Skrakch had always been proud of his bandolier and the multitude of items that he kept within its pouches. A range of magical potions, his trusty thieves tools, he’d accrued quite an impressive amount of jewels too. He didn’t fully recall where he’d gotten them from, but there were also various teeth he’d decided to keep on his person, ranging from human to animal.

Hells, there was even a matching pair of wooden whistles that he’d grabbed a year or so ago on a lark, tucked down into the bottom of a pouch.

The one thing that Skrakch’s wondrous bandolier didn’t have, it would seem, was a way to get out of their current situation.

Surrounded as the Ratling and Meekknuckle currently were, by the murderous Ghouls hellbent on ripping them both to shreds, he’d normally rely on his artifact. The scepter of Fireballs hadn’t been in his possession for very long but he’d come to rely on it. For a mere trickle of Mana, he could cast wave after wave of magical flames against any foe.

What Skrakch hadn’t realised, hindsight be damned, was that the damn weapon had an upper limit of spells within it. One minute he’d been holding a powerful relic from a time long lost to this world, feeling it sear his flesh as he desperately poured more Mana into it than he ever had before. And then, just like that, in the next moment he was holding a worthless chunk of metal, his Mana colliding uselessly against the inert specter’s frame.

Skrakch however, refused to be beaten. He’d never been the type of creature to lose himself in the ‘What Ifs’ of a situation. He was a Ratling, a bloody survivor, damn it! And nothing if not adaptable. There was a solution to their current situation, he was sure of it. Skrakch just needed to look past the writhing and snarling wall of Ghouls that were currently attacking Meek’s Barrier spell, each swipe or bite slowly cracking the sole thing that was keeping them alive.

“Hells,” He muttered under his breath. The Iskrin could see Meek’s hands shake with the effort of maintaining the magical shield. The diminutive Goblin was bleeding from a bite wound on his thigh,one more injury wearing on Meek's small frame. As far as Skrakch could see, Ornn was still locked in combat with Rodyr’s corpse with no sign of it ending. The Minotaur-turned-Alpha Ghoul was clearly more than capable of standing up to the Golem’s hefty blows.

Each and every one of those brutal hits would’ve no doubt turned Skrakch into meat-paste on contact. Not that he was stupid enough to stand there and take the hit. Neither of the titanic fighters were particularly agile in their attacks. No, he’d been more than capable of running circles around them…

“Rat… do… something,” Meek ground out through gritted yellow teeth, a mixture of panic and concentration both equally clear on the ugly bastard’s face.

The Ratling began to worriedly pull at his whiskers. He needed to focus. What good would postulating about fighting an Alpha Ghoul be if he could barely get past its minions? The pain from the tugs at his whiskers kept him in the moment as his tail lashed from side to side.

Escaping certain, if slow, death… The other ally Skrakch might have been able to rely on was also neck deep in combat. A glance towards the center of the Arena confirmed that Winifred was still dueling with the possessed Survix, though at this point it was hard to recognize the Succubus as a wall of bladed-tentacles blocked his vision.

Where Ornn was slow and deadly, Winifred was moving at a speed far beyond a normal human’s limits. The Pit Fighter was a literal blur of movement to Skrakch’s sight, the Chosen clearly liberally leaning on her Crux to further augment herself.

As the Shade’s sharp bladed tendrils cut down towards her, Winifred casually ducked, weaved, and once deftly leaped over the attacks, raining down blows against Survix’s flesh in retaliation.

Each blow decimated the poor host’s body, the Demoness’ bones breaking and meat rupturing from the force of the blows. Unfortunately the Shade seemed to be regenerating rapidly, large chunks of flesh regrowing every second.

Worse yet, with every attack Winifred landed, more tendrils burst from the pile of corpses below her, leading to a veritable storm of attacks. Every shard of bone that dislodged from the Brawler's attacks bloomed into yet another tendril.

Sure, Winifred was dealing with it fine for now, but who gave a shit about her? She wouldn’t be freed from her battle any time soon, so the odds of her helping Meekknuckle and Skrakch out dwindled by the moment.

And as for Zacharias? Hells… that was always going to be a lost cause. The Halfling was no doubt on his way back to the Plagued Rat, not a shred of indecision in his cold, black heart.

Slowly but surely, more and more cracks were spreading across Meek’s Barrier. The Divine shield was beginning to resemble a dropped glass bowl, right before it's content were smashed into little pieces. It was clear that Meekknuckle would eventually buckle in his spellcraft, just from the sheer pressure placed upon the Barrier, as the volume of the Ghouls’ frenzied attacks overwhelmed the Goblin’s Core of Mana.

“Meek! Keep that Barrier up!” Skrakch ordered. It made him feel mildly soothed to bully the diminutive creature. Almost as if this was a normal situation and he was not staring down the barrel of his impending doom.

“Meek… trying…” The Goblin replied weakly, not even sparing the energy to angrily retort to the Ratling’s words. Still, Skrakch was certain the Goblin would hold for a while yet… or at least, he certainly hoped the Goblin would.

