Blizz

Inferno - STRIKE THE MATCH! - Concluded

Jack Hawthorne/Maximillian Gray

Now it was Max's turn to listen. Jack made some valid points. They had to have been chosen for a reason. Perhaps it was to be different than Strange. To do things he wouldn't do, or couldn't do. A part of him wanted to say to be better than Strange, but he didn't think that possible. He was to be the best of them. Frankly Max didn't think Strange could die until this night. Even then he still grappled with that fact, as if walking throughout a dream this whole evening, waiting to wake up from the nightmare. ”What exactly is our own way then?”

His original point would have been that they had their own means of banishing a god. Jack could have simply banished it to his realm, and as far as he knew, Max could theoretically snap it out of existence with his own magic. But as the god disappeared and the sky seemed to turn almost normal, there was another set of problems to deal with. Comparatively minor, but problems nonetheless. Wong was being attacked by demons, the Pentagram was still active, and Witchfire was on the ground.

They had to break that Pentragram, Wong could defend himself a little longer.

We do what we know best, Jack said, as the two moved backward beyond what would hopefully be the full blast radius in case this went wrong.

They got into position to remove the Everdark rifts from the Pentagram, breaking it to help dissipate the magic within. But as soon as they were about to break the enchantments they placed, the Veil began to renew, the Pentagram dissipating on its own as the other world's began to fade into the distance once more. They didn't know what had transpired, but whatever it was he was glad it had happened. Too little too late for Wong however, as a hoard began to enshroud him and attack. But once again as they lifted their hands to free Max's friend, Carolina came out and banished the damned things. It seemed their allies were finally coming out of the woodwork to help out. Madalyne had been doing her part, sure, but the others Max hadn't seen since the squabble.

”Then we must call upon an old friend first. To help us with our…condition.” Max said as he opened a portal between himself and James. He was currently sitting at his clinic, the most obvious place to find him, especially if you were a mutant in need. ”James! It's Max, well…sort of. We go by Jax, I'm bound to another at the moment and if we part we die. If you could give this old man some youth again?”

James paused, eyebrows raised as he put down the book he just picked up. "Well, I have to admit, you finally surprised me again. Ben and Dorian are fine, though I recommend a really nice bouquet when you get yourself sorted out." James gave his best friend's most recent mishap a look over. "So, what's the trick here? Do you just need to be younger, or do you need me to support while you pull apart?"

…DORIAN?

”Just make us younger. We need the combined might to fight off the demons invading New York City.” Max snapped back like a crotchety old man. ”Ever second longer this portal stays open is a second longer to allow the demons armies to invade through it. So time is of the essence.”

"It's only been an... You know what, not important. You're the only one who'd stumble into this without us so fast." James shook his head in fond exasperation, reaching out to take both Jax's hands. James closed his eyes, sinking into the familiar feeling of their vitals syncing up, and nearly disconnected. His own heart was barely beating; he could hardly believe Jax was still alive!

He focused, bringing Jax back from the brink, unwinding the clock as carefully as he could. It took a few moments but finally, James stumbled back with sweat on his brow. "Christ, Jax. I haven't had to fix anyone up like that since we brought our last batch back from death. Please try to stay alive and make sure you bringing your friends by the clinic when you clean all this up; they'll probably need a touch up too."

”Whoever you are, thank you,” the other half of Jax said. ”…Wait just a moment. You knew Strange, Max. I thought you seemed familiar when we first met. This “Dorian” person is your son, isn’t he?”

”Yes? But I don't see what that has anything to do with this?”

”…I am from your relative future. And you’re from my relative past,” He explained. ”Strange’s death pulled us all from different times, and our times were not so far apart. I likely should not be telling you this, but when I was young, I went to a school for superhumans. With Dorian Gray.”

Max looked at James sheepishly before stepping backwards into the portal and closing it behind himself. He'd have held up a finger to Jack to tell him to shut it if they weren't cohabitating a body. ”Not another word. This is a delicate balance we have right now, and any information about the future could change the future, create a paradox, or worse…write it into stone. Nothing good ever came from peering ahead. When the time is right, I will know.” Jack was clearly from a not too distant future, after all Dorian was slated to go to Xaviers School for Gifted Youngsters when he became of age, or at least that was the current idea Max had had. He didn't know whether or not Ben would bite, he hated that school, but if Jack's already spilled the beans on that then it means Ben agreed in the end.

