagely put to an end.

Dalric ignored it all, for through his sacrifice he’d given Dalric an opportunity.

The Gods tossed his body into the dirt and sped towards the camp. With their focus elsewhere for a sustained stint, they opened a lane for Dalric to counter and push their control back to his hands and feet. At some point, they had claimed his sense of smell, but he paid it no mind.

His quick retake of his limbs caused his body to violently tumble into a tree. He ignored that as well, squarely focused on ridding himself of their presence. His body twitched and jerked, sometimes erratically convulsing, as they waged war for its control.

The battle continued for a time, but after the initial bursts of strength the presence began fading. They still fought tooth and nail, but the amount of power they could project waned. It waned and waned until Dalric had successfully pushed them out of even the tips of his finger and toes. Removing all the residuals took a bit, but by the time a squad of men rode up to his position, he laid in a small puddle of sweat and blood, completely spent and completely free.

Ahh.

Dalric slowly struggled to his feet. His.. everything hurt. He couldn’t name a part of him that wasn’t overtaxed and in pain. He also lost a serious amount of blood and he felt light-headed.

He won, though.

The Gods sought his mind and he told them ‘no’. It was by the skin of his teeth and honestly if they weren’t distracted he wouldn’t have, but that didn’t matter right now.

He won.

Even though the blood of innocent men already dyed his human hands. The camp of hundreds, more likely thousands, survived. Four had died, needlessly, but many more would live to see another day. He prevented a massacre.

He won. He, Dalric, won.

…

What does that mean?