Grand Game 320: The Weave weaves as the Weave wills (Patreon)

Only a few moments later, I was ready to commence.

Ghost had been briefed as to the plan and waited a few dozen yards behind in case I needed to make a quick getaway. I was once again outside the fog bank, a touch under fifty yards from my targets.

Drawing psi, I flung a net of bewitching at the six weavers.

Strands of my will surged forward and invaded the minds of the stygians. One by one, they fell under my spell. Sadly though, some resisted.

You have charmed 3 of 6 targets for 20 seconds.

My casting was less effective than I’d liked, but the fact that it had succeeded at all meant the outcome of the encounter was assured. Seeing no reason to prolong things, I ordered the bespelled creatures into motion. “Attack!”

As one, the trio fell upon their surprised fellows, and if the wild bobbing of their mindglows were anything to go by, a frantic life and death struggle had ensued.

“It worked?” Ghost asked. She was far enough away that the stygians were no longer in her sight range.

“It did,” I replied. “It won’t be long now.”

Rocking back on my heels, I made myself comfortable, while I waited for the battle’s inevitable conclusion.

Game alerts scrolled through my mind.

Your minion has injured a level 184 stygian weaver.

A level 184 stygian weaver has critically injured your minion.

Your minion has cast necrotic pulse, healing 6 targets.

A level 184 stygian weaver has cast necrotic pulse, healing 6 targets.

I blinked in surprise. None of the weavers were taking damage. Or rather they were, but they were also healing themselves.

“Ghost,” I said slowly. “I need you back here.”

The spirit wolf trotted to my side. “What’s wrong?”

I pointed to the fog bank that remained opaque to my eyes. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“The stygians are fighting each other—just like you planned,” she said.

“But how are they fighting?” I pressed.

Ghost appeared bemused by the question, but answered, nevertheless. “The weavers are using their pincers to fling spells at each other. The projectiles they’re summoning are bright yellow and eat away at whatever they touch.” She paused. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

I frowned. “Just magic projectiles? That’s all the weavers are using? You don’t see any other spells in play?”

Ghost’s gaze slid back to the fog. “They aren’t— Wait, I see something else.” Her ears pricked forward. “A disc-shaped green glow is forming beneath each stygian’s torso. They weren’t there before.”

“The green discs, describe them.”

“They’re brightening by the second. I’m not sure, but I think they’re growing too.” Ghost stiffened. “One of the discs just exploded.” She paused. “The blast passed over all the weavers, but it didn’t hurt any of the creatures. Instead, it—”

“—healed them,” I finished for her. “It’s a mass restoration spell.” To figure out just how problematic the stygians’ healing was going to be, I reached out and inspected one of the distant mindglows.

The target is a level 181 stygian weaver. It is uninjured.

Analyze confirmed my suspicions. The cumulative effect of the weavers’ necrotic healing pulses surpassed whatever damage their projectiles were inflicting. I sighed.

It didn’t look as if things were going to turn out as simple as I hoped.

✵ ✵ ✵

You have lost control over 3 stygian weavers.

A little later, my former minions regained control of their minds and the skirmish ground to a screeching halt. Unlike the other stygians I’d bespelled before, the weavers seemed smart enough to realize they’d been fooled into fighting one another.

“They sound unhappy,” I commented to Ghost as I listened to the angry clicks and hisses that emerged from the fog bank.

The spirit wolf wagged her tail in agreement. “They are.”

“Angry enough to charge out of the fog bank?” I asked hopefully.

“I’m sorry, Prime. But the creatures are not budging from the seed.”

I sighed. It was too much to hope the weavers would abandon their charge, but I had to ask. Drawing in psi, I began a second casting.

“Are you going to charm them again?” Ghost asked.

I nodded. “I don’t intend on forcing the weavers to fight each other, though. This time, I’m going to lure them out. One by one.” Isolated and alone, the weavers would be easier to kill.

My spell completed and I focused my attention on the fog bank again, searching for my first victim.

