FINAL CORE - Chapter 132 (Patreon)

Transporting sensitive magical alchemical ingredients across long distances is a challenging and risky task that requires careful planning and execution. Alchemical ingredients are substances that have been imbued with magical properties through various processes, such as extraction, distillation, transmutation, or synthesis. They can be used for a variety of purposes, such as healing, enhancing, transforming, or destroying.

However, given this, alchemical ingredients are also highly volatile and reactive. They can degrade over time or lose their potency if exposed to unfavorable conditions, such as heat, light, moisture, or contamination. They can also interact with each other in unpredictable ways, causing explosions, mutations, or anomalies. Therefore, transporting alchemical ingredients requires special containers that can preserve their quality and prevent leakage or mixing. These containers can be made of metal, glass, wood, leather, or other materials that have been enchanted or treated to resist corrosion, breakage, or penetration.

In addition to securing the cargo, transporting alchemical ingredients also requires protecting it from external threats. Alchemical ingredients are highly sought after by various third parties, such as monsters, criminals, or enemy forces in times of war. These parties may attempt to steal, sabotage, or intercept the cargo for their own gain or agenda. Therefore, transporting alchemical ingredients requires either high risk at the expense of the merchant or a strong and reliable escort that can fend off any attacks or ambushes. The escort can consist of soldiers, guards, mercenaries, or adventurers that have been hired or assigned to the task. The escort must also be trustworthy and loyal, as they may be tempted or bribed to betray their employer or client. Oftentimes, vetted escort services are the primary source of such employees, offering an alternative to dungeon-weary adventurers.

More troublesome still, transporting alchemical ingredients requires a clear and efficient route that can minimize the travel time and distance. Alchemical ingredients are best delivered as soon as possible, so main roads are preferred and should be followed, although they might incur tolls at the merchant’s expense. But this is the price of safety. The back roads are free but unguarded.

~ A Look into the Complicated Branch of Alchemical Logistics, by Miraxi Miracalli

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Gregorian

Human, Male, Hunter

Location: The Village of Isaiah

The night is dark and silent, except for the occasional rustle of leaves or the snap of a twig. Gregorian the hunter moves stealthily through the shadows, his bow and arrow ready for any prey that might cross his path — Mostly rabbits up here on the island. He has been hunting for hours, but he has not found anything worth his while. He is hungry and tired, but the man can only assume that his wife and children at home are even more so. The forest of the island of the Tower of Isaiah is full of dangers very unique to a common man like himself, but also of opportunities of the same nature. He has to be patient and alert, for he is not the only hunter in the dark.

He stops by a large oak tree and scans the surroundings with his keen eyes. He sees nothing but trees and bushes, illuminated by the faint light of the stars. Gregorian listens carefully, but he hears nothing but his own breathing and a quietly striking heartbeat. He feels a slight breeze on his face, but he smells nothing but the mulchy scent of the forest. He wonders if he should move on, or wait for a while longer. He decides to wait, hoping that his luck will change.

The aging man leans against the tree and closes his eyes for a moment, letting his senses take over as he listens to the world.

He is about to resume his hunt when he feels a sudden tremor beneath his feet. He freezes, startled, and confused. He looks around, wondering what is happening. The trees sway and the leaves fall as if a strong wind were blowing. He hears a low rumble, like thunder, coming from the ground. He smells a faint odor of smoke, like fire, rising from the dirt. A wave of panic washes over him.

Something is wrong.

“The hell?” mutters the man, holding onto a tree as something lurches beneath him.

Something is terribly wrong.

He grabs his bow and arrow and dashes through the forest, dodging the branches that fall from the sky as he heads back towards the village with empty hands. He runs as fast as he can, feeling the quivering ground shake more and more, as if it is about to split open. The rumble grows louder and louder, roaring as if it were about to explode.

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Sister Faloe

Dark Elf, Female, Warrior Priestess

Location: The Tower of Isaiah, Floor -01

She strides forward with a steady pace, keeping in line with the countless others who share her cause and her fate. She is one of the chosen, one of the brave, and one of the faithful. She has sworn to serve the gods and their church, to fight against the principalities of darkness and sin, and ultimately to cleanse the world of the abomination that dwells in the dark reaches of the world, such as in this very tower. This is her sacred mission.

