Chapter Text
Meanwhile…
“Three.” Nisha leveled her axe at Yan’vinalia, imagining cutting the demons head off as she counted down. “Two.” Yan’vinalia’s eyes slowly narrowed, her mouth open in a hungry grin of anticipation. “One!” Nisha whipped a smaller tomahawk at the Primal, and as it soared through the sky, the battle cries of many rang out as they all charged forward in unison.
Yan’vinalia pulled the tomahawk from her shoulder, the wound melting from an almost neon red to soft white. She threw the metal down, swinging her whips in quick snaps in a small circle around her.
“Your souls are stained.” She hummed, turning all her eyes at Nisha, who had thrown the initial hit.
And so, with her blood red eyes, Yan’vinalia attacked--her sanguine soaked whips attacking the far reaches of the room, while her lower dual blades slashed at those who struck close and true to herself. With two well trained white mages among their ranks, while the damage done was painful and much blood was lost, eaten even by the whips and blades that Yan’vinalia used, the two were quickly able to react, and keep the warriors fighting despite any injury.
But what the group quickly realized after a few bad hits and missteps: Akari completely lacked imagination. Every strike this primal did seemed to mimic either an easy to read pattern, or something that Lakshmi or Ravana had done as one of their signature moves. It was quick time before Muffin and Elise were calling out safe places within the room to stand as Yan’vinalia swung her blades low or whips high. As Yan’vinalia noticed the easy dodges, she held her four arms closer to herself, hiding any tells she was giving them—and in those moments Delita and Syentara took up charge, seeing where her intent through the means of the echo the two had been blessed with.
“Open your hearts to me!” Yan’vinalia screamed, a desperate sound in her voice and a crazy look in her eyes as she swung both her blades and her whips around the room at once, giving everyone a deep bloody wound—beside Twenty, who had no blood to bleed in this battle.
From each of the mortal seven, their blood slowly bloomed into the shape of a dripping crimson butterfly, fluttering and floating above their heads and around the room.
“Storyteller…” The primal purred, her many eyes darting around until they fell on the small Lalafell. “Let me return the favor of your namesake… I’ll tell you my favorite ghost story. Of the Crimson Butterfly.”
The seven butterflies flew around, wings flapping too quick and their bodies mixing and spinning too fast to keep track—and then one exploded, sprinkling sanguine rain across the whole room, coating it in a sticky bloody mess.
“Many make assumptions about the story before it is even begun, so let me dismiss them before I start: the Crimson Butterfly is not named for the deep dark color of blood…” Yan’vinalia watched as the blood on the floor slowly bubbled, and in the same moment, the room dissolved, replaced with the deep wood of a ship at sea, in a storm.
“This is…” Muffin looked around in horror a moment, before turning to her husband, who shared the wide eyed expression.
This was Delita’s butterfly.
His blood.
…His ship.
Delita charged forward, swinging his greatsword at the primal, a rekindled furry in his swipes as the ship rocked too and fro, making solid footing a bit more difficult for those unused to it.
Yan’vinalia laughed a shrill sound.
And then the second butterfly burst, a new coat of blood raining down on them.
“They are named after pain though.” The Primal smiled, swinging her blades again, “they’re like ghosts of past memories, the butterflies, calling to those who wander too close to their home. It’s a Hingan tale, meant to keep wandering children away from dark forests…”
The blood bubbled as she spoke, and the ship turned to trees, uneven ground, difficulty seeing around the branches.
And then lightning struck, a tree bursting, shattering splinters across the unsuspecting, and leaving a smoldering burnt thing above their heads.
Elise frowned at the sight.
It seemed familiar to her.
Like The Tower from the tarot deck…
Was this her blood?
The third butterfly burst, and again it began to rain.
“There were cursed souls in the forest. Each one tied to a butterfly who would try to lure prey to them like an angler fish in the night. And once a butterfly hypnotizes a new soul, it would be free to pass on to the otherworld, while the new soul would take its place. But how does one take a human and turn their soul into such a bright butterfly?”
The blood bubbled, and suddenly they were in a frozen wasteland, the cold breeze so strong it hurt just to breathe. There was a single firepit, the only light in the dark night below the myriad of stars, with three logs placed around it as makeshift seating.
