Sheizara Tel’vaiel

Written in response to this prompt.

[ Cue the Music ]

Naralinthe worked tirelessly to help the injured trickling into camp from Suncrown Village.  There were a lot— as was to be expected— but all things considered, the crew seemed to be managing things well.  Years of working together ensured an unspoken sense of comfort in one’s roles and responsibilities, and like a complex puzzle, the pieces started falling seamlessly into place.

The triage station ensured those whose injuries were the most grievous were tended to first.  Crew members lacking medical experience kept a steady flow of supplies trickling in, giving the healers much needed freedom to concentrate their time and energy on the wounded.  No role was considered greater or lesser, no action— regardless of how small— was inconsequential.  Together, they achieved a sense of order amidst the chaos.

…until the chaos gave way to pandemonium.

Beneath a white sheet, a body twitched.  He was one of the first to succumb to the severity of his injuries, but like the others draped in sheets, had yet to be removed from the immediate vicinity.  There was simply too much to do and not enough attendees to see to the dead.  That was usually last on the list of priorities in times of war.

Pale fingers flexed and extended, followed by the twitch of a wrist, then an entire arm as it lashed out and gripped one of the priests by the throat.  The strangled scream he unleashed made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and she whirled around to discover its inspiration.  Brilliant magic erupted from his fingers as he sent a flash of light shimmering into its chest, sending the reanimated corpse toppling backward and out of the tent.

“Wait!”  Naralinthe cautioned, but it was already too late.  Everyone watched as the ‘thing’ bloomed into a horrific monstrosity of flesh and flora, its growth expedited by the surge of light magic, and it started shambling toward a group of survivors huddled nearby.

OH GODS!  NO!

Naralinthe’s blood ran cold with the discovery and her eyes darted around the tent from one medic to the next.  Most of their crew was comprised of former Argents, and as such, were practitioners of Light magic.  “STOP!!!”  She screamed, and there was a momentary silence that lingered in the wake of the Lioness’ roar.  She already understood light magic was useless against the Lightbloom.  That was why she stayed back at camp instead of joining Talonoa and the others, but no one warned her the bodies might reanimate.

Rynga took the initiative to carry out the order. “Stop using light magic!”  She bellowed the warning for the others to heed and repeat.  “It only hastens the transformation!”

“Stop using light magic!” Echoed another until the message spread throughout the entire camp.

Instinct took hold, and Naralinthe sprinted toward her tent to retrieve her weapons and armor, forsaking her medical smock entirely.  Deft fingers wrenched and snapped on the buckles of her plate-mail as she suited up in a flurry of practiced determination.  Remembering Talonoa’s warning about the infectious spores, she ensured her mask was still securely in place before waving the tent flap open.

She emerged, a gleaming vision of ivory and gold, and charged one of the reanimated corpses head on, decapitating it cleanly with an arcing, upward swing of her sword.  It writhed on the ground in a pool of yellow sap that made her stomach wretch from the cloying sweetness it released before finally falling still.  It seemed severing the bloom’s attachment to the body’s nervous system prevented it from getting back up— a discovery that came as both a relief and a burden.

Compassion waned to guilt as she realized she would have to desecrate the bodies of her kin.  These poor souls deserved a proper burial, not a syrupy execution by her hand.  “I am so sorry,” she whispered beneath her mask before moving onto the next, hacking and slashing her way through the fray.  Her primary focus would become protecting the medical tent from waves of bloomrotten corpses with pale-yellow flowers for faces, lashing vines in place of appendages, and dislocated jaws hanging agape that spewed more noxious spores into the air.

To her left someone shouted, “FIRE!” and she turned her head to behold a hellscape of tents engulfed in flames.  Already Garren and Sheizara were rushing to the river with buckets to douse the fire while Kaisina flung frost magic wildly about, ensnaring others by accident and sending Nahilivi skating across the ice like an unsteady fawn.

‘What in the nine hells is going on here?!’ She thought to herself.

Only when Dicenne came barreling through the chaos did she breathe a sigh of relief.  Backup had arrived… and not a moment too soon.

