The moon rose high over “New Fimble,” and shone down on pallid and frozen corpses.

A few had tried to play dead, but it was just too cold for that. Breath rose visible in the icy air, and the simurghani had found each one, hovering above and piping their song to draw those tasked with finishing the fallen.

That usually meant either Rotgoriel or Bhob Don't Ask. They didn't exactly have a lot of people left to work with.

Oddly enough though, neither did the enemies.

Oh, they had people, it was true. They hadn't had to deal with a mountain falling on them. But the bulk of the foes were marching right past New Fimble, picking their way down the slope into the now-revealed city.

The bulk of the foes. Not all of them. No, they had shaved off about a thousand or so to assault New Fimble.

Twice.

And as Rotgoriel casually leaned down and bit the head off a soldier who'd decided to try playing dead despite the odds, the arrows bouncing off his hide told him that the fools were about ready for assault number three.

He wanted to go out there and burn them down. Wanted to go and rend them to pieces, feast upon their hearts for all the indignities they'd heaped upon him so far.

But the time for that was passed. They may be fools, but they were fools who had brought a lot of expendable troops. And weighted nets. And specialists with skills to slow him down and hinder him. And Elementalists who would ground him if he flew too far out. And... well, the truth of the matter was that if he got too far away from it then they would destroy what was left of the village, and murder Agnezsharron's pet humans. And he knew that she would never forgive him for that.

And so he flapped his wings, and half-jumped, half-flew back to the barricades they'd hastily established. It was mostly furniture and furnishings and loose boulders that they'd scraped together, anchored between the houses that Rotgoriel had rolled into a rough line. There was only one easy way to approach the village from the ridge, and that helped. That was one reason they were still alive and uncaptured. Rotgoriel himself was the second reason.

The third reason, unexpected but very, very welcome was in the center of the village now, stirring a cauldron for all he was worth. Ramuz of Paleo looked up, his face sweating in the heat of the bubbling water. “Please tell me they are not coming again!”

“They are not coming again,” Rotgoriel said. “Now I have lied. Do you feel better? Are you done with this batch? Because they are coming again.”

“Fine! Fine fine. Fine.” Ramuz shook his head. “Accelerate Aging.”

The cauldron let out a belch of musty, yeasty vapor, and the liquid inside receded, thickening into a milky green broth as Ramuz' Brewer skill did its work.

“This is not the best way to make fungi fungal funtime cordial, but it will have to do. Somewhere my dead god is screaming at this desecration! Go. Go and do what you must. I will get it bottled and arranged with the backup choir. But tell Venthrax I need more mushrooms if we want to live through this night!”

“I thought he was out of mushrooms,” Rotgoriel rumbled as he turned to leave.

“He's a fucking liar! I know he has a personal stash somewhere!” Ramuz called as Rotgoriel loped over to the barricades.

“You tell that money-grubbing sunovabitch that I'm out of mushrooms!” Venthrax snapped, before Rotgoriel could open his mouth.

“Tell him I know he's hooked on his own product and that addicts always keep a stash!” Ramuz fired back, from his easily-audible position thirty meters away.

“And you tell him that I keep that extra for clients! And now that my regular seams are wiped out, I need that to re-establish the trade!” Venthrax screamed, before he popped up and fired a few arrows over the barricade.

Rotgoriel extended a wing to shield the man from return fire.

He could do nothing about Ramuz' returned fire, though. That was just words. “And you tell him there won't BE trade unless we survive this fucking war and for that we need moxie and to refill that we need MUSHROOMS!”

“Fine! Just godsdamn fine! I said fine,” Venthrax groused. “Tell him they're in my pillowcase. And to cut the red mold off of them before he starts cooking with them or we'll all die WHICH IS WHY I DIDN'T OFFER THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE!”

Rotgoriel lifted his head. “He said a lot,” he called back to Ramuz. Then he crouched down as arrows rattled off his neck, and stuck his snout in Venthrax' face. “He said a lot.”

“Bastard,” Venthrax grumbled. “So is it my turn to chant?”

“No. It is Khankiller's. Khankiller?”

“On it! I think they're near enough,” Khankiller Rogon said, rummaging in his puffy wool pockets and pulling out a newly-brewed bottle of Ramuz' mushroom cordial. “Dark Chant!”

This was what had kept his little cult alive. This was what had tied their three major strengths together, and let them not only repulse two sorties so far, but do so with minimal damage.