”Apologies.”

”So. The demons. You thinking banishment or just kill them all? Ones less risky and avoids collateral damage to both human lives and buildings. The other…well its more to the point with less risk of failure.”

”Banishment would mean we tamper with the Veil, which he went through enough trouble already to repair. But, we cannot be slow when they are taking human lives…We can renew the Veil indefinitely, at this point: Banishment is quicker.”

”Then let's do this. Care to try that spell once more? Should be easier to handle that it's small fry and not the literal hand of god.”

”By all means. I’ll follow your lead.”

Max took the lead, once again attempting one of Strange’s spells. His most difficult one it seemed. The Flames of Faltine conjured with ease, as too did the Crimson Bands, yet try and try again Max couldn't summon the Winds of Watoomb to aid him like Strange had. But this time was different. ”By the Whirling Winds of Watoomb I banish you back to Limbo you fiery fiends!” Max proclaimed as winds erupted from around him and blew a handful of demons back into their plane. A grin spread across his face. He turned to face another group and did much the same, diminishing the numbers slowly but succinctly.

Good, it was working. ”They've been cut off from this world. There is little more to do than return them from where they came.” But he looked down before, and saw that Witchfire and Annika were… Gone?

”We will need the others.”

X-Men: GenetiX

Days went by, and Ryder seemed to learn to accept her new reality insofar as any new environment could be adjusted to. She observed, she kept her distance, and she studied the people who came and went. There was never a real moment where Ryder allowed herself to believe someone wouldn’t sneak up on her. Even when some of the mutants her age ventured to interact with her, she kept a proverbial shield up, until they decided she was more trouble than she was worth. Perhaps it was undeniably monumental, then, that Ryder made no conscious efforts to instigate anything with anyone who didn’t instigate themselves. If there was any solace in her presence, it was that she truly did not have any desire to fuel any fires.

She had healed from her injuries to a well enough point that a medical exam- as little of one she would allow without a fight- showed she was in good shape. Others had noted that Ryder had a grasp of her powers that most mutants her age couldn’t possibly dream of, only making her more of a target for temporary attention. Due to her recovery, and her potential, the X-Men decided that they could stand to live up to the big words they had preached. Ryder was given a rundown on how they did things. How they had a fancy jet for getting across borders in secrecy, and how they kept contacts with people overseas.

And for reasons that were far removed from the realm of logic that Ryder occupied, they were bringing her along. It was an excuse for her to get out of that school, and it made sense. She could always just hijack the thing and run it into the ocean if they pulled something. Rather than show up in some hideous spandex like some idiotic superheroes did, Ryder just showed up dressed as if she had recently rolled out of bed. She walked into the hangar where the jet was due to fly.

As odd as it was to have a jet under a school, she wasn’t impressed.

”I’m here. Now what?”

Avengers Academy: Junior Year 💥

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Location: The Framework
Skills:
Framework Fashion

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---

Against everything that was being thrown at her, Leah managed to deal.

Classes got harder, but she was always good at numbers. So that was never an issue for her. Hell, she could help both Sabine and April at the same time with their numbers-related assignments at the same time that she worked on her own. The school’s definition of combat was a joke. She was going through far worse training at 12 years old than this. Usagi was the only element that made it annoying to deal with. But still, she managed to deal. The promotional shit, though? That was unusual. She was officially “Jotunn” to the world now, as much as she didn’t care for people taking pictures of her unless it was her girlfriends. Unfortunately for all the internet people without a life, she didn’t give out interviews or bubbly smiles, she sucked at things like that.

As a strategist who liked to think she could finesse someone smart as Vision out of a chess game, Leah spent more time than most reviewing the Young Avengers’ strategies. She did all of this before 9pm, every day. When it was dark out, she went through her own training routine. Adamantium-fiber punching bags for an hour, a thousand pound leg press session for 30 minutes, 500 sit-ups, a thousand pull-ups with an added 750lbs in weights strapped to her waist, and once she was warmed up? She ran a marathon on a treadmill built for people with super speed.

Leah refused to slow down and rest. She didn’t need rest. Leah could keep going when everyone else couldn’t, and that hee contribution to her team. Even if it didn’t matter to her, it mattered to others who she owed it to. But tonight, something different seemed to be happening. The suspicious Technotwink had some sort of scheme to even the playing field a little. Something to unrig the rigged game. Strategically, it made sense. If they were going to put the golden children on a pedestal and expect the rest to climb, what difference did it make if they chipped away at the pedestal?