Faloe feels the cold metal of her light armor bite through her robes beneath the small plates, the leather straps and buckles that hold it together creaking. In this moment, as they get ready to breach the precipice, she feels the icon that hangs from her neck, the symbol of her salvation and her hope, and she feels the hilt of her ritual dagger on her belt — a blade that has never cut flesh. She feels the buckler on her arm, the protection that has saved her life and will save it again. And most of all, she feels the heavy burden of her solemn duty, the responsibility that has been entrusted to her and her kin of the faith here, which they intend to fulfill with conviction.

The sounds of war, the clanging of steel and the shouting of voices, the chanting of prayers and the singing of hymns fill the air, fully void of any screams of pain and fear, moans of agony and despair, and the laughter of madness and cruelty — It is all missing. They instead march in resolute silence, by the thousands. There are no voices of the enemy, the spawn of the hells that are the servants of Isaiah, the fallen angel, the traitor, the usurper, who would fill the gods’ good world with whispers of temptation and doubt, lies that try to weaken the resolve and trust of millions. The many odors of death fill the air. Blood stains the ground and the walls, flesh that burns and rots, bones that crack and crumble. She smells the stink of corruption, the filth that pollutes the air and the water, the poison that infects the plants and the animals, and the disease that spreads among the people. She smells the perfume of evil, the scent that lures and seduces, the fragrance that intoxicates and enslaves, the aroma that masks and deceives. She smells the incense of holiness, the smell that soothes and heals, the odor that purifies and blesses, the essence that reveals and enlightens.

— To summarize, it is the foulness of the tower itself, present all around them at all times. It’s all encompassing.

As is fitting to the sights of horror present here, as evidenced by the darkness that engulfs the tower and the land, the shadows that hide in ambush, the gloom that oppresses and depresses. The horrors of the tower, the traps and the puzzles, the riddles and the secrets, the challenges and the tests, the horrors of the enemy, the monsters and the demons, the beasts and the abominations and the nightmares, the horrors of Isaiah, the master of the tower, all act as evidence that they have taken too long to act. The crusade should have marched months ago, in order to stamp out the befoulment of this malignancy. 

Faloe marches on in a bitter and desperate mood.

The priestess recites the psalms of the crusade in her mind, trying to drown out the noise and the fear.

But then, something catches her eye. A glimmer of light, a flash of color, a hint of movement. Something that seems to call out to her, to beckon her, to tempt her.

Confused, she turns her head slightly, trying to see what it is. She breaks formation, slowing down and moving away from the others.

The wandering priestess reaches a corner, where a narrow passage leads away from the main stairway. The light comes from there, shining softly and warmly. She hears a sound, a melody, and a voice — something that soothes and invites. She hesitates for a moment, torn between duty and curiosity. She looks back at the others, who are still marching on without noticing her absence. She looks forward at the passage, where the light and the sound await her discovery.

She makes up her mind.

She steps into the passage.

She follows the light.

“Brothers? Sisters?” asks the priestess, looking around in confusion.

— Something grabs her legs, and something else grabs her mouth, muffling it.

“GOT ONE!” says a red light. “Let’s go!” it barks, as colorful lights fill her vision as she fights against the powers that have taken hold of her as the ground around them begins to violently shake, stones falling down from the tower’s ceiling. “- The hell!?”

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Isaiah

Isaiah flies in the air, looking down at the island, unto which has come a great disturbance. The crusade is about to breach the sub-tower and enter into the real tower, yet this is not the problem.

The land below the island has changed, and it continues to do so.

Covered until now in the crushing weight of nightfall, the grasslands, flooded with waters from the ocean and the rain, have become morose and swampy. However, they have always retained a tinge of their expected natural colors, given the circumstances. But now, something streaks through the land. Long, tendril stripes of an oil-like substance flow from the dead ruins of the southern city, snaking towards the island through the many channels of water.

The land all around the territory of the southern edge of the continent begins to bubble, the world itself shaking, knocking over those few trees and places that have managed to stay upright so long, causing them to fall into the bracky waters as everything from the dead city to the west, to the old forest to the east, the ocean to the south and the hilly region to the north all begin to liquify, sinking into a rising tide of blackwater.

And from the ooze, long, streaking tendrils have whipped themselves out of the morass with the thickness of ancient tree trunks, lashing upwards and grabbing hold of the island's edge as if a kraken were beneath it, intent on pulling the entire construct down into the ooze.