Rogon's mouth moved, and it was his voice intoning the words, but it was still as if something else spoke through him. Alien syllables spilled out, and echoed through the chilled air like icicles falling from the spaces between the stars, cosmic sleet from beyond this time and space.

“Dat lodah paran bodah call on six ten picks salud hashefthreefthreeefthree...”

To Rotgoriel, they grated on the ears. They teased, and sent his mind off on tangents, as he struggled to make sense of it. There was a pattern, you just had to squint a bit, change your perspective and see.

They had that effect on everyone in New Fimble, because everyone left there was part of the cult. Indeed, to everyone who had the Cultist job, that was all the words did.

But the soldiers now charging across the field didn't have Cultist jobs, weren't dark creatures, and had no real immunities or resistances that helped them to withstand the deluge of words.

Rotgoriel watched a slew of white numbers rise out of the heads of those charging forms, as the words literally ripped their luck away, one syllable at a time.

But it was costly. Oh so very costly. Not a minute into the chant, Rogon had to pause to chug from his bottle. Dark Chant was a highly effective skill, but it drained moxie fast.

And in that pause, the charging soldiers let out a mighty roar... and kept roaring.

“They're trying to drown it out!” Venthrax said, and it was hard to hear him through the din, even though the troops were still a few hundred meters away.

“Will it work?” Khankiller Rogon mouthed.

“Probably. Fortunately, my lungs are bigger than theirs. My turn!” And Rotgoriel leaped the barrier, shouting “Dark Chant!”

And though they were noisy, he was a dragon, and that made all the difference. The white numbers sleeted, as he paced the barricades, using his wings to shield his eyes from stray arrows as they fell like rain.

Extremely inaccurate rain, as the archers lost their luck.

Extremely inaccurate, slackening rain as bowstrings broke, arrows went into allies through freak gusts of wind and unlucky stumbles.

And Rotgoriel chanted, feeling his mind numb, feeling the words harder and harder to shape. They were close enough now that normally he'd breathe fire, to keep them back while his allies chanted. But he couldn't spare either the moxie or risk breaking the chant.

The front lines converged on him, swords flashing and shields raised, and he laid about as he chanted, slashing with claws and using his weight to crush and batter his foes. His scales turned the worst of it, though dull flashes of pain showed where blades bit, now and again. Quantity had a quality of its own, and there were still a lot of them.

The rest of his group started chattering through the party whisper, and it was very distracting. But his moxie dipped low, and he manged to say “I am busy!” right before he stopped.

And then came a mighty CRACK, and Rotgoriel paused. The continuous, maddening roar of his enemies died away.

The ground shook beneath his feet, and Rotgoriel took to the air.

Your Fly skill is now level 27!

Roaring turned into screaming, as the ground itself opened up under his foes.

Ice and stone cascaded yet again, and Rotgoriel realized that their noise had triggered what had to be a secondary avalanche, and caused the unstable ground to shift once again... this time right under them.

My, how unlucky.

With a dark chuckle, Rotgoriel returned to New Fimble, itself miraculously spared by the creeping crevasse that decimated its way through the opposing force.

He landed in the center, and paused, waiting. The cauldron full of brew was tempting, and he knew it would refill his Moxie, but with a little luck...

And there it was.

Your Dark Chant skill is now level 29!

You are now a level 15 Cultist!

CHA+3

INT+3

LUCK+3

You have learned the Dark Bolt skill!

Your Dark Bolt skill is now level 1!

You have learned the Unholy Smite skill!

Your Unholy Smite skill is now level 1!

It was the third such level that he'd gained in Cultist tonight, and he was happy for it. And the fact that it refilled all of his spent pools helped.

All save hit points. He checked his status, found himself about a hundred down, and set about remedying that.

Your Lesser Healing skill is now level 39!

“Nothing coming up the back side,” LivingDeadGrrl said, touching down next to him. “We're still free to run down into the city. I mean, the non-fliers would have a trickier time with the ridge, but we could do it. Especially if we carried the civvies.”

Rotgoriel considered it. Only for a second, though. “No. That is where they want us to go. They need me on hand for the third sacrifice. Though if our friends can stop the second, we can leave this place entirely—”

Geebo: Oh no!

Agnezsharron: What?

Geebo: They have another egg!

Agnezsharron: What? How could.... oh no. Oh no, I see it! He is shattering it!