Leah had decided to stay in for this one until it was time. She didn’t want to be sweaty and knee-deep in a workout when she got to see Ed’s master plan. Just in case someone was stalking her. It was getting late, and time to go. Leah checked her phone and saw April sent a text… What were the chances someone could read their messages? The wifi was public, after all.

@April, @Sabine

If anyone asks, we saw nothing. The walls have eyes. Not literally, I hope.

Leah got her shit together, and climbed out the window. The last thing she needed was Bruunhilde (who she didn’t want to run into for reasons) or fucking Firestar to ask her why she wasn’t training to kill god himself barehanded. She dropped into a tree, then down to the ground and stalked through the shadows as a certain wizard would have done. She made sure no one would see her that neither a sight nor a sound would alert anyone to her presence. There was more to bring a hero than flashy dramatics, after all. The coast was clear, so Leah let herself into the gym, then showed herself in the Framework.

This was going to be hell on her hair.

It looked like she was the first one here.

"Okay, Ed. Show yourself already."

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This is not an exaggeration.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Aaaaand there’s another. Possible friend for the Elite

Expect some lore on her apparition soon

Nora Foster

Nora.Foster

22 | Nora Foster | She/Her [hr//]"Yeah, I’ve seen this before."

Description:

Nora Foster is a self-employed tech expert. She lives in downtown St. Portwell, and makes a living by fixing, diagnosing and building things for people that can afford her services. In a mundane sense, this includes making trips to places with faulty wiring, repairing computers, salvaging data or writing up programs for someone’s “big tech breakthrough.” She is currently enrolled in college, studying for a PhD in electromechanical engineering. Though, this is more a formality than anything else, as Nora has little need for the education.

In St. Portwell’s paranormal scene, Nora is a trusted asset to people that require a more industrious hand. Groups who push for control won’t always be able to use magic. Sometimes, you need something that can track your opposition without magic, like a specialized drone. Or maybe you lost a limb, and can’t find a healer powerful enough to replace with flesh and blood. This is where Nora comes in, as she has all of this and more. All for the right price. She’s an opportunist, willing to work with many different types of people, barring the most depraved members of society.

Abstraction: Melsha’s Council

Within Nora, an apparition by the name of Melsha has been sealed. In exchange for refuge, Melsha’s immense knowledge of engineering was given to her in a recollection so difficult to comprehend that it nearly killed her. This made Nora into an incredible builder who can create highly sophisticated tech both magic and mundane. Nora’s body is uniquely changed by Melsha’s magic, allowing her to exhibit some of his characteristics.

Necrophage: Bonding with Melsha brought its own set of complications. It was difficult for a being of smoke and brass to inhabit a host of flesh and blood. So a middle ground was necessary, which took the form of a spherical perpetual motion machine known as the Necropage. This device is a prosthetic heart, surgically inserted inside of Nora with her partner’s assistance. It is powered by Melsha’s magic, and incomprehensible complex to anyone other than the two of them.

Sepulcher: A glorified coffin of steel and aluminum, the Sepulcher is a tool used by Melsha and Nora for building bio mechanical devices. This allows them to run maintenance on her heart, or provide her “clients” with magical upgrades.

Creator’s Wit: Melsha’s knowledge of machines is so great that Nora can simply gaze upon a piece of technology and instinctually understand what has gone wrong, or how it works. Car repairs can be planned for before even opening the hood, and walking into a building with faulty infrastructure light up her mind like a Christmas tree. The more complicated the tech, the longer it takes to form a mental picture.

Mechaform: Nora can reshape her hands and arms into a vast variety of tools. Some of these tools make sense from a human perspective, such as screwdrivers, blow torches and ratchets. But many of her Mechaform tools are abstract, as a product of Melsha’s influence. These tools tend to be made for magic, such as “measuring” the colors of an Adept’s lux, or “repairing” emotional fields.

Masterwork: Nora can create a unique brand of artifacts that do not grant abstractions to their user. These artifacts can be anything from a prosthetic limb to an untraceable weapon. Nora’s magic works through clockwork or mechanical systems, meaning there are gearboxes and moving parts to everything she makes. This sounds simple on paper, but through Melsha’s power, her creations go beyond a mundane level of complexity. She could make a fully functioning computer with nothing but rotational force.

