Malik, the sparkly dingo-headed savior
Session 11 August 2024
Farryn is fiercely attacking the Mimic that’s holding me, his hammer smashing into the creature with relentless force. “Morph made a tactical move; leave him be,” Farryn says, focused on the battle. I manage to draw my shortsword and slice through the tongue that’s grappling me. The Mimic drops lifelessly to the ground.
Freed, I quickly shoot one of Arcturia’s champions, following Farryn’s orders to focus on the real threats—the Mimics and champions, sparing Morph and the civilians. I heal myself just a bit, then take to the air, flying above the chaos. From this vantage point, I can see Farryn surrounded by two Mimics and two of those twisted champions. I position myself to cover him from above, while Patience assists with a well-aimed firebolt.
Jaf’ar, visibly annoyed, is frustrated that Arcturia managed to flee. Meanwhile, the Mimics and one of the champions are blinded, stumbling in confusion. Suddenly, I notice small stones edging closer to Farryn—more Mimics, disguised as debris, ready to strike.
I aim and shoot at the blind champion, my arrow hitting with maximum force, yet the creature stubbornly remains standing. Desperate to draw attention away from Farryn, I shout and take aim at the enemies that aren’t blinded.
The battle intensifies as we manage to wipe out a few more threats. I focus on a petrified champion, my arrows finding their mark. Patience’s spells help eliminate the other two champions, turning the tide in our favor. However, the champion under our control starts pointing at some nearby pillars that haven’t transformed—yet. They too are Mimics, lying in wait.
I shoot one of the pillars, and it transforms immediately, revealing its true monstrous form. Another shot, and I trigger yet another Mimic. The champion, now on our side, continues to activate more pillars, bringing them to life one by one.
But the battlefield is far from clear. A storm of spectral butterflies swirls around, obscuring my vision and restricting my movement. I catch a glimpse of Grond, swiping at one of the butterflies, which appear more spectral than physical. Strange, but there’s something odd about Grond—he’s growing, right before my eyes.
“Don’t touch the butterflies!” Farryn yells, his voice echoing through the chaos. “They have a magic effect!”
Despite the warning, I see Farryn touch a butterfly, and he’s immediately shrouded in a thick cloud of fog, vanishing from sight. His voice comes through the mist, “Let’s get one to Morph.”
I focus, shooting another Mimic dead. Suddenly, a butterfly flutters close to me. Its vibrant blue wings catch my attention. Feeling a surge of curiosity—and perhaps recklessness—I reach out and let it land on my hand.
As the butterfly settles, I feel a sudden rush of power. My hands begin to glow with a radiant blue light, energy coursing through me.
And then… OH GOSH! THE CEILING DROPS!
A deafening crash echoes through the chamber as darkness swallows everything. The light is gone, my body crushed under the weight of the collapsing ceiling. A scream rips from my throat, but it’s cut short as my consciousness fades, and I die.
I’m suddenly adrift in a strange, cold abyss. It feels like I’m drowning, yet there’s no water—just a suffocating, crushing pressure. I look around and see dragons, magnificent and ethereal, circling above me, their scales shimmering with a radiant light. But the beauty of the scene is distant, as I feel an intense, unbearable pain in my chest. I’m sinking, descending further into darkness, the light of the dragons fading from view.
Down, down, down I go, the weight of the world pulling me deeper into the void. Time loses all meaning. The pain, the cold, the darkness—it’s all I know.
Then, after what feels like an eternity, I WAKE.
The world comes rushing back, and with it, an overwhelming sensation of pain and heaviness. My body feels like it’s been through a war—every muscle, every bone, aching with a deep, lingering hurt. But I’m alive.
The first thing I see is Farryn, his face alight with joy. He’s by my side in an instant, wrapping me in a tight, relieved embrace. “You’re back!” he exclaims, his voice thick with emotion. I can’t hold back the tears. They spill over as I clutch him, my fingers digging into his armor as if to reassure myself that this is real, that I’m really here, alive.
Between sobs, I hear him say that Morph is dead. The news hits me like a punch to the gut. Morph, our companion, our friend—gone. I can’t quite process it. I’m alive, but the cost of that life, the cost of surviving this nightmare, is unbearably high.
I pull back slightly from Farryn, my tears still flowing. “I’m alive,” I whisper, almost disbelieving. My hands are still glowing faintly with the blue energy from the butterfly, a reminder of the strange, miraculous forces at play. I take a shuddering breath, trying to steady myself, but the reality of what’s happened, of what we’ve lost, weighs heavy on my soul.
As I gather my bearings, still reeling from the shock of being alive, I notice movement in the room. A creature is twirling and dancing around, its energy almost infectious. It’s the champion with the dingo head—the one I shot at earlier in the battle.
He’s grinning, his sharp teeth gleaming as he moves with a lightness that seems out of place in this dark, chaotic environment. He finally comes to a stop in front of me, his eyes twinkling with mischief and relief. “Name’s Malik,” he says with a flourish, bowing dramatically. “And I’m quite glad to be free of that wicked Arcturia.”
It hits me—he’s the one who brought me back. Malik, this strange, twisted creature, somehow found the power to revive me. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and disbelief. “Thank you,” I manage to say, my voice still shaky. “Thank you for bringing me back.”
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