Interlude 2 - Foreshadowing

The circular canopy bed was spacious, no, huge would have been more fitting. The curtain surrounding it was blood-red, as light as a butterfly wing, nearly transparent. In the middle of same-coloured sheets, surrounded by black and white pillows, two shapes were spread resting, motionless.

The first one was that of a lady, a ripe beauty whose face was distorted by nightmares. Her long blazing-red hair was spread over the cushions, creating an interesting contrast.

The second shape was that of a young man, a teenager with soft skin and hair just like the ones of the lady. His face, too, was distorted. Near each other, they were holding hands so hard that they were white.

The bed was in the middle of an immense room, floating over a sea of corpses, blood and bones. Countless putrid or bony hands were surrounding and supporting it firmly, fighting between themselves to ardently drink the purplish liquid flowing from it.

Never satiated, they tried to get more, always more, creating an oily black smoke as they were feasting over the substance. This smoke was then accumulating under the archways of the ceiling, like a stormy sky reeking of death and decay, of the corruption of the body, the mind, the soul.

In the shadows a creature moved irritatedly, exiting the room through the great door. With a broken voice, it softly talked to itself. “Tss, another failure… I’m starting to fell the lack of ingredient… I need to ask them to bring me more…even… more, a lot more…” What it hadn’t seen was that its last move had created a diminutive crack in the main vault.

Slowly but surely, the twisted smoke oozed through the rock, trying to get free. It wasn’t the first time it tried, in the past it even had some minor success. It but all its strength, all its malevolence and hatred in its attempt to reach the surface, to no avail. Suddenly, the ground quaked. Marginally. Just enough to widen the crack. New quake, and the crack became a rift, the vitriolic miasma rushing madly through it. On a mountainside, a tiny hole appeared, letting the smoke spread. All around, snow went from pure white to sickened black…

Argosphael - Twenty-seventh level of the Infernal Tower

“What the fuck!” Exclaimed Kira, frustrated. All around her spread a ruined space, covered in grey ashes, like snowflakes falling from a dark sky.

“It looks like someone had beaten us to it…” Whispered Argosphael, thoughtful. “...now the questions are: by how, and by who.”

“Nobody should have been able to do it! Us aside, who could be strong enough to fight this kind of boss with only two people?”

“Unless they’ve fought in a normal fashion.”

“Are you kidding? Who could have been able to pull a raid party like this now? How many people should they have used to win?”

“...No, indeed, it’s very unlikely that anyone used so much manpower. Circumstances around the Kingdoms is too tense for anyone to be able to create a raid party like that, in particular for this boss… So the only option left is…”

“...That someone battled it and won the way we also do it.” Said the woman.

“Yes…” Argosphael’s gaze sharpened even more. “...and this someone maybe still be here. We withdraw, now.”

“Understood.” At those words, a runic circle appeared under Kira’s food, growing large enough to cover both fighters. “Emergency teleportation. Go!” They disappeared on the woman’s go.

A question, however, stayed in Argosphael as mind as he was going through the magic flux beside his summoner. But who could have killed Asiroth, this walking disaster?