[center][h3]Sandswept Sky: Skyworld[/h3]
[@DracoLunaris] [@Archmage MC] [@Yankee] [@Double] [@MULTI_MEDIA_MAN][/center]

Once regrouped and refueled, the Army of Light made the final fateful push in their battle to cleanse the sky-high holy land from the scourge of corruption once and for all. The final island in the corrupted chain awaited them, darkly ominous even in the light of day, an unflinching and unyielding bastion of unwellness. The land here was sick, a plague-ridden agglomeration of irreparably tainted soil, scabrous outcrops, and night-dark buboes swollen with bilious yellow ichor, eerily silent until the Infernal Train chugged into view. That  crawled through pitch-black tunnels and clung to crumbling precipices, a titanic centipede of stone and steel, its legs screaming wheels, its carapace of pointed arches and flying buttresses. It belched out vile smog from its spiraled smokestacks as it ran its sordid route ad nauseam, a perpetual motion war machine. Its mere existence seemed to be a blight on the face of creation itself, permitted to endure for far too long. Today, as attested by the beat of snow-white wings and the chorus of courageous voices, this profane pestilence would come to an end.

As one might expect, though, the first step was a doozy. Even attacking the Infernal Train posed a daunting challenge. The execrable machine moved constantly, faster than most of Skyworld’s angels could fly, so Palutena’s forces would run out of stamina long before their enemy ran out of minions. If the angels threw themselves into the train, though, they would be at the mercy of the virtually limitless monstrosities on board, not to mention intolerably impure surroundings that all but guaranteed corruption. Finally, a fight on the train’s exterior came with a strict time limit, as none of the island’s tunnels offered the necessary amount of clearance. Fortunately, the angels’ commanders had come up with an alternative. As Pit led his powerful new allies onto the train, his elite strike force sure to stir the hornets’ nest, Uriel spread her troops out along the tracks, where they’d hover beyond the wretches’  reach. When the train passed by, they’d swoop in with blade and arrow, not just to strike the foul things down but to goad them away from the train en masse. With Nathaniel and Fodoquia spearheading this operation to ensure its success, the multitudinous horrors would be diverted from Uriel and the Seekers, allowing them to fight through a much more manageable horde and get straight to the heart of the matter.

After all, everything learned so far by Celia’s scouts indicated that in all its manifestations, each instance of corruption stemmed from a singular source. Once the strike team cut off the head, the body would die.

When the Seekers approached with Ortho in the lead, the train itself seemed to register the threat. A repugnant slurry of congealed corruption erupted from its windows as the angelic beast approached, each volley of volatile ejecta akin to a miniature army’s worth of crossbow bolts. Ortho was nothing if not agile though, and when he dropped off Edelgard and Roxas, the Seekers’ assault began. With the help of Uriel’s near-lightspeed swordplay, amplified by her Dawnbreaker blade and explosive holy light spikes, the boarding party chewed through the Infernal Train’s welcoming committee. After a liberal application of might and magic, the team breached the contraption’s gothic exterior, and forged into the belly of the beast.

Indeed, stepping into the corruption’s stronghold felt like being eaten by some aberrant monstrosity. While the outside at least resembled conventional architecture, the inside was crusted in tarry black corruption, old, hard, and littered with yellow crystalline deposits. It was hot, humid, and loud; many of the noises that reached the intruders sounded disturbingly biological. A foil smell filled their noses and lungs, and they instinctively knew that they’d need to work fast. It wasn’t dark, though, thanks to the countless slitted yellow eyes embedded in the walls. Whether feeding what they saw to some sort of central intelligence or not, they stared and stared and stared, the unwholesome glare of their sclera lighting the way.

Even with the Army of Light’s efforts to draw the bulk of the corrupted out of the train, the Seekers encountered staunch resistance. Again and again they found themselves assailed by malignant masses of limbs, mouths, and machinery, many with cannons as well as claws. With no two monsters alike, unpredictability proved to be their greatest weapon, but for the most part these wretches favored quantity over quality. Uriel wasted no words on them, keeping her lips pursed in perennial disgust as her brilliant blade danced in the dark. Together the Seekers cleared room after room, and with only so much real estate between their entry point and the train’s locomotive, it wasn’t long before they reached their final destination.