Midnight Mercenaries Prompt #1

Dicenne's Perspective

The Lightbloom immediately resisted their intrusion, Dicenne felt it the moment he crossed beyond the safety of Runestone Shan’dor, where the iridescent shimmer of its barrier faded behind him. He pulled a handkerchief up over his nose and mouth, securing it in place as spores drifted thick through the air, breathing that in seemed like a terrible idea. Beneath his boots, the ground did not feel like ground at all, but something softer. Something that shifted faintly, as if disturbed by his weight. It didn’t take long for the creatures of the Lightbloom to find them, and he did not hesitate.

Steel rang softly as he drew his sword, shield already raised as something moved ahead, a twitch of limbs, a creak of bark. The first of the florafaun lunged from the overgrowth, all jagged vines and snapping tendrils. Dicenne met it head-on. The impact jolted through his arm as his shield slammed into it, knocking it back just long enough for his blade to carve cleanly through its core. 

Another came from the side, and he didn’t even look. His shield snapped out behind him, catching it mid-lunge with a *crack* before pivoting through the motion and driving his sword up and under in a brutal thrust that split it apart. A third tried to wrap his leg, he stamped down hard enough to pulp the vine beneath his boot.

“Help!”

The voice was weak, buried somewhere beneath the ruin of what had once been a home. Dicenne turned immediately, scanned, then moved. The structure had been split open from below, bamboo erupting through its foundation and tearing it apart. One side had collapsed entirely, leaving beams and stone piled in a jagged heap. Beneath it, there was movement.

He was already there, sheathing his sword for a moment to grip a fallen support beam. Muscles strained and shoulders tightened as he braced his stance, and then he pulled. The wood groaned in protest before splintering free, wrenched aside with a force that sent debris scattering. Another beam followed, then stone, then a section of wall that should not have moved at all, and yet it did, dragged aside under sheer strength. Something snapped somewhere in the structure with a sharp crack that suggested he absolutely should not have done that, but it was too late now.

A hand reached out from the wreckage.

“I’ve got you.” He carefully cleared enough space first despite the urgency pressing in from all sides. When he finally reached in, his grip was firm but gentle, easing the wounded elf free from the debris that had pinned them. They cried out, but they were alive. 

Something screeched behind him. He didn’t turn, just shifted, bracing the survivor against his chest with one arm as his other hand snapped out, grabbing his sword off instinct. The creature that lunged met the flat of his blade first, deflected, then immediately the edge on the return as he cut it down without ever fully turning his attention away from the person he was pulling free. He sheathed the sword again in one smooth motion before he lifted the survivor into his arms. “Stay with me.”

The path back was not easy. More creatures moved in the ruins: florafaun, Ruutani, things that had possibly once been people. That was alarming. But Dicenne did not slow. He shifted the survivor’s weight with ease, keeping them secure against him as his shield came up again. The next creature that lunged was met with brutal force, his shield smashing into it hard enough to send it reeling, and ending it with the sharpened edge.

Another tried to flank him. He pivoted, drove his shoulder into it like a battering ram, and sent it sprawling before stomping its head into the dirt hard enough that it didn’t get back up. Something else leapt from above, and he drove up into it with his shield, catching it midair and smashing it aside hard enough to send it hurtling into a wall, caving in part of the already-ruined structure.

Again, and again, he did not waste any motion. He carved a path through the Lightbloom while carrying the living, until at last the shimmer of the barrier came into view once more. To safety, or what should have been. He crossed back through Runestone Shan’dor and slowed, lowering the wounded carefully as others moved to take them. There was relief in that moment, as fleeting as it was. Then he turned back, because there were more to help.

He lost count of how many trips he made. Back and forth, in and out of the Lightbloom. Sometimes with the assistance of other crew members, sometimes on his own. Each time, more survivors, more second chances.

He carried those who could not walk. He cut others free from vines that tried to claim them, once ripping a root clean out of the ground when it refused to let go. He tore open collapsed homes with his bare hands when there was no other way, once bracing a full doorframe on his back to hold it long enough for two civilians to crawl out beneath him before he let it crash behind them.

His body became a tool of purpose, strength and endurance pushed without hesitation, because there was no room for anything else.

Until…

He stepped back through the barrier again, another wounded woman in his arms and stopped. For the first time since entering the Lightbloom, Dicenne just stared.

Fire. Everywhere.