But there was none to be had. My mindsight was empty.

“Ghost,” I said in a half-strangled voice, “please tell me the weavers have fled.”

A moment of deliberate silence. “They haven’t.”

I lowered my head into my hands. It would have been better if the stygians had gone, because the alternative was worse: somehow, the weavers had shielded their minds.

“I can’t see their mindglows anymore,” Ghost added helpfully.

I nodded bleakly. “Me neither.”

In one fell swoop, my options had narrowed considerably. Mental manipulation was now out of the question. If I wished to pursue the encounter, I either had to take the fight to the creatures—sword to claw—or employ my consumables. But my remaining bombs and traps were too precious to waste unnecessarily.

Looks like I’m doing this the hard way, I thought, unsheathing my stygian blade.

Ghost stiffened to attention.

“Stay here,” I ordered before she could ask what I was about, “and keep an eye out for the crawlers’ return.”

Padding forward, I entered the fog bank.

✵ ✵ ✵

You have been afflicted by the nether.

Your health, psi, stamina, and mana are degenerating at a rate of 12% per minute (damage reduced by void armor).

I crept through the pale mists with deliberate care, ignoring the corrosive touch of the nether and the constant drain on my energy pools. If I rushed the encounter, the weavers would kill me long before the fog bank did.

Six hostile entities have failed to detect you!

My targets were close.

I couldn’t see the weavers yet, but their plaintive clicks and angry hisses made them easy to track. From the sounds of it, the creatures were stationary again, and I could only assume they’d resumed their guard positions. Senses trained for the least hint of movement, I advanced cautiously.

Six hostile entities have failed to detect you!

One step. Two. Ten. Then, finally the intervening nether thinned enough to give me my first glimpse of my foes.

Six hostile entities have failed to detect you!

I stilled, studying the two creatures that had emerged into view. The pair were the forward sentries and guarded the closer end of the chasm.

The weavers’ bodies were thin, elongated, and antlike. Their rear-ends were fat and rounded, and their heads tiny and oval shaped. They were small too, less than half my own size. In stark contrast to other stygians I’d encountered, the weavers were physically unthreatening.

But only if you ignore the stench of the void that clings to them, I thought wryly.

What the weavers lacked in physical presence, though, they made up for with magic. Sickly green light pulsed beneath their abdomens, yellow ichor that glowed eerily coated their legs and pincers, and brown threads of magic laced their bodies like a second skin.

They’re pure casters, I guessed.

Narrowing my gaze, I searched the pair for any sign that either bore a mage’s shield but spotted none. That both reassured and worried me. I doubted the weavers had left themselves physically vulnerable, and if they lacked the obvious—if effective—protections of a magic shield, they had to have other hidden defenses.

Defenses, I would only learn about after I attacked.

It did not deter me, though. My buffs were already cast, and I had only my final preparations to perform. No sense in delaying further. Raising my stygian sword, I empowered it with stamina.

You have cast fade, blurring your form and making you 25% harder to see for 1 minute.

You have cast piercing strike, doubling the damage dealt on the next attack.

You have cast whirlwind, increasing your attack speed by 100% for 3 seconds.

I was ready. Focusing on the closer of the two visible sentries, I blinked to him.

You have teleported into the shadow of a stygian weaver.

Six hostile entities have failed to detect you!

My stealth held, but I knew I had only seconds before I was spotted. Stepping through the weaver’s body—outside the Nethersphere, the stygians lacked actual physical form—I struck down with my blade.

My body had passed harmlessly through the weaver. My sword did not do likewise.

The smokey stygian blade—forged from the nether itself—found flesh where my body had not and caved in the weaver’s skull.

You have backstabbed your target for 5x more damage!

You have killed a stygian weaver with a fatal blow.

That was not the end of it, though.

The threads of brown magic lining the now-dead body surged upwards to form a mirror-copy of my sword, and before I could recover from my astonishment, it ran me through.