The drawbacks to Nora’s tinkering is that Melsha often prefers designs that are, by human standards, old and outdated. Sleek designs are purely aesthetic, there are no wireless microchips, or biometric scanners. This prevents her from applying magic to certain fields, which she would have to use mundane means for.

Edit: MELSHA LORE

Melsha the Architect

.Melsha the Architect

Billions of year | Melsha the Architect | He/Him

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"My dearest benefactor, you have much to learn."

Description: In a place far from Shimmer, a creature named Melsha toiled for millennia to build a perfect world. He carved reality with the precision of a mason, and laid the foundation of time and space as an artist laid paint to canvas. Melsha likened himself to the Ancient of Red Lux, a creator of things so vast that mortals could not comprehend it. In his perfect world, Melsha was content to be less than a god, but more than a simple inhabitant. He yearned to build and create new life in his realm of metal and clockwork, and did so from before time had a name, and would have done so for all of eternity.

But it was not to last. Melsha considered himself a benevolent being in his perfect world, not a god in the human sense, but a force of nature. But the inhabitants of his world were intelligent, made to be so in his image. They built civilizations of their own, discovered ideas that made Melsha proud. Among these ideas was hubris, the notion that they were above their creator. He could not bring himself to oppress or harm his people, and so Melsha was dethroned, ruined. They left his body and his spirit in tatters, with the hope that he might never rise to their level again. Melsha was exiled from his perfect world, and found his way to Shimmer after drifting in the All-Verse for centuries.

He found a human girl named Nora, in which he saw a creator in her own rights. He made a bargain with her, that would give him the stability of a bond with another in exchange for his wisdom. Melsha is now voluntarily sealed within Nora’s body, and extends his knowledge of machines to her. They are friends, and she will be remembered when he returns to his world, long after she is gone.

Abstraction: God of Clockwork

Melsha is a being who lives to create. He understands machines and the design of the universe in ways so fundamental, that they are like breathing and thought for him. Anything that did not exist naturally, from cars to the pyramids, falls within the purview of his abilities. In his current state, Melsha is weak, and frail. His strength is a sliver of his former glory as the builder of an entire world. The most he can do is work through his host, and guide her with his teaching. But at his most powerful, Melsha can harvest a dead star to forge cogs of the purest metal, purpose-built to keep the universe in motion. He can create artificial life more intelligent than humans with brains of ticking clockwork, and extend the boundaries of the All-Verse.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Wrote a weird ass NPC. Maybe Greenwood or some other outdoorsy characters can interact with them sometime. Hmmyes emoji.

More will come. Prepare your ass.

The Watcher in the Woods

The.Watcher

??? | The Watcher in the Woods | He/Him…? [hr//]"You are not in danger."

Description:

There once was a man named Reed Mayfield. He was an Adept inclined towards mimicking animals and promoting the growth of certain plants. He was a hermit, with a military background that left him troubled and weary a long career of service. Nature was his refuge, so one day, Reed retreated into the forests of St. Portwell, never to be seen again. Years went by, and years became decades. To him, time began to mean very little once he cast off his name. Family members assumed he moved out of town, others assumed he went out on his own terms. Both are true, but not in the way most understand.

Today, those who venture into the deepest parts of the woods may find themselves feeling as if they are not alone. The Watcher in the Woods cares little for the troubles of society, but keeps a very close eye on those who walk into his domain. Should someone treat nature with respect, they may find that a deer or a bird will lead them back to a familiar path when they are lost. Those who simply come to hunt and live off the land are left well enough alone, but those who violate the peace of the forest are quickly scared off by an ominous presence that is just barely human enough that they don’t get the wrong idea.

Abstraction: Green Lux

The Watcher in the Woods does not consider himself human, or an Adept. But his domain of magic includes altering his physical form and tending to the forest in ways that simple gardening cannot. It is through the use of this magic that the Watcher has moved beyond the need for a human body, and has irreparably changed to something closer to an Apparition.

Wild Form: The Watcher can take the form of many different forest-dwelling animals, such as wolves and deer. In Wild Form, he blends in with other animals so perfectly that they cannot tell him apart from their own offspring.