The cathedral that formed the front of the train was the grandest by far, its interior more spacious than the rest. Much like in the Ivory Citadel, this sanctum contained a figurehead of corruption in the form of an individual rather than some bloated, pulsating organ, but the being that stood before the Seekers was no Legion, long since overtaken and reduced to a hollow vessel. Instead they found themselves confronted by a towering warrior, about twelve feet tall. The corruption that formed his skin was masterfully woven, stretched over bulging muscles and odd blue crystal spikes, especially around his deformed left arm. Corrupted tendrils extended from his back, but he wore runic graves of obvious quality, along with a barbaric helmet. In his right hand he clutched an axe of terrifying size and appearance, its blade a skull-faced slab and its shaft lined with eyes. And though he seemed less far gone than the monsters that dwelled in this place, the corruption practically wept from him. He breathed its odious vapors from his toothy maw, and it was the heart that beat in his chest, surfaced in the form of blindly gazing eyes. [url=https://i.imgur.com/uyLqNCa.png]This[/url] was the corruption’s source.

“The Avatar of Chaos,” Uriel hissed, tightening her grip on her sword. “Absalom.”

“No…” the warrior growled, hefting his axe Absolution onto his shoulder. “I am Corruption. And soon…you will be, too.” Absalom roared and swung his axe, hurling corrupt land mines far and wide.

[center][h3]Forbidden Kingdom: Meridi-at-Han[/h3]
Level 8 Goldlewis (92/80) Level 2 Grimm (2/20)
[@Yankee] [@Archmage MC] [@MULTI_MEDIA_MAN] [@Drifting Pollen]
[b]Word Count:[/b] 2024 [/center]

Among the shadows cast by the sinister glow of scarlet torches, the fervid foxtrot between Grimm and the Witch continued. They leaped and twirled, every move more intense than the last as the dancers strove to take one another’s breath away. It didn’t matter how many concerned onlookers their increasingly unsubtle dance enthralled, these two only had eyes -and flames- for one another. Maddened by the light of Galeem that smoldered in the coals of their eyes, this wildfire would burn until only ash remained.

Yet even as the flow of battle grew fiercer, just like a river winding toward a waterfall, it also steered toward an inescapable conclusion. While Grimm put his best foot forward, his injured leg held him back, and with an inexplicably limited repertoire of moves at his disposal he could not give his performance the variety it needed to keep his counterpart on her toes. Each splash of blood torn from his body by the Witch’s magic was one he wouldn’t get back, while her veil of enchantments gave her own vitality a buffer that proved vitally important. Second by second, it became increasingly clear to the spectators that the Troupe Master was falling behind, unable to span the widening gulf between his condition and the Witch’s. Even then, though, the Grimmkin did not interfere. If anything, their unintelligible chatter grew more frenzied, each masked specter bobbing up and down in excitement. Other members of the Grimm Troupe like Brumm, Divine, and the Shadows lacked their macabre glee, but they still watched with intense interest. Many of these bugs had seen this song and dance before, after all. They knew what the Witch didn’t–that the defeat of the Troupe Master wasn’t an end, but a beginning.

Dozens of eager eyes watched, dying to know what would happen next, as Grimm’s health neared the one-third mark. This time, once he burst into a swarm, the Witch knew to descend on those bugs like a starving bat. It was the point of no return, and having smelled her opponent’s blood, she knew it. While the others stood back and watched, however, one observer took action. In an act of charity, and to repay the Troupe Master for his earlier assistance, Roland took the dance floor and inserted himself into the melee.

Of course, when an uninvited guest appeared in the midst of his two-person tango to impede him, Grimm couldn’t fathom that the man meant to help him. Instead he lashed out, angered by this impudent interruption in his time-honored ritual. Whether this man meant to interfere on the Witch’s behalf or merely acted out of wanton irreverence, Grimm would not spare him; once could not throw oneself into the flames and expect to escape unburnt. Instead of Roland’s throat, however, Grimm’s claws met his staff-sized paintbrush. The Fixer deftly parried him, then in that moment of vulnerability, locked him down in the grip of shadowy tendrils. Grimm struggled drunkenly, his slender frame possessed of surprising strength, but before he could break loose Roland endowed him with more freedom that he could ever have possibly imagined.

