#volarfinch

And then Vex’s arrows crackled with necrotic energy and for a second, Percy could’ve sworn she’d spouted wings. Grog lunged forward and a sword was in his hands, icy-blue, mist in the air, and the supposed monk from that other motley crew suddenly thrust out and called lightning from the sky. The hands of their wizard now glowed with the Everlight, and their aasimar fighter, or whatever she was, had suddenly called forth a hail of thorny vines. And as Percy looked down at his own palms, he realized suddenly that his gun felt foreign, and clumsy, and wrong.

His fingers fumbled against the catch and the safety of knowing, the security of understanding, was slipping rapidly, terrifyingly from his mind.

He looked around desperately, then dodged another chain that lashed out towards him, slicing through the night.

Or did he? And did it actually miss, or had it tried to hit the mirage now at his side, a flickering, shifting, image of himself, a perfect copy, one he didn’t know how he made—

A sorcerer, then, he quickly decided. Or, perhaps, some kind of warlo—

This time, the chain didn’t miss, striking directly at his chest. But his arm was up before he could even shout, and strapped to his elbow, clutched in his hand, was a silver shield, shining bright—

A paladin? Oh, gods, not the—the gods.

But he didn’t have a chance to groan any louder, because more of the abyss was pouring through, now. Their allies—the united forces of two continents—were still keeping the demons at bay, but the longer that Tharizdun could exist, the angrier they got, the more distorted their minds, the worse the probability that they’d lose this fight—

The light of the Luxon flickered, and Percy knew he had no time to waste.

He threw himself back into the battle, kicking scorched grass up as he ran. His eyes darted across the other fighters—a goblin, a firbolg, but who had his guns? Who had he switched with, where was his power—

And then, he saw it, in the hands of a blue tiefling. Bad News had somehow found its way into her grasp, and she was crouched behind a boulder, looking confused but understanding, eyes focused and breathing low. Percy desperately had to wrack his mind, and through the confusion and the twisting and the blood, inhaled, focused, remembered—

The….Traveler?

He jerked around another writhing chain, ducked behind a half-fallen tree to ask.

“Is that you?” he hissed, under his breath. “Ah…Traveler? Are you out there? I could—gods, I could use the help!”

Dirt and ash flew past his face. The sharp smell of blood filled the air.

Something warm pressed into his chest.

Frantically, Percy threw the axe aside. His fingers dug below his coat and after a second of desperate rifling, they clutched around something hard and he thrust his hand back into the night—

The symbol of a doorway, reflecting the light of a thousand different realities, all in one.

The image was…oddly familiar.

And then, he heard Vex’ahlia cry out. His head shot above the charred bark and he swiveled around, saw her stumble, saw a sword in her hand that he’d never seen before and saw her teeth grit, saw a chain rise—

He ran forward, cried, “Vex! Watch out!”    

A burst of holy light exploded around his wife, enveloping her with a blazing, green glow. He watched, steps faltering, as her wounds began to close, as her posture straightened, her lips grinned, eyes narrowed—

She was back in the fight before Percy could recover. Of course she was, and her next strike was brutal—

He took a deep breath, steadied himself. 

“T-Traveler?” he tried. “Was that…you?”

A voice, lilting, and soft and—

“Of course. Can’t have her falling, not now.”

—oddly, oddly familiar.

His eyes went wide. He whirled around.

“Artagan? Is that—is that you?!”    

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