The effort is made, and the deed is done. The head slowly shifts and begins to fall, though the angle is off. It careens to the side, her face turning down and away as if in shame to slam her brow into the cliffside. Water cascades down her still face, but only it continues to fall. She stills. A rock noisily clatters from the cliff. A shower of pebbles rains down into the water and greenery far, far below. A crack pops noisily, tearing a seam in the rock that climbs straight up to the cliff's crown above you all. The sun is too bright to see it, but the entire expedition hears part of the cliff give way. No piece larger than a grain of sand hits the pathway you stand on, but giant chunks of the stone plow past you all, whipping the air and water around it, to crack into the bottom of the basin. Arlyn leans over the side to look down with a whistle that echoes in the deafening silence.
Those with Magic Receptacle Sound or Hyper Sense notice it first, drawing their attention. It sounds like nothing you've ever heard before. Like a thousand papers thrown into a storm, violently fluttering and shredding. Grinding. Chewing. The slick sounds of something being devoured. Insect wings. Insect wings in great enough number as to be innumerable.
Those with Magic Receptacle Sight see it once their eyes have adjusted to the light. The end of the pathway blooms outwards with magic. Ripples of it snake into the canyon, fading just before they reach the inert form of the Matron. It looks alive and red. Something pulses at random, as if the magic itself is wildly lashing out at the world around it. Those with Hyper Sense cannot see whatever source their keen-eyed fellows may witness because the world turns to black and red. Beyond the bright light and misting waters that would blind anyone else, they see the swarm. They fly erratically. They assault everything from the droplets of water to solid rock to one another. It is a maddening sight.
Those with Magic Receptacle Taste or Magic Receptacle Smell notice it last. There is something burning on their tongues and on the wind. A cavalcade of scent and flavor profiles that overwhelm them with something that is not pyromancy nor hemomancy, but reeks of hot iron. Makes their skin hot and inflamed. Feverish...
And the swarm notices you.
All at once the swarm explodes outwards, crashing down the canyon toward you all without a hint of hesitation. Immediately, some turn to run, while others grit in their heels and steady themselves against a tide there seems to be no stopping.
The Moment of Truth
The noise was too much. The time it took to clear the path too great. The swarm descends on the expedition.
... Whistle. (She laughs, surprisingly soft-eyed despite the danger quickly approaching, before she orders over her shoulder.) Those of you who can run, run. Report to Childress: infection source located. Good luck!
Perhaps her easy acceptance of the fight, and likely grave rushing to meet her and her fellow Whistles, should be unsettling... but the Vow of Whistles has always been a grim one.
These are the ones who defy death, to beat back darkness and light the path forward. They acknowledge the dangers of the expeditions, that death walks besides them always, and that their whistle is a promise to keep their skills sharp, their will steeled, to become the source of strength for their comrades, and to never abandon their company even in the direst of times. Ad astra per aspera, their aspirations take them to the stars.
(Arlyn grins.) Per aspera!
[ Flee and inform the expedition. ]
Those with Dynamism or the Haste Action may choose to flee and carry on Arlyn's message, saving themselves from the unsure fate of the torchbearers left behind. Those with Haste cannot Haste others, only themselves. React withto do so. Those with the Carry Passive may save one companion as well. Have the comrade you save react with
.
[ Remain with Arlyn's company. ]
Those with Dynamism may choose to remain with the company and face whatever unsure fate awaits the torchbearers of death. There will not be another chance to flee. React withto do so.
70 / 100
Explorer's League
Red Fever (4) Sadness
Be quiet...
Cracks in the cliffs, crumbling, collapsing.
No, no, no... quiet... it's too much... noise... not enough...
His silence returned too slowly, expanding around the little swordsman. It filled his ears with television static, masking the terrible, ominous hum in the distance. No. Not distant at all. Too close. Too fast to outrun, too many to fight, too little too late too small too soft too slow too sad, sad, sad—
In the fatalistic haze of Red Fever, words took shape in his head, rhyming strangely.
Rocks fall.
Lose them all.
Everyone tries.
Everyone dies.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the drone grew louder, a grinding howl that spilled at last over his half-formed hush. Not enough, Rook thought, skipping a step, sandals scraping on stone.
A hot wind seemed to assail his senses, feverish, before his hair blew back and his eyes widened in a last moment of realization.
The swarm fell on him like iron sand, binding him, weighing down his blade with a tide of malevolent magic. Maddened, fever-red, the Quickless quick fought back with tools made by men to fight men and kicked out with feet made to kick foes and wept with eyes that bore no salt as he was swallowed.
They were the Explorer's League.
Not enough...
And he was Rook the Quick, and Lady Luck had turned on him at last.
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