A stygian weaver’s vengeful armor has injured you, reflecting a portion of the damage you dealt!

Your void armor has reduced the necrotic damage incurred by 20%. Your health has decreased to 70%.

I flinched, mouth forming a silent O. It was apparent now what form the weavers’ defenses had taken. Anticipating the worst, I glanced down at where the bespelled blade had pierced my left thigh.

There was no blood.

The reflected attack had not been physical in nature and instead of inflicting a gaping wound, had left withered muscle and bone in its wake. That did not mean it didn’t hurt. It did—mightily. Wincing, I lifted my left leg, flexing it in an attempt to lessen the pain.

The outside of my boot brushed a stone and set it rolling.

Five hostile entities have detected you!  You are no longer hidden.

Damnit, Michael! I cursed, angry at my carelessness.

My misstep had cost me my stealth, and this was about the worst possible time to flounder. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I tightened my grip around the hilt of my sword and whipped my head left and right.

I didn’t need to see my foes to know what they were about. The angry surge in the volume of their clicks made that evident: the weavers were converging on my position. One foe, though, was clearly visible.

On my right, two raised pincers—each bursting with yellow ichor—were pointed squarely at me. It’s about to fire. Out of options, I played my trump card. Reaching to the ring on my right hand with my mind, I activated the casting it held ready.

You have trigger-cast cold sphere.

A stygian weaver has failed a magical resistance check! 1 of 1 targets are chilled.

It was too bad the other four of the weavers were still out of range of the freezing bubble. But right now, they didn’t matter as much as the dead sentry’ companion. Realizing its predicament, the weaver turned around and attempted to flee.

But it was far too slow.

With my weight braced on my right leg, I spun around and brought my shortsword whistling downward in an overhead chop. Stygian blade met chilled flesh and hacked through effortlessly.

You have killed a stygian weaver with a fatal blow.

A stygian weaver’s vengeful armor has injured you!

Void armor charge remaining: 57%.

Your health has decreased to 50%.

Once more, a spelled blade manifested in the wake of my assault and buried itself in my torso. This time, anticipating the attack, I rode the pain better, accepting it as the price to pay for the kill.

Unbidden, more messages from the Adjudicator scrolled through my mind.

Void thief triggered!

You have learned the spell, vengeful armor (stolen), from a stygian weaver.

Warning: you have reached the limit of your stolen spells. Do you wish to replace the tier 5 cold sphere spell with tier 4 vengeful armor spell? If you refuse, knowledge of the new spell will be lost.

Angrily, I banished the Game alerts. Bloody hell! Not now. I’m still in a—

A blight thorn has injured you!

A blight thorn has injured you!

…

Void thief triggered!

The four magic missiles struck me near-simultaneously. Ta-ta-ta-ta!

They ricocheted off my chest in sharp order, my cold sphere, unfortunately, doing nothing to slow them.

I flew backwards, mind nearly white with pain. Each of the thorns stung as much as the vengeful armor attacks had, and I could feel my mind shutting down from the sensory overload. Grimly, I held on to consciousness.

If I fainted, I was dead. It was that simple.

To make my already dire situation worse, a plethora of new Game alerts flashed open for attention. I dismissed them without a second thought. Only one imperative drove me now: survival.

I landed hard after traveling airborne for nearly a dozen feet, and my back hit the rock ground with an audible thud. The air escaped my lungs in a rush. My chest was on fire, as were my leg and stomach.

Still, I set aside my body’s agony and wove psi.

Over the sounds of my own heavy breathing, I heard four sets of insect-like feet scuttling closer. I ignored them as I had my own injuries and kept casting. Flight was my only hope.

You have cast windborne.

The moment my spell completed, I manifested the casting and rolled onto the ramp of air. Four projectiles shrieked through the air on a collision course with me, but before they could reach me, the windslide bore me away.

You have evaded 4 blight thorns.

Face pressed against the ramp of air, I heaved in relief. I was free and clear.

Now, it was time to regroup.