Tents burned in ragged patches across the camp, canvas collapsing in on itself as flames devoured them. Figures ran, some living, some very much not, engulfed in fire, their movements erratic and violent as they crashed into anything in their path. Others stood frozen in jagged sculptures of ice, caught mid-lunge, frost clinging to them in thick layers like aggressive lawn decorations. Smoke choked the air, mixing with that same sickening sweetness until it turned the whole scene into something surreal.

His expression did not soften, but it didn’t sharpen either. It simply settled into a very clear: What the actual fuck.

Somewhere to his left, something exploded. Not metaphorically, actually exploded. He blinked slowly, the woman in his arms stirred weakly. He moved again, already stepping toward the nearest unburned stretch of ground where a shaken survivor stood, wide-eyed and unsure.

“Take her,” Dicenne said, voice low but firm as he transferred the woman into their arms. His gaze flicked once toward the chaos nearby. “Get to another camp. One that isn’t on fire.” A burning corpse sprinted past behind him at that exact moment, shrieking, “…Preferably immediately.” There was no time to wait for a response, he was already turning back and diving in.

A frozen plant-creature stood directly in his path, locked in place by thick encasements of Kai’s ice work. Dicenne grabbed the thing by the shoulder and drove it down, smashing it against the ground with enough force to shatter the frost and the creature in the same motion. Ice cracked, bark splintered, and the thing broke apart beneath him into a pile of frozen debris. 

A scream cut through the chaos, and he pivoted instantly. Kaisina. A burning, thrashing plant-thing had her, brambles digging into her arms and flames catching her sleeves. Dicenne closed the distance in a heartbeat. His shield came up first, not defensively, but violently, slamming into the creature’s face with a crack that staggered it backward hard enough that something inside it audibly snapped. The grip on Kai loosened just enough.

That was all he needed. The edge of his shield flashed with a single, vicious arc and the thing’s head tumbled free, the body collapsing where it stood with flames still clinging to it as it hit the ground. Dicenne stepped in immediately, his cloak already in motion as he patted out any lingering flames on her sleeves.

“You good?” He waited a beat, just long enough to confirm she wasn’t actively on fire anymore. When she nodded, he pushed her towards the healer’s tent and was already moving again.

The camp had become a battlefield, but Dicenne was doing his best to turn it into something more controlled. He hunted the burning dead, one by one. Each time, the approach was the same, there was no time to waste. A shield strike to stagger, a blade to finish. Sometimes he used the sharp edge of the shield itself, slicing heads, limbs, or vines cleanly in one swift movement. Bodies fell and flames followed. Each one he took the time to smother so the fire couldn’t spread any further than it already had.

One lunged and he sidestepped, grabbed it by the arm and used it to slam into another. The two tangled together long enough for him to cut through both in a single, savage follow-through. Another tried to grab him from behind, he drove his elbow back into it hard enough to cave in its chest before turning and finishing it with a vicious strike.

A figure broke free from the chaos, fully engulfed in flame, and sprinting wildly toward the edge of camp. Right toward another cluster of tents that had not yet caught. Dicenne didn’t chase, but instead he picked up a discarded axe from nearby, and in one smooth motion, he turned, and threw. The weapon spun end over end and buried itself in the back of the creature’s head with a heavy impact. It dropped instantly, skidding across the dirt in a trail of sparks before going still.

“Nope,” he muttered under his breath, already turning away, “we are not spreading that.” He was already moving toward the next.

Around him, the others fought in their own ways. Rynga was a force of nature, somehow still working to mend the wounded while driving back anything that got too close. Her voice carried through the chaos in a string of unrelenting curses in her native tongue that honestly might have been doing damage on their own for anyone who understood. Naralinthe stood firm at the edge of the medical space, shield raised, and blade moving with precision as she held the line. At least they weren’t adding to the chaos.

Through the smoke and fire, Dicenne caught sight of Nahilvi dragging herself free from the wreckage of a collapsed green tent. She looked disheveled, but at least alive and not terribly injured from what he could see. More fire immediately caught on the tent behind her the moment she exited, because of course it did. Murphy’s Law. 

