The otherworldly monstrosity held onto Alan, dragging him closer to the abyssal portal. It knew it was close to death, but it had gotten in one final strike. Its claws had torn through Alan’s armor, crippling him. And even as he collapsed to the dirt, it wrapped one of its remaining tentacles around his uninjured leg.

“Alan!” Tisara’s arrows rained down on the creature, but it held fast.

Far behind her, Rufus kneeled next to Boronas, trying to shake the armored dwarf awake. There was a look of horror on the younger man’s face as he realized what was happening. Boronas was unconscious, having drawn the monster’s ire to create an opening. And Rufus was a fierce fighter, but his magic reserves were weak. The crossbow by his side would be just as useful as Tisara’s bow.

There’s nothing any of them can do.

A sense of acceptance washed over him. His friends would bring news of the demon’s demise back to King Porventus. Their homeland, and their entire plane of existence, would be safe. It was a small price to pay.

“Looks like this is it.” He felt his fingers losing strength as the creature yanked again.

Then Rufus was running – the poor kid looked so desperate to help. Alan felt a sense of pride at that. Once upon a time, Rufus had been a weakling, freshly kicked out of the magic academy. And over the years, they had trained and fought until he could stand at their side as an equal.

“Be seeing ya, kiddo.” The monstrosity’s roar nearly drowned out his words.

But as the creature tugged him again toward the churning portal, the air changed. Rufus raised one hand as if to cast a spell.

“Let him go!” Four dark green beams erupted from Rufus’s palm.

They collided with the creature with frightening force. Each blast sent a shockwave rippling through the air. The first one caused the creature’s grip on Alan’s leg to loosen. Then, the next three sent it hurtling backward and through the portal. There was a sharp crack, as the dimensional tear closed. All that was left was Rufus’s ragged panting.

When the shock wore off, Alan said, “Rufus?”

His voice seemed far too loud in the now-empty chamber. Rufus’s pale face looked sickly in the glow of the arcane torches. His eyes darted from Alan to the location of the portal, and back.

Then, Rufus’s outstretched arm lowered. “I… I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”

Rufus turned toward Tisara, who had a look of confusion on her face.

“I… I’ll go.”

Before Rufus could take more than a few steps, Alan said, “Rufus.”

The kid froze before turning a nervous face back toward him.

“Could you help me up here? I’m kinda down both legs.” He motioned at his injuries. “We can talk when we get out of this place.”

Rufus still looked ready to run. But a moment later, his shoulders slumped as he came over to help Alan to his feet. Tisara used the last bit of her natural abilities to rouse Boronas.

“Did we get ‘im?” was all he could muster.

About half an hour of careful backtracking later, they arrived at their campsite. Tisara tended to Alan’s legs as he regarded Rufus from across the campfire.

Finally, he said, “You’re a warlock?”

“Sorry,” was all Rufus said.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? We’ve been traveling for so long.” He winced as Tisara tightened the bandage.

“I… I didn’t want you to kick me out.” Rufus’s voice was barely a whisper.

Boronas shook his head. “Now why would we do such a thing?”

Tisara let out a soft sigh. “Warlocks in Iverden are heavily persecuted. Don’t you remember where we met him?”

Rufus flinched at the reminder.

“Er… was that where we met him?” Boronas let out a nervous chuckle. “I’d forgotten.”

An awkward silence fell on the camp. Tisara busied herself with looking after Boronas’s injuries. When she finally got to Rufus, he shied away from her.

“You don’t have to. I’ll be on my way.” Rufus did not meet her gaze.

Tisara’s eyes narrowed, a sign that promised much retribution when this ordeal was over.

Alan quickly cleared his throat to diffuse the situation. “Well, I’d rather you didn’t leave. We’ve certainly earned a break from this adventuring stuff. Maybe we can travel a bit. We’ve worked well as a team. I don’t see why that should change.”

“Yeah. Do you know how hard it is to find someone who will put up with the princess’s temper?”

A knife whizzed by Boronas’s face, clipping a bit of his beard. That only seemed to make Rufus more anxious. With a sigh, Alan struggled to his feet. Tisara was at his side in a flash, helping him over to Rufus.

“How about we start over?” He held out a hand. “Alan Har, Paladin of Luristae.”

Rufus did not respond.