Rotgoriel stared at the words, then at LivingDeadGrrl. Her eyes were wide under the skull mask, just as wide as he knew his own were right now.

“Fuck. They're gonna be back for you now, and they're gonna be serious. We need to leave,” the wendigo said.

Agnezsharron: Rotgoriel. We have failed and I am caught. Free me and we shall flee. There is nothing left for us in this place.

Rotgoriel turned, looking at the fire. Looking at Ramuz, who had finished bottling the last of his brew, and was now staring up at him.

“I have no quests for you,” Ramuz told him. “The mountain air is harsh upon the ill-prepared. Bundle up for safety!”

He looked past the player-befuddled Ramzu, to the red djinn that squatted on the roof of Bortiz' house, scimitars ready, watching the enemy lines.

And at the barricade where Khankiller Rogon and Bhob don't ask argued about the price of mushrooms and the best kind of dung to grow them in. Safely out of the player's influence they had personalities, crooked as they were.

Then he looked to the dark city, and the sickly yellow runes crawling along it. The world would change, soon. The players would grow more powerful. Was there a balance? Had there ever truly been one? Something had gone awry, that was certain. He didn't know if it could be countered, let alone fixed.

But still...

...still, this was at least partially his fault. And even if it was doomed to failure, he still felt compelled to try.

Rutger: No.

“Divine Transit,” he chanted, feeling a flicker as it activated.

A simple spell, but powerful. It pulled the Cleric and any trapped party members out of whatever building, dungeon, or extra-planar spot they'd landed in, depositing them at either the exit point or the nearest possible free space. It was how he'd escaped the cage of force earlier in the battle... his skill had considered that a structure, of sorts.

It did raise the question of how he had slain DoctorHealGood and the other Warmers, back when he'd trapped them in Geebo's pack of holding and thrown it into lava all those years back. But he rather suspected that the half of the cursed mask DoctorHealGood wore had something to do with that, too. Delayed the Cleric just long enough, perhaps.

Water under the bridge, shadows long faded, it didn't matter.

Rutger: We are not running. Greg has yet to return, and when he does, he will bear the mirror with him. Letting the Warmers have the mirror would be a huge mistake. We need to hold this position... no. No we do not. YOU need to hold this position. Wait for Greg to return, and get the mirror from him. Then bring it to me.

Agnezsharron: And where will you be during this folly?

Rutger: Opening the third seal. Find me when you have the mirror!

And with that, Rotgoriel took wing, heading for the city and at least one more death...

RUTGER'S CHARACTER SHEET

Spoiler: Spoiler

Name: Rutger Royal

Age: 3

Jobs:

Cleric (Konol) 11, Cultist (Anjuuta) 15, Young Dragon (Stone) 13

Attributes Pools Defenses

Strength: 430 Constitution: 458 Hit Points: 888 Armor: 265

Intelligence: 93 Wisdom: 201 Sanity:294 Mental Fortitude: 265

Dexterity: 24 Agility: 59 Stamina: 83 Endurance: 100

Charisma: 85 Willpower: 430 Moxie: 515 Cool: 165

Perception: 306 Luck: 111 Fortune: 417 Fate: 41

General Skills

Brawling – Level 23

Climb – Level 4

Dodge – Level 15

Fly – Level 27

Ride – Level 1

Stealth – Level 5

Swim – Level 2

Stone Dragon Skills

Burninate – Level 21

Chomp – Level 20

Draconic Tongue – Level N/A

Dragonseye – Level 20

Earth Resistance – Level N/A

Flameborn – Level N/A

Hoarder – Level 2

Limited Equipment – Level N/A

No Thumbs – Level N/A

Sandblast – Level 5

Scaly Wings – Level N/A

Slow to Age – Level N/A

Tail Slap – Level 5

Cleric Skills

Blessing – Level N/A

Curative – Level N/A

Divine Transit – Level N/A

Faith – Level N/A

Godspell:

Holy Bolt – Level 1

Holy Smite – Level 11

Lesser Healing – Level 39

Party Heal – Level 1

Pray to Konol – Level N/A

Shield of Divinity – Level 13

Cultist Skills

Conceal Status – Level 10

Curses – Level 10

Dark Bolt – Level 1

Dark Chant – Level 29

Darkspell: Fool's Gold – Level 35

Enhance Pain – Level 10

Fevered Zeal – Level 1

First Pact – Level 1

Occult Eye – Level N/A

Servant of Darkness – Level N/A