Not far from her, Sheizara and Garren sprinted past in the opposite direction, both looking like drowned rats as they hauled burning supplies into the river with the kind of urgency that suggested they were very aware of how bad this had gotten, and possibly that they had something to do with it. Garren nearly slipped on a patch of ice…again. Dicenne sighed. A hot mess. He briefly wondered what Talon’s reaction was going to be, they would all be witnessing that soon enough. The members of the camp were all just doing their best, but there was definitely a lesson to be learned here about what not to do. Some of them were still just novices in their craft, but at least many of those in the mender’s tent knew how to fight and were all actively trying to stop the camp from being infested and/or burnt to the ground. They would get through this. His gaze flicked towards his own tent which was still standing, and most notably not on fire. A small win, and he planned on keeping it that way.

By the time the last of the burning plant-creatures fell, the camp was still smoldering, but no longer overrun. Dicenne stood at the center of it, chest rising and falling steadily, cloak damp and streaked with ash, water, and probably blood. The fires were being handled. The wounded, at least those who could still be saved, were being tended. Somewhere, something else caught fire. He slowly turned his head to look at it, sighed, then looked back at the rest of the camp.

At the damage. At the people. At the remnants of what had just happened. And for a second time, that same look crossed his face: What the actual fuck.

Midnight Mercenaries Prompt #1

“They’ll catch on fire when you loose ‘em!” 

Garren did not hesitate when Sheizara shoved the arrows into his hand. He didn’t even question it, just nodded, already turning, already drawing. His fingers moved with instinct, muscle memory and panic taking over instead of really considering what he was about to do. The first arrow flew clean and true, embedding itself squarely in the chest of one of the shambling, flower-covered corpses lurching toward a pair of wounded civilians. Bullseye. Nice.

For half a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, it ignited. Flame bloomed outward in a sudden rush, catching fast as if the thing had been soaked in oil. The corpse jerked violently, spine arching as that layered, discordant shriek tore out of it, and then it ran. Not at him, not away from him, just ran.

“Wait!”

Garren’s second arrow was already in the air before he could stop himself. Another hit and another ignited. Another shrieking, flailing, wildly sprinting horror careened off course and slammed shoulder-first into a tent, which caught almost immediately on fire with a *whumph*. Garren froze. That wasn’t… that was not how that was supposed to go.

A third one, already burning, sprinted past him with arms flailing, and bowled directly into a stack of supply crates. Flames spread with alarming enthusiasm, licking up canvas and wood alike. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sheizara already moving and dragging something out of the way before it could fully catch, her head snapping toward him as if saying ‘oh shit, what did we do’. In their defense, they weren’t the only ones trying to stop the things with fire. Maybe. It was hard to tell at this point.

Somewhere to his left, someone shouted for more fire, and somewhere to his right, someone else shouted to stop using fire. The two orders overlapped in a way that felt deeply unhelpful. Near the healer’s space, Rynga’s voice cut through it all in a string of very loud, very creative Dwarvish curses as she tried to keep pressure on a wound and kick a smoldering, twitching limb away from her patient at the same time. Naralinthe had already abandoned any pretense of staying back, shield raised and sword in hand as she stepped in front of the triage area, bracing to intercept anything that got too close.

Garren stared at the growing number of things-that-were-on-fire, then down at the arrow still nocked in his bow.  Another flaming corpse sprinted past him, this one veering wildly toward the faintly glowing spread of the Lightbloom itself. He winced when some of the bamboo stalks abruptly caught on fire.

“Nope. …Nope, absolutely not.” He lowered the bow immediately, a decision made with the kind of speed that came from pure panic. Fire arrows were no longer part of the plan. Fire arrows were, in fact, the opposite of the plan. “Water,” he muttered, already turning. “Water fixes fire. That’s…yeah. That’ll do it.”

The mess tent was already half in disarray, but the buckets were still there and blessedly intact, and exactly what he needed. He grabbed two in quick succession, nearly colliding with someone rushing past him, Nahilvi, who looked like she was trying very hard to be a healer and not die at the same time, and then bolted for the river.

He moved faster than he realized he could under pressure. Dodging around panicked civilians, sidestepping a flailing, half-burning corpse that lunged blindly in his direction, vaulting over a toppled crate without breaking stride. The chaos blurred around him, but his focus narrowed to a single, simple objective: Fill the buckets. Don’t think about anything else.

The river rushed nearby, cool and steady and not on fire, which immediately made it his favorite thing in the entire world. He skidded to a stop at the bank, dropped to a knee, and plunged both buckets into the water, hauling them up with a grunt as they filled. “Okay, I can fix this.”