Alan tried again. “Please. You’ve been a good friend to me – to all of us.”

Finally, Rufus took the proffered hand.

“Rufus Hensbracht. Warlock of Axla, Goddess of the Green.”

...

Quick one cuz I'm busy and have something else to get to.

If you're interested in my works, the archive of my various writing responses can be found in my writing portfolio, link through my profile. There's also an original story, The Crossroads.

Thanks for reading.

It isn't that difficult to convince the average adventuring party you're a wizard. It's all in the acting and clothing, and I became rather adept at that tidbit because when a mob hears the word warlock, someone will wind up hanging from a noose. Of course, you can't keep that kind of secret forever, so the eldritch sort of magician seldom lives to old age. It's usually a case of running till you can't any longer. I’d been out in the farthest recesses of civilized society, so I didn't think it was possible to run any farther when I ran into the company. A memory of that moment plays itself back in my mind as I sidestep a glimmering bolt of lightning. The trace sparks and winding spider webs of the flash sparkled with the impromptu meeting while avoiding the gangly fingers of the inquisition. That alleyway would be piled with bodies before they gave up. I knew I would have to throw in with the friends who saved my life. The brilliant beam of the blinding bolt’s passage fades, allowing sight of the narrow cavern and horde of bandits pouring out of every tunnel around our group's modest three-tent encampment.

They’d need the numbers if they hoped for anything other than buying time. A sweeping arch of blood traces the air as an ax cracks open an approaching bandit’s jaw in a vicious assault from somewhere in the shadows opposite the cave. I can’t see Disappearance, the team rogue, aside from a dim shimmer in the distance, as they lurk like a damn predator behind the horde, decapitating stragglers back to front. A distant howl of rage heralds the fleeting sight of the savage Jim the Brick, Kane, and his towering longsword deep amongst the cyclical hellscape of the party’s frontline. In a broad arc, that clever cast-iron metal rips roughly halfway through a red-cloaked hooligan’s rib cage. The dying criminal clings to the wound as the mighty barbarian places a leather boot against their chest and pulls the sword free with the sound of warped flesh as it passes along the jagged blade. Nopparage, the party druid, tends to the flock of charging raiders as the stone beneath their advance sharpens to rip the heedless men and elves’ feet to ribbons in the deadly trap.

The sharp crack of a black-powder musket breaks the din of battle from the bandit’s line as the party's glorious leader Dunalong’s Chi-wrapped arm swats the bullet into a bandit who’d been sneaking up behind Nopparage. The foreigner’s visage is set with a grin as the combat drags onward in a flurry of spraying blood, decapitated heads, and chaotic violence bent from lances of purple magic originating from the scroll in my hands. And yet, as the engagement continues, the number of bandits is seemingly endless, as the moderately sized cavern floods with hundreds of poorly armed, exiled knights. I wouldn’t be honest if I said; they appeared to be confident; instead, they seemed to be utterly out of their minds, smiling with unhinged glee even as their head was cut from their neck with an open-palm chop and thrown into a warrior’s chest with enough force to cause an explosion of gore.

Amidst the chaotic din, communication becomes impossible as the purple spirit running the length of my plate-mail flickers with an unnatural vacuum that swallows all it touches. The distant scream of Dunalong’s pained yelps prompts me to act as all other options remain to spend one after another, keeping the horde at arm's length. All light within the cavern is slashed away as a void of rippling tendrils extends from with the slightest beckoning of one sweeping arc along the corrupted magical conduits of my plate. This Holocene of gathering energy passes, the brim of the right shoulder plate demonic laughter echoes through the canyon as lashes pick off the bandits. An enemy's quarterstaff breaks over that same pauldron before shattering into a bloom of wooden shrapnel as the cackling madman rips towards the roof before being disfigured by the horrific abyss of eyes and jaws hanging to the ceiling.

This abyssal horde doesn’t care for the number of enemies as the ambush turns into a slaughter as blood rains thick as a waterfall. The mangled excellence overtakes my being, and I can’t help but scream in ecstasy from the carnage as the rest of the party looks on in horror. I’m not myself as Dunalong sprints across the divide, dodging between the falling bodies of dying dissected body parts. A peal of unhinged laughter rips through my extended jaw, irrespective and uncaring of my attempts to regain control of my carcass from the partial possession of the demonic servants of my god. “The Great Unmaker Shall Claim The Souls Of This World; Death To The Mortals; All Will Die In Zorg’s Firey Embrace!”