Was this really how he was going to die? After everything that had happened? Skrakch suddenly felt the urge to laugh. He’d certainly danced with death on more than one occasion and yet somehow, he’d always managed to pull through. Now it felt as though he were a sitting duck, forced to watch as his death slowly inched towards him, one jagged tooth at a time.

There had to be a way…

“Potions… potions…” Skrakch muttered to himself as he mentally went through the stock he was carrying. There were a couple he could maybe use but nothing that would ultimately stem the horde and stop it from overwhelming him. Which left his Runes…

A Rune of Slow would only serve to give him enough extra time to really appreciate being mauled to death… an application of Gravity? Well, that would toss a handful of the creatures away but that left a few dozen of the feral beasts to kill him.

Feather Fall? A great idea! Each of his limbs would land as light as a feather after they were cast off his dead body. His Enkindle Rune? No good. He’d only ever had to use that once just over a year ago when he’d needed to start a fire.

So what exactly had Skrakch spent his time on? Struggling to learn all these types of Runes and risking his life for nothing? A few mediocre spells and not one of them were capable of sending a dozen Ghouls flying!

He knew that he was truly feeling desperate when a fleeting hope of the Halfing suddenly popping out of nowhere to save the day came into his mind. Perhaps Zacharis would use a trick of his Shadow Magic to distract the Ghouls somehow?

“Yeah, right,” Skrakch muttered sarcastically to himself. The Halfling was as likely to risk his life for any of them as he himself would.

Though… maybe now that part wasn’t as true as it had been. Well, not the part about Zacharias. The heartless prick wasn’t about to risk himself any time soon.

No, it was the fact that Skrakch had slowly come to rely of his fellow Rogues. Sure, Ornn had all the charm of a rock and was about as chatty as one, and Winifred was a simple creature, her former drug habit having switched over to an unhealthy obsession with meat pies, but the Brown Iskin had really started to get along with them of late…

Hells, he’d even been finding Meekknuckle less of an irritation than usual. Skrakch had always considered the Goblin an expendable minion, something that gave him an ‘in’ with Blazock and was mostly useful for his relationship with Ornn but…

Watching the diminutive Goblin struggling to keep them both alive, the Ratling had to admit to himself that it was good to have the idiot around. Meek had gone out on a limb to help him out quite a bit recently and that including tagging along with him now with barely any needling or bullying.

So what if he didn’t have any Runes that could help him out of this mess? Smoothing down his luxurious fur, Skrakch took a deep, cleansing breath as he watched the Barrier continue to fade. If he was about to die anyway, he’d just have to risk it all. Maybe if he got lucky, he’d be able to help Meekknuckle make it out alive, if he, Skrakch, failed.

Closing his eyes, Skrakch did his best to mute his senses. The sound of Ghouls growling and spitting with rage and hunger became a gentle breeze. The stone floor he was standing on, slick with blood and gore, was truly the most comfortable bed he’d ever used. The scent of decaying flesh and worse became one of the Denmother’s perfumes, a relaxing lavender scent tickling Skrakch’s nostrils.

At first, unsurprisingly, these foolish lies he sought eluded him. Thankfully however, it didn’t take him too long to finally block his surroundings out, focusing on emptying his mind of distractions.

Turning all of his attention inwards, Skrakch could sense the ebb and flow of Mana within his chest. His Core was still brimming with power, even after using his sceptre to fell dozens of beasts. The Ratling imagined his clawed fingers as they reached out to delicately wrap the shimmering Core in their grip, little wisps of Mana surging outward.

When Blazock had told Skrakch about how a true Rune Mage took the next step on his magical journey, the Goblin Chieftain had stressed the importance of preparation.

“You must maintain a mental image of multiple Cores,” Blazock said calmly as he stroked his long beard. “Keep that image fixed within your mind, see them working together. It’s all about mutual co-operation!”

“But how-” Skrakch blinked, wondering what the Hells the old wrinkled Mage was talking about. Surely he only had one Core? Was that not the whole basis of magic?

“Concentrate!” Blazock growled, tapping his walking stick on the stone floor with annoyance. “I am not talking about gaining a second Core, you idiotic creature. You must carefully divide your Core into equal portions before re-assembling it. This is pivotal to casting the next level of Runes! Each spell that you cast must be intertwined with one another. A deadly dance that requires perfection and grace,” The Goblin paused and snorted derisively. “This will enable you to transform your very essence into a higher plane of existence.”

Skrakch knew that The Patriarch had taken years, even decades, to perfectly chisel at his Core and, even then, most lesser talents simply failed at the next step, their Core breaking apart forever, leaving the Mage as a hollow husk.

The act of stepping into the next tier of magic was no joke and should only ever be considered when the Mage was both prepared and entirely safe. Ideally with a Mage of greater experience on hand. Even the slightest disturbance could have life threatening implications.

So, naturally, Skrakch smashed apart his Core with all the grace of an Ogre smashing into a large boulder. The Ratling watched as hundreds of glittering shards burst into existence in his mind's eye, and for a moment all Skrakch could feel was wonder at the sight.

If only the spectacle wouldn't likely lead to his untimely demise...