He turned and immediately had to dodge as something shrieking and aflame stumbled past him, tripped over its own feet, and rolled down part of the riverbank with a hiss of steam.

“…I can mostly fix this.”

Garren took off back toward the camp, buckets sloshing with every step. He adjusted his grip, compensated automatically, and weaved his back through the mess with surprising agility for someone who, until recently, had not been expected to be anywhere near this level of disaster.

By the time he broke back into the main stretch of camp, Dicenne had already arrived. Thank the Light. No, not the Light, the Light was the root source of this issue (Heh, -root- source). Thank fuck. He watched him striding out of the Lightbloom with a wounded civilian in his arms, and a couple others staggering closely behind. Dicenne slowed just long enough to take in the scene - the fires, the rampaging, burning corpses, the slipping, shouting, everything - and the look on his face very clearly said ‘what the actual fuck’.

Ahead, Garren caught sight of Kaisina trying to hold her ground, frost magic lashing out in sharp bursts to slow an advancing cluster of burning, thrashing bodies. It worked, until one of them didn’t stop. The flaming thing barreled through the slowing ice and slammed into her. Kaisina screamed as it grabbed her, brambles digging in, fire licking at her sleeves as she struggled to wrench herself free. Panic snapped through her casting in that instant, and the spell she released wasn’t aimed, it just went off.

A burst of frost detonated outward in a wide, uncontrolled wave, and Garren hit it mid-stride. His left foot came down, and stuck. There was a horribly unfortunate moment where his body kept going but his foot absolutely did not. He had just enough time to think ‘oh no’ before gravity made the decision for him. He went down hard, face-first, both buckets flying from his hands in a spectacular arc that looked, for one hopeful second, like it might still accomplish something useful.

It did not.

Water splashed impressively across the dirt, the grass, and, most notably, not the fire. Garren lay there for a second, stunned, cheek pressed against the ground as distant shouting and nearby crackling flames filled his ears. Behind him, something shifted sharply in tone, the chaotic scramble shifting into something cleaner and faster. He twisted just enough to see it.

Dicenne moved in like a blade. The flaming creature that had seized Kaisina didn’t get a second chance. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, shield already in motion. The edge caught the thing clean across the neck in an arc, severing the head from the body before it could react. The corpse dropped instantly, fire still clinging to it as it collapsed, and Dicenne’s cloak came down over it a second later, smothering the flames before they could spread further. Kaisina stumbled back, free, slightly scorched, but alive. Garren blinked at that for half a second. If he had time to think harder on it, he may have questioned his sexuality watching the older man move like that.

But then the world snapped right back into chaos. Behind him, someone slipped on the same patch of ice with a yelp. Somewhere else, something else caught fire. Because of course it did. 

Garren pushed himself up onto his hands, wincing as he tried to pull his leg free, but it didn’t budge. “Right, okay, we’re doing this.” He twisted, grabbing his dagger and flipped it in his grip before bringing the pommel down hard against the ice encasing his boot. Once, twice, a third time, then the ice cracked. A fourth hit shattered enough of it for him to wrench his foot free with a sharp tug, nearly losing his balance again in the process but managing somehow to stay upright this time.

A burning figure staggered past him, shedding embers with every step. “Okay, new plan, less fire.”

Behind him, Rynga was still somehow both healing and swearing, Naralinthe was holding the line in front of her with shield raised as she battered back a lunging plant-thing. He spotted Sheizara nearby, already in motion, hauling what looked like salvageable supplies toward the river with the kind of decisiveness he deeply envied at the moment. 

That, at least, made sense. That was something he could help with without making everything worse. Garren darted over, and grabbed a crate from a small pile that was just beginning to smolder. Together, they ran, Garren doing his absolute best to ignore the chaos behind them - the fires, the screaming, the still-moving shapes that shouldn’t have been moving at all - and focus instead on the one task he could complete without accidentally setting half the camp ablaze. Which, given how the last few minutes had gone, felt like a very reasonable personal goal.

Polar stratospheric clouds in Norway

Archer's Ring

19th century

Jade, gold, rubies, emeralds

India

DONKEY SKIN/ PEAU D'ÂNE (1970)