This bout of horrific nightmare fuel rages as the tendrils, now deprived of targets, slither along the walls toward the party, mere feet away before a flaming fist shatters the fragile hold of the demon. The pain is immediate as the ground dents the brim of my Sallet. The trailing moments are a blur in tandem with lingering anguish as I return, cradling my head as the group argues overhead. Their speech is impossible to hear what they are saying but judging by the amount of aggressive gesturing, it wasn’t anything good. I’d either be dead or done with the situation in the next few minutes, so I can’t honestly be bothered to care much. After a brief contest of vomiting, I rose irrespective of the ongoing argument; Once more, my boots touched the cavern floor, staggering slightly before slurring my words. “I’m fine, just a demonic mild possession.”

Disappearance (if that was even his real name) hooded form grabbed my shoulders and began shaking my already failing stability while screaming, “What the hell? You were a fucking warlock this whole time!”

The group erupted into another chaotic discussion, worsening my mind-bending headache. In no moment, I’m entangled in the half-brawl and half-part conversation. “I assumed it was obvious!”(Warlock) “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s awesome! Dude, who’s your god!”(Barbarian) “Everyone stops; calm down!”(Monk), “You thought it was obvious, you dress like a damn arch-mage; fake badge and everything!”(Rogue), “Hey why don’t you sit back down.”(Druid) A small dribble of blood runs from my right eye as I break the grapple and gain some distance from the party. The group's general composure turned melancholy as I made the ground. “Okay, so you will not kill me, right?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? Bro, you’re one of us!”(Barbarian), “Are you planning to go traitor, if not we're good?”(Monk), “Do I look like I care about the kingdom’s laws, I don’t have many friends as it is!”(Rogue), “What, why?”(Druid).

Without a thought, I leaned over and wrapped a hand around the small spell book on the ground before throwing the useless chunk of paper into the corpses piled in the center of the chamber. “Just checking; if I’d known, I would have told you all earlier. Alright, I think I’m good; what’s the plan now?”

The sound of squelching flesh wreaked the silence as Dunalong set his still bloody arm, hand, wrist, and shoulder onto my left knee; “We’re going to track down that bandit chieftain, and you’re going to lead him to the deepest layer of hell for us.”

“Sinaveil, grant me your power”

Vincent’s hands rose, black magick igniting from his fingers. The dragon before him growled, and sent a terrible turquoise flame toward us. My hands raised instinctively as the flames enveloped us both, but no heat rushed over my body and removed me from the earth. Even though I knew the breath only lasted seconds, it felt like eternity. When the beast closed its jaw, Vincent’s hands were scorched black, but they were already healing at a rapid pace. From black to raw red to a dark brown, his hands raised higher, the magick burning down his arms. With a cry, a pair of skeletal hands fit for a giant erupted from the ground and went for the throat of the dragon. As they strangled it, the dragon swept claws at bone and mage alike, a single finger grazing the palm of Vincent and letting out a line of blood. With a grimace, Vincent thrust down with his hands and slammed the dragon to the ground. With a twist, the hands snapped the neck of the beast, with a faint roar the final act of defiance.

As Vincent lowered his hands, the bone-bare hands lowered as well, disappearing into the earth without even a shimmer. As he turned toward me, his cut healed, but at a slower pace that showed scar tissue. I reached to grab my blade, but I recoiled as the hilt burned orange-hot.

“Here, let me heal you,” Vincent suggested, but I turned my burnt hands away from his, fear crawling up my spine.

“What in gods’ name was that spell, Vinz? You told us you were a wizard of Light, not of dead”.

“It is not what it looks like, Amara. There is no-“

“-evil within your magick!”

Vinz and I couldn’t help but duck as a mace the size of our heads swung over ours. As I looked up, I saw our Paladin, Cread, swing it around to his shoulder. With a shout, he sent another swing toward Vinz, crashing downward into the earth as Vinz leaped back with a flair of spell at his feet.

“Cread, listen to me! I do not want to fight any of you”.

“You fight me on my beliefs, warlock! There is no majesty in the dark!”

“Oh please, Cree, there most certainly is”.