T’dei’s magic cast stopped as she stared at it.
That was the last time she had seen T’wylite before her father announced him dead…
The fourth butterfly burst, and slowly the snow dyed red.
Yan’vinalia smiled, watching the healers desperately try to keep up with the pain each place caused as she continued her story. “It was up to the cursed soul to make these wandering spirits into their new butterflies… so they would lure them, and put their hands around their neck. And squeeze.”
The blood bubbled, and the room twisted to look like a Library. But instead of books lining the shelves, there were skulls and soulstones. The walls bled, and the room flooded with it, making their steps slow in the sticky slosh.
The fifth butterfly burst, and the blood rose in level as it rained down.
The blood around their boots cleared, turning to a dark water as it slowly drained from the room. The walls seemed to have fallen away again, and they stood out during high tide, white sand beneath their feet but not quite at the beach. The island seemed so far away.
Waves crashed down, pushing the warriors.
Except Allison, who knew and dug her feet into the sand as memory and muscle reminded her to do. She glared Yan’vinalia down, recognizing her blood soaked memory of escape too well.
And then the sixth butterfly burst.
“When the cursed soul had squeezed too tight…” Yan’vinalia continued her story, “the body would die, and the soul would be free. But they had to squeeze tight enough that the soul would be trapped by crimson confines.” She brought her two upper hands to her throat, crossing her thumbs in front, and curling her fingers just a bit. “A butterfly.” She whispered, looking at the shape of her hands, “bright red on their neck, before fading to dark bruises.”
The blood bubbled, and grass grew from the ground. It was warm, and for a moment, the area they found themselves in was beautiful, like a cross between Gridania’s lush forests and the beautiful plains of the Azim Steppe.
And then the pain ripped through them from the inside. Their stomachs growled, empty and painful, trying to eat themselves alive from the inside out.
Nisha grit her teeth, and just as she had done before in spite of the pain that threatened a slow death, she pushed forward.
The seventh and last butterfly burst.
“I always liked that story.” Yan’vinalia giggled, “I always wanted my own butterflies after that. Little souls as pets. Their blood and memories mine. This story must ring well with you, Storyteller? Is this what it feels like… when you eat?”
The blood bubbled, and once again, the group found themselves at sea. But rather than on ship or beach, they seemed to be at the bottom of the ocean.
It was a cold graveyard among the sand. Skeletons scattered around them as they moved and fought.
As the water drained, the walls slowly fading back into reality, the last onze of cold that the ocean water carried seemed to focus to a single point.
A spear, that Syentara threw as she had done earlier--but aimed true at Yan’vinalia’s heart.
It struck true--and Yan’vinalia again laughed. Her voice warbled, piercing and chaotic as blood dripped. Froze. Coiled like tentacles before they retracted back into her chest, the spear of ice melting as they did. “Won’t you give yourselves to me? I’ll give you each the best death you could ask for.”
“She’s putting on a show.” Muffin said sternly, though her face was pale. “She’s got to be low on aether after that stunt…”
Keep pushing.
And the group did--relentless attacks, almost stirred to a new sense of fervor after the short sights of bad memories each got to relive, twisted by Akari’s magic.
Seeing her own fate spelled before her, Yan’vinalia turned desperate, spinning her blades around her, then the whips--the blades. The whips. The blades. The whips! They couldn’t hold strong forever!
Something had to give.
In the end, as it always was: the Primal fell.
A scream choked from Yan’vinalia’s throat, fractured and multilayered as everything she had tried to absorb and control was too much, demanding too much, and failing all at once as her aether ran dry against the mortal wounds she endured.
Aether burst away from her, fading fast, and Akari fell to the ground.
Syentara walked up to the body before the others could make a move beyond breathing their sigh of relief. She stood a moment, looking at the pale Raen before her, the tip of her ice-made katana ilms from her face. Then she turned her steely gaze on Muffin.
“That must be a strong lamp.” The words were void of emotion as Syen spoke, “calling moths to its flame like that.”
Muffin held her head high despite what was beginning to feel like a threat or challenge. “Aye. Though, don’t you mean butterfly, Syen?”
“No.” Syen looked down at her feet. “I like butterflies. I hate moths.” She lifted her blade, and then thrust it forward, through Akari’s skull. “She won’t bother you any more.”