• Wolf
• Deer
• Crow
• Hummingbird
• Mountain Lion
• Ringneck Snake
• Great Basin Spadefoot

Apex Predator: The Watcher stands at 8 feet tall, can see in pitch black darkness, and has skin strong enough to stand up to some of the sharpest blades in the world. This was achieved through magic, allowing the Watcher to reshape their body into something inhuman. He can go for weeks without food or water, and can rip flesh from the bones of wild animals with his bare hands. The changes are irreversible for the Watcher, but they are a product of biology manipulating magic, meaning the Watcher is also a very capable healer in emergencies.

Boundless Garden: The Watcher’s body, when not in Wild Form, is a catalyst for ecological growth. Under the thick drapes of hide and moss that they wear, countless forms of plant life grow and flourish. This does not end at plants native to Oregon. The Watcher’s flesh supports everything from sunflowers to creeping arctic willows. Occasionally, this growth can be seen sprouting outwards over their body, tangling with moss and skin like a layer of wool.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Interactions: Oh, you know.

Cracker Barrel

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Jack was many things. Egotistical, clever, vindictive… Foolish was not one of them.

“Nothing troubles me, Jack. I apologize for earlier. To be blunt, teleportation never sat well with me. I think that I’m simply just a bit old fashioned in that regard,”

”Your apology is accepted, but I don’t believe you,” he said, blunt as a hammer.

Jack watched her unravel Jasper’s painting. It had an abstract charm to it, putting him in the mind of better, albeit more dangerous days. Those two had always had a hard time getting along, and apparently he made something for her? Strange.

“Jasper made this piece for me. Can you believe it? Anyway, I love art. When I was a little girl I wanted to become an artist of some kind. It didn’t matter what, as long as it was creative. Only I was no good at it. My father said I just wasn’t born with the knack for art. My mother was more honest about it. She told me I just didn’t have any talent and that I should stop wasting everybody’s time. In retrospect, it was a pretty harsh thing to say to a seven-year-old.”

Jack took a seat on the boxes beside her. ”My memory is frayed. But if I recall, your parents live in a fantasy world of delusions and bitter feelings. I wouldn’t trust their opinion to hold water in a thunderstorm,” he joked.

“I wonder if Jasper’s mother told him the same. I don’t have the talent, it’s true, but I still have an eye for good art. He should’ve listened to his mother instead of wasting paint on this derivative piece of shit.”

He could understand why, from her point of view, the painting seemed like an insult. But to him, Jack saw it as statement. Sloane was an outsider, on the periphery of a circle that should’ve been home. She was an outcast, and exile among her own people. Art had a way of saying what words could not, did there exist a world in which this piece of art reflected something deeper than spite?

Apparently not, as she erased it all into a puddle that splashed across the ground. She was freezing, and there was a fire outside her reach.

“I hope you really didn’t come here because you were worried that I might be upset at you, Jack. You shouldn’t obsess so much about what other people think about you. It is so terribly unhealthy. As long as you’re doing the right thing it doesn’t matter what they think, say, or create. Got it?"

“An-y-way, since you’re here, could you transfer that piece to my apartment for me? I don’t want to have to carry it around for the rest of the night. Oh, actually, you know what? Perhaps you should take it instead. Consider it a gift. Hang it up across from your bed. That way you can wake up every morning, see Nothing, and think of me. Then you'll be able to remember exactly what else, besides precisely what I may have already asked for, that I need from you.”

She tried to dismiss him. Maybe in another time or place, he would have been gone in the blink of an eye. But while Sloane thought she projected an uncaring attitude, Jack saw something different. He saw the same woman who he stood up for at the Dairy Queen, on the night of Alizee’s death. He saw the same woman who had held up St. Portwell so others could not, only to be struck across the face by someone she trusted.

So he did what he should’ve done ten years ago. He stayed.

”Needs and wants are very different things, Sloane,” he countered, looking her right in the eyes. ”You need us to work together, because our lives depend on it. You may not need to be thanked for what you have tried to save us all, but you deserve it. And… You have every right to want more than a derisive painting as thanks.”

”I followed you because something is on your mind. Everyone else is enjoying themselves without a care in the world. But you feel that you don’t have a place in all of that, don’t you?” He fully expected Sloane to get defensive, so he continued. ”And before you tell me that what you want or feel does not matter compared everything else we face- I want you to understand that it matters to me.”