In an instant the Troupe Master’s violent energy left him, and as Roland’s tentacles receded Grimm slumped to his knees, his cape spread out around him like the webbing of a vampire squid. His head hung forward, his scarlet eyes unfocused, but devoid of Galeem’s delirious luster. Thanks to the Friend Heart his head was clear, and his injuries were gone. In an instant, all the incremental progress made by the Witch had been erased. She still wanted him dead, of course, but Roland stood by to prevent further damage while Primrose stepped up to attend to the Witch herself. In the span of just a few short moments, the fiery dance of death had been cut short. All around the Grimmkin gibbered and chittered in a mixture of confusion and disappointment, some floating over to check on Grimm while most simply faded away into the dark of night. Regardless of how it happened, it seemed that the show was over.

As the apparitions drifted away and the scarlet flames subsided, the abandoned market lost its fearsome, fiendish aspect. The dark shadows that cavorted so evilly shrank back to how they should be, while the hissing, swollen flames of the candles and torches surrendered their uncanny synchronicity. High overhead the wind picked up, and the stars twinkled once more. Cowed crickets and cicadas in the vicinity mustered their courage to fill the dead air with nightsong, and Brumm soon joined them with his organic xylophone to try and restore the festival atmosphere. Meridi-at-han citizens began to drift back toward the scene, and after another moment Grimm rose to his feet, his head raised. If Roland still felt apprehensive about Grimm going ape once freed of Galeem’s grasp, the silent bow directed his way would assuage his worries. That said, Grimm wasn’t quite finished with the Witch yet. Even if their dance hadn’t reached its thrilling conclusion, their ritualistic duel -performed in ignorance or otherwise- had borne fruit. With deliberate slowness, Grimm extended a hand from beneath his cloak and snapped his fingers. About a foot away, scarlet flames began to gather, as if filtering through into the material plane from some infernal netherworld. When they coalesced, the Troupe Master was no longer alone.

[center][hider=For Grimm]New ability:
[b][url=https://i.imgur.com/XIMBtbN.png]Grimmchild[/url][/b]
An floating insectoid apparition that Grimm can summon or absorb as desired. It cannot take damage, but is able to open its mouth and spit scarlet fireballs that deal low damage. In Grimm’s vicinity, the bad dreams of others will manifest as Nightmare Flames, and the Grimmchild can eat them. Every three times its fed, the Grimmchild will grow stronger, maxing out at nine meals. Once fully fed, a new Ability will be available for purchase to Grimm. The Grimmchild can also be assigned a chaperone that it will follow and assist in battle. It can whisper to Grimm what it sees[/hider][/center]

An insect floated next to him on six black ribbon wings, with a shell as black and a mask as white as Grimm’s own. For a moment the Troupe Master just stared at it, but he soon turned toward the Witch and offered her another bow. [color=ef6069]”Bravo, my friend. Did you hear how the crowd adored you? They’ve not seen such a show in a long time.”[/color] His razor-sharp whisper featured a faint air of smugness, as if the opponent he fought so fiercely had done him an important service. [color=ef6069]”Look here. How our child has grown, nourished and strengthened by the heat of our passionate dance.”[/color] His gaze lingered on the Witch, but after another second or two he held out his cape, and the Grimmchild darted beneath it. [color=ef6069]”Our dance remains incomplete. It may be some time before the Ritual is finished. Later, perhaps, the stars will be right for another dance. Our scarlet eyes will watch you keenly…friend.”[/color]

With that, the conflict seemed to be defused. Still tense even after the fighting stopped, Goldlewis finally let out a sigh of relief. Given the potential volatility of this situation, he’d been happy to leave breaking up this battle in Roland and Primrose’s capable hands. If he’d been forced to step in, he doubted that things would’ve been wrapped up so neatly. His coffin was many things, but a precision instrument it was not, and for all the veteran’s strength, Grimm seemed liable to slip through his grasp like smoke between his fingers. “Whoo-whee.” He shook his head. “I dunno what in sam hill had y’all scrappin’ so bad, but I ain’t sorry to see it over with. As if burnin’ that doggone tent down wasn’t bad enough, y’all were fixin’ to burn the whole dadgum market to the ground in the crossfire. Downright irresponsible, ‘specially when the city’s dealin’ with a damn monster attack, good Lord. I reckon you’ve done enough playin’ with fire for one evenin’.”