She pulled the blade out, and turned back around, walking past the group, and not stopping until she stood before the others who had not fought.
“You good?”
Roland pushed himself up from where he was sitting, a slow and stiff motion. “Not yet. You done?”
“She’s dead.” Syentara said with a tilt of her head.
“My turn.” Roland pushed past Syentara.
“My lord?” Nisha moved to him, her face betraying horror at his blood soaked shirt.
Roland stopped long enough to look at her, until his eyes caught what she held.
“I’d like to use that,” he held out his hands, and Nisha complied, handing his Diamond Axe back to him. “Thank you.” And he walked on again, past Akari’s dead body.
Kurenai was just waking up, pushing himself up in a haze and looking around the bloodied room, horrified eyes falling on his sister, the blood pooling away from her body, gleaming against the marble flooring.
Roland stopped before him.
“Ifrit…” Kurenai said, a small nervous laugh in his voice as he pushed himself up--his good hand sliding to grab hold of his ceremonial dagger. “Is this really what you want?”
“Do you remember what I told you?” Roland spoke, ignoring Kurenai’s question completely. In the distance--if one listened closely, the sound of claws on tile could just be heard. Kurenai didn’t respond, fidgeting in place slightly instead as his eyes darted around, attempting to formulate an escape of some kind.
“I told you,” Roland continued, “that just before this was all over… I’d give you something to be afraid of.”
A fireball burst across the entire room from behind the magicteck tank--melting some of the metal and boiling the room too bright and too hot for the split second it took to get from one side of the room to the other--hitting Roland square in the back.
And then the man was on fire, the flames consuming and changing what he was.
His clothes burned to red and black armor, shining like molten lava and rock. His tail seared, for a moment looking burnt, until the darkness seemed to mimic scales, and the end remained alight, and atop his head, two dark red horns emerged.
Purple eyes burned red, and Ifrit proper pointed what was once a silver axe, now an axe of flame and fury, at his prey.
“Now. It’s over.”
“Beautiful!” Though the nervousness in Kurenai’s voice was now a trembling fear, “A shame you won’t let me live to share it…” Using the wall as support, Kurenai slowly pushed himself up to stand, his eyes continuously darting between Ifrit’s and the axe leveled at him, the heat making him sweat. “Let me take a souvenir to the aetherial sea, at least!”
Kurenai turned and sprinted, his dagger aimed for the closest victim--the Xaela thrall--and seeing no orange warning in his vision, he took his clear shot.
And was launched to the side instead, his head ringing as he hit the floor.
Ifrit had stopped him…?
No.
Ifrit had kicked him.
Kurenai pushed himself up on his hands and knees, and looked up with just enough time to see Ifrit, axe raised and eyes bright with fury.
He never saw the attack. Intent or otherwise.
Fire once again consumed the Miqo’te, leaving Roland standing above a corpse, Ifrit sniffing the fresh blood beside him.
Roland slowly turned, looking much more tired than he had before. “I’m good, now.” he said, answering Syentara’s earlier question.
“Good.” Syentara called, “let’s get the hell out of here.”
“We can’t exactly use the front doors,” Muffin mumbled, her eyes not yet leaving the bodies. She walked past Roland, picking up the Ceremonial Dagger that Kurenai had been using. “I’m not inclined to leave this behind in Garlemald.”
“Let’s just break a window.” Delita sheathed his sword and began walking, and with little reluctance or argument, the group picked up and moved out.
The ride home was long, and only began after Roland had made his rounds of hugs, ignoring any reluctance due to his bloodstained shirt. The airbound moments meanwhile were full of attempted moments of normalcy.
It’s good to have you back.
Good to be back.
Gunna keep your hair like that?
I will use tree sap to get it back to how it was if I have to.
So, Syentara, I noticed your weapons--
Don’t worry about it. I’m tired.
Yer all invited!
Invited…?
I’m throwin’ a party with lemonaid an cake! An yer all invited! ‘Cept I ain’t know how to make cake, so someone’s gotta make the cake!
I’ll make the cake! I’ll bring the best damn cake you’ve ever seen.
Party at Tailwind?
Gods can we please just sleep first before any of that?
And then, after what felt like a lifetime later: they were home.