Because he felt very much the same way, returning after being a stranger for so long.

”You deserve to be more than a small blue drop, untouched by all the roots you helped to grow. Talk to me, I worry for you.” He wanted to say that Anya worried as well, but that would’ve defeated the purpose of what he was trying to get across: I am your friend.

The Eye of the Needle (where Fantasy and Sci-fi collide)

Wasting no time, Namsterra flexed their grip, and the glowing shields reacted to her magic. But something was wrong… They were solid steel, there should’ve been no hesitation, but her lightning magic was sluggish, they flew slowly as if thrown by a mundane individual. Namsterra didn’t understand why, but Shirik’s ball of fire had disrupted the magnetic attraction of the metal, softening it and allowing every particle of steel to lose alignment.

One of the shields curved into the ground, and the other whistled past Shirik’s left shoulder, engulfed by the inferno behind them.

Salaketh slammed his halberd into the dirt, and Dra’Kell shot forth, carried along by a trail of frost. They withdrew a sword in the half-second of time spent closing the distance to Shirik, before Salaketh’s magic sharply redirected him towards Shirik’s left. They received a blisteringly quick slice to the chest, which erupted in cerulean blue sparks.

Hold your fire.

Shirik was thrown off guard in an instant, but responded by swinging their staff in Dra’Kell’s direction. He came to a screeching halt thanks to Salaketh, but his armor suddenly wailed and hissed as it was overtaken by subzero cold. Steam exploded outwards, and Shirik ran towards Namsterra, who had withdrawn a pair of rods several inches longer than a dagger.

They use a channeling object like Salaketh, Duuli observed.

Namsterra crossed the rods, and swung them outwards. Lightning arced outwards in a curve, connecting them at the ends. One left her hand and swung overhead as if tethered by a rope. She swung it at Shirik like a whip, who ducked under it and aimed a jab at her in the chest with their staff.

A fireball erupted at the point of contact, intended to liquify Namsterra’s center mass. But the metal rod came back around, landing solidly against Shirik’s face with the force of heavy iron. The fireball flickered out, and Shirik crumpled to the ground. Namsterra kept up the pressure, and swung her weapon upwards against their face, knocking them over completely.

Now.

Duuli fired her crossbow, aiming the shot at Shirik’s shoulder to pierce their core. A sharp snap filled the air as the bolt made contact with their bark, only to be reduced to ash in an explosion of blue fire that spewed out of the wound. Bits of ruined bark sprayed out, and Shirik let off a burst of flame. They leapt up to their feet faster than Namsterra had expected, and swung the staff at her face like a hammer.

Namsterra barely ducked, and Shirik swung again. She threw her body to one side, and the staff hit the ground, causing a circle of light to appear. Seeing this, Namsterra swung her lightning rods at them once again, but Shirik set their arm ablaze, and blocked it. Something cracked, and Shirik could hear brittle bark crunching under the weight, but flecks of molten metal fell to the ground.

Salaketh had not moved once yet. He kept one eye on the open sky above. Bright markings were appearing like constellations, growing more elaborate by the second. If the stories were true, then this being was a genuine match for his squad.

He made a motion with his left hand, and held his halberd overhead.

Duuli readied another bolt.

Hold.

Shirik swung their staff upwards, carrying the ring of glowing blue light with it, and Dra’Kell appeared again with thin trails of steam following behind him. The ground crackled as ice formed across it, and Shirik’s left eye was gouged open, knocking them clean off their feet.

Their circle flew off into the burning trees, and exploded.

Detaining! Dra’Kell put a hand out in Shirik’s direction and stomped his left foot. Fog erupted in a circle around Shirik’s stunned body. It crept inwards, and once it made physical contact with their bark, they felt pain for the first time in centuries. It was not quite like burning, but more as if the very life was being ripped from their soul.

The pain was withering, gnawing at them. They felt the will to stand and fight slip away to the cold of all possible things. Shirik clawed at the dirt, clinging to the ground as if there were answers beneath the soil. Everything was going numb, but maybe there was still a chance.

Their grip on the staff finally relaxed, they were going numb. But still, they scratched at the dirt for something.

Dra’Kell’s goal was to let the temperature do the work, but most people simply gave out immediately. Most people weren’t made of fire like Shirik. So Dra’Kell kept at it, while Namsterra pulled back towards Salaketh’s direction.