When Grimm just stared at him wordlessly, Goldlewis looked away and rubbed the back of his head. “Uh, anyhow, we probably oughta give y’all the rundown on the way things are, seein’ as you ain’t gleamin’ any more. Why don’t we-”

Without warning a blue sigil flared to life next to the veteran’s head, and a deadpan, proper-sounding female voice rang out through the area. [b]“Attention Mustang, this is Halo, please copy, over.”[/b]

“Gah!” The sudden voice startled Goldlewis, who flinched away from the noise like someone might a gunshot. It took Grimm by surprise too, all the more cause for concern because the Troupe Master didn’t know what he was looking at. He blinked, confused, then looked around as if hoping for an explanation. Once Goldlewis rolled his eyes, shaking his head, Grimm seemed to understand that this outburst wasn’t anything to be worried about, and after heaving a deep sigh the veteran put two fingers to the glyph to reply. “Yeah, I copy, Halo. You called at one hell of a time, lemme tell ya. We just wrapped up a surprise attack from three giant monsters. Ended up freein’ a couple…” Looking at Grimm, ‘civvy’ didn’t feel like the right word. “A couple locals as well. Over.”

The woman on the other end of this supernatural phone line seemed unfazed by the news. “Everyone’s in good condition, I trust. Over.”

“Uh huh.” Goldlewis crossed his arms, staring off into the starry heavens. “So how’re things lookin’ up there? Been meanin’ to get in touch. We’ve done just about all we can down here, so I’m thinkin’ it’s about time we scheduled some kinda pickup. Uh, over.”

“Agreed. The Avenger is en route to Meridi-at-han as we speak. Please proceed outside city limits and notify me once you’re clear. I’ll join you there.” The operator paused. “Should I bring any additional Fulton devices? Over”

Goldlewis had already started to motion for Primrose, Roland, and Zenkichi to follow him in the direction of the city’s main gate, as if they hadn’t heard his contact’s instructions for themselves. When questioned, though, the veteran paused to narrow his eyes in the direction of Grimm and the Witch. “I’ll let you know when we reach exfil. Might have some explainin’ to do on the way.”

For a moment there was radio silence. Then the lady on the other end spoke tentatively. “Over?”

“Huh?” Goldlewis furrowed his brow.

“You didn’t say ‘over’,” the operator informed him, her tone matter-of-fact.

Goldlewis grunted in a [i]guess we’re doing this again[/i] kind of way, then set off at a brisk trot. “Hey, you didn’t either.”

“I did,” the voice insisted. “All my communications ended with ‘over’. Including that one.” She paused. “Over.”

“This conversation is over.” With a wave of his hand Goldlewis dismissed the magic sigil, then rolled his eyes again. “That woman, I swear,” he joked affectionately.

As the team got underway, carefully navigating through the night-shrouded plateau city as it licked its wounds from the giants’ rampage, Goldlewis became aware of a spindly figure tailing him. The scarlet light of Grimm’s eyes as he drifted from shadow to shadow indicated that the Troupe Master had accepted his invitation. Goldlewis slowed his pace, allowing the other Seekers to take the lead in order to fall in alongside the potential initiate. He still didn’t know quite what to make of Grimm, who seemed dangerous and eccentric even by Seeker standards, but if the big bug wanted to know more about the campaign against Galeem, Goldlewis wasn’t going to disappoint him. And if he signed up, he wouldn’t even be the first oversized insect on the roster, anyway. “Howdy there, partner. We ain’t been formally introduced, have we? My name’s Goldlewis Dickinson, and this here team’s just a small part of the Seekers of Light–the light bein’ Galeem, and when we get done seekin’ ‘im, there ain’t gonna be anythin’ left.”

Grimm digested the man’s summary impassively, then whispered his reply. [color=ef6069]”Go on.”[/color]