Vinz gasped as a knife came to his throat. From the shadows, Triaa came forth, her hood of Plane-walking falling to reveal crimson locks of hair and elongated earlobes. She placed a hand on Vinz’s back and pushed forward, tipping his weight forward and onto her shoulder. Vinz attempted to move, but Triaa only tsked as the blade laid smooth on his Adam’s apple.

“Now, Vinz,” Triaa said as her weight shifted to hold him still, “you mind telling us exactly what that was?”

Vinz breathed deep, his eyes racing across my face and Cread’s. With another breath, he spoke once more.

“It, it was an invocation, of necromancy,” Vinz let out.

“Correct. And do you know what you told us when you joined our party six weeks ago?”

“That I only knew-ow-healing magick?”

“Correct again, my dear,” Triaa replied, her knife moving away from his throat. With a slight push, Triaa sent Vinz forward and making him near stumble on the length of his linen trousers.

“Triaa, what are you doing!?”, Cread asked, his mace raised high. I grabbed my blade from the ground, pointing it at Vinz whose hands raised in surrender.

“Come on, Cree, you know Vincent would not hurt a harmless fly, nevertheless his friends. Am I right, dear?”

“Right you are, ma’am,” Vinz gulped as Cread took a step forward, but sighed and lowered his mace to the ground. I took three forward, my blade pointed at Vinz’s nose.

“But he did say he was a wizard,” I questioned, my sword unwavering before him. “And no wizard does necromancy under the Guild”.

“Well, um, I’m the exception,” Vinz spilled nervously, his hands raising higher again as I thrust my blade slightly toward him.

“What do you mean by exception?’

“I’m a warlock, yes. I am a Necromancer, yes. But the Guild found my skills to be exactly what they need as a wizard, and so they let me go”.

“Your skills? You have basic magick control, fire magic, and healing. What do you need necromancy for?”

“Well, my healing is necromancy. But it’s a little hard to explain when you have a sword to the face,” Vinz pitched, with a single finger upon the top of the blade. With a single thought of doubt, I sighed and relaxed my arms. Sheathing the blade, I instead pointed a finger upon his chest and pushed to a rock in front of me. He sat down and twiddled his thumbs as Cread and I stood around arms crossed, Triaa opting to levitate cross-legged. With a nervous glance, Vinz sighed, pulling off his hood of lapiz and letting out a length of black hair to his shoulder.

“Ok, so,” he began to explain, “my healing is necromancy. It’s not complete necromancy, not one enough to rise a human or animal or Eldritch from the dead. What is enough to arise from death is these tiny, and I mean tiny particles on a person’s body. This allows me to essentially reverse wounds, by taking dead particles, letting them live again, and then having them join back with the rest of the particles happy-ever-after!”

“Wait, so you are telling me that I have nercomanced…THINGS on my body?!” Cread cried, his mammoth hands rushing across his arms and legs. Vinz chucked and laid a hand on Cread’s arm.

“Cread, you’re fine. They’re not rotting or boney like other necromanced things are. They’re slightly different in terms of makeshift, but that’s why the tiny scars are there”.

“Then why did you seem to heal completely from the dragon flame?” I interjected, my eyes glaring into his. Vinz looked at his hands, noting the lack of scar tissue from his arms or palm.

“When I called upon him, Sinaveil, he gave me much power as I needed to stop the dragon, heal us, and save you,” he stated calmly with a look of care at me. I felt a warmth creep up my neck before I flushed it down with a deep breath.

“That explains the giant hands then,” Triaa noted, her legs flipping around whilst she floated, “Physical projection or actual necromancy, by the way?”

“A little bit of both,” Vinz replied with a short smile. His face set back to stone as he looked at his hands once more. I reached for his hand, hesitated, and laid both palms on his arm instead.

“Is there something wrong, Vinz?” I asked quietly, squeezing his arm softly. Vinz sighed again and began looking in the distance, trailing the horizon with a sense of melancholy.

“Whenever I call upon Sinaveil, my life force gets taken away. Bit by bit every time.

“How much is a bit?”

“About half a year, give or take a day”.

I grit my jaw in shock, before asking “And how many times have you done so, Vinz?”

“Since I’ve been with you all, 5 times including now. Since I’ve known his presence… 30 times”.

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