What are they doing to the sky? Duuli asked.

Old legends tell of an Iriad, so in harmony with the element of fire that their methods of spell casting exceed anything we have ever known, Salaketh answered. He tilted his halberd downwards.

They are powerful, but they are outmatched.

Frost crept up across Shirik’s bark. Dra’Kell’s magic was merciless. They couldn’t win like this, but if they could just reach their staff…

Shirik felt heavy, as if they were holding the weight of every star in the night sky. It showed in the patterns that began to flicker in and out of view overhead. Dra’Kell was blowing air on a fragile candle.

You have walked the throne rooms of gods unnamed. You have seen the birth of universes. You are creation incarnate.mYou will not die here, not before you avenge your son.

The flames diminished. Shirik’s brittle, mortal shell darkened until there were only thick trails of smoke. The last embers had escaped from sight. The constellations of fire continued to flicker, and the forest was doomed to burn away even after Shirik had stopped moving.

Dra’Kell stopped his spell, and nudged Shirik with their sword. Nothing. The fog began to fade away, slowly.

Duuli closed in with her crossbow, keeping it aimed at the mage’s core. Salaketh still refused to move a single step, even as Namsterra raised her rods to strike them down again

My tremorsense tells me they are unresponsive.

Tural flew in, landing on Dra’Kell’s shoulders as a bird.

It is a shame, Tural thought. They could've taught the world so much. Their physiology fascinates me.

We will bring the body, then. Dra’Kell.

On it. Dra’Kell reached down to lift the Iriad’s body, when he felt something move.

Their hand had shot outwards towards their staff, clutching it like the cold grasp of death.

Duuli didn’t hesitate. She shot the hand right through the wrist. The bolt stuck, but the staff was not dropped.

Namsterra and Dra’Kell raised their weapons to swing, but the night sky had become day, faster than they could attack. Blue fire exploded back outwards, filling Shirik’s hollow body again. Shirik’s face turned and faced the murderers as thunder cracked across the sky.

A pillar of blue light fell from above, burning away the remains of the trees around them. engulfing Shirik, and all of the Inquisitors.

All of them except for Salaketh, who simply pointed his halberd in the direction of his squad.

”DIE!!!”

---

Shirik managed to find stability on their feet, and watched as Eva’s mechanical suit tumbled off the bridge. They could feel the weight of the bridge beginning to give out beneath everyone’s feet. The arms were rocky, perhaps a Stone or Force mage was behind this? There were many things the world had yet to fathom, and the arrival of these “humans” was but a raindrop in a storm of unknowns. These mimic beasts would kill them all if they didn’t get out ahead of this, and gravity would drown them all if they didn’t get out ahead of the bridge.

Shirk was not a fool. They were far removed from the troubles of the world, more versed in its lore than the wisest scholars, and knew when to be humble before anything else. They could win this fight, but not from a crumbling battlefield. ”We must move, jump from piece to piece if you must, but the bridge will collapse soon!” They shouted, just in time to see the vague shapes moving on the horizon.

It could have been reinforcements from the Ascendancy. It could have been bandits. It could have been the instigators of this nonsense. Anything was possible right now, including their demise.

Shirik made a circular motion with their staff, forming a sphere of burning hot flame inside the circle. They waiting for one of the stone arms to lift up, before thrusting the sphere towards it, firing out a stream of withering heat to melt the damned thing from stone to a puddle on the spot. They could do this all day, but time was running out. Shirik didn’t even bother to see if the arm would reshape like the mimic beasts, before running to the furthest end of the bridge.

”All of you, move! NOW!” Shirik kept one eye to the trees where they saw the shapes moving. If anything stepped out with a weapon, or a tendril of black liquid, they’d blast it back into oblivion ”Silbermine! Now would be the opportunity to reveal any mages in your warband!”

Shirik leapt, and an explosion of heat forced downwards carried them from one piece of the tattered bridge to another. They landed, and performed the spell again to just barely make it across the remains and onto the side with the mysterious figures. Doing this too much was risky, but Shirik could manage. They twisted one foot roughly ninety degrees outwards, and raised their staff overhead. Fog formed in thick trails along the ground, followed by ice. Shirik’s body began to glow faintly as they absorbed ambient heat to regain the lost strength.

A small thing in the grand scheme of the situation, but they wanted to be ready.

”Reveal yourself!”

Inferno - STRIKE THE MATCH! - Concluded

Jack Hawthorne/Maximillian Gray

Max saw the pain in Wong’s eyes and instantly knew what he was about to do. He wanted to stop him, to scream and hope for a better way, but he couldn't. He didn't. The scene flickered before his eyes, the babes suddenly appearing like Dorian to him before they settled back into their true selves. He wanted to believe that his inaction was due to being fused with Jack, or perhaps due to his unusually old age. He didn't dare face the facts that he simply couldn't act as fear and shock froze him in place.

”I should skin him alive for that…” Jack said to himself, feeling frail in his magically ancient age.

”Don't. Wong is just doing what was necessary. As cold as it may seem, with Strange gone, it is the job of the Sorcerer Supreme to protect Earth against magical and mystical threats. Without one, it fell to Wong to do what we couldn't…” It hurt Max to say it, but Strange had drilled it into his head so many times. This was their duty, their oath, to defend Earth in these times of crisis where all other options failed them. They didn't have a Time Stone to revert it back to before they invaded, and the Soul of the Supreme was divided both physically and morally. The others didn't care to stand together.

”Strange would have had the power to simply teleport Witchfire’s victims away from the moment he put his mind to it,” Jack wasn’t happy about the way this was going, and it was obvious through the way he spoke. ”This is not good enough, we are losing what little ground we currently have.” A god had come down to take its toll on the mortal world, and they were staring it in the face… And it was trying to grab them.

The hand began to close in around them, Carolinas's voice barely cutting through the massive winds that muffled sound as it encroached on Jax. ”A banishing spell? First we need to get out of its grasp.” Max was about to attempt to use his secondary mutation, a skill he'd only used reactively until not too long ago. As he began, waves of information flooded his mind and the power fizzled out within the palm of the hand of god. Time was of the essence and Jax used the new knowledge and abilities to navigate the mutation better. Cold air filled the space where they once stood, as a blackhole engulfed them and reappeared down on the streets of New York. ”I have an idea on a banishment spell, but I've yet to get it right…though perhaps with our knowledge combined we could do it.”

”The only banishments I use involve sending someone through a portal.” This was bad. They could cut the portal off, but then that thing might grab them. Or they could banish it, but then the Veil would be gone for good.

”Keep talking.”

”Strange has used it on several occasions. It's meant to banish the target back from where they came, though how helpful any banishment is as the Veils are thinning is beyond me. But I figured with our magical prowess combined we could use The Whirling Winds of Watoomb to banish the hand back just long enough to deal with the current threats around us. Though Watoombs Magic is powerful…calling upon such arts has proved…difficult for me.”

”My magic is drastically different from Strange’s. I have heard of that spell, but I’ve never learned or used it.”

”By all technicalities my magic is vastly different from both of yours. We are fused as one via mutant magic, it isn't something Strange could do to my knowledge. But we've gotten this far thanks to you and your vast wisdom, and I've never been one to back down just because it had never been done or the odds were slim. I've felled immortals and I won't let myself be beaten by a gassy puff of air that deems itself godly in nature.”

Appealing to his ego? Clever.

”Well, if you believe that there is a chance, then so be it. What other choice do we have? Shall we”

Jax moved in unison, following the movements Max had seen Strange use several times (as well as from the scriptures that he may have borrowed from the archives for some light reading). There was hope, with two sorcerers combined, both their knowledge and skills as well as two tenths of the soul of the supreme, they had a chance to actually do this. The Pentagram was already flickering, they only had to hope that it would go out on its own while Jax dealt with the partial god before them. They called upon The Whirling Winds of Watoomb, asking them to banish the hand from whence it came. Winds rushed past them as their arms swept out, making contact with the thing but nothing happened.

”By the Hoary Host of Hoggoth! That didn't go as planned. I was really hoping that even having two fragments of Stephen's Soul would allow us to accomplish it.”

It did nothing.

”We are not Strange. Perhaps our mistake was thinking like him. We may have pieces of his soul, but we are still different sorcerers, with different methods…”

Jack had an idea.

”Stephen was a traditionalist. You bend reality, and I bend the forces of a plane that is all but removed from most of the universe… If we truly were chosen as successors, it was not to be like the previous Sorcerer Supreme. No, we must do this our way.”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

lol

Lmao, even