A Cold Cold Path

[Corporal Light]

The gunsmith stopped. He looked behind him, everything enveloped in darkness. His legs stung from running so much, and at that point he didn’t have a clue in hell as to how far he had ran or even where he was at that point in time. All he knew was that he had descended further into the caverns and that he was not being followed. All that had occurred during his escape was a blur to him; had he ran past another group at some point? He could not remember.

He took a deep breath, white air filling his vision as he exhaled. He leaned up against the slick, wet cave walls as melted ice water soaked the back of his green overcoat. He glanced down to his hands. The crossbow and pickaxe were both within his hands. He promptly dropped the crossbow onto the ground; there was no point in using the weapon if it had no ammo to use, after all. The pickaxe was red, sticky from the blood of the trolls he had slain. He paid little mind to it as he methodically wiped off the ends of his melee weapon, his torso similarly tinted with the stuff.

Eventually, after a minute’s rest, he set forth into the darkness. He did not, however, travel without light. Sliding his hand into his jacket, he took out a chunk of wick and struck the side of it with his thumb, dust igniting and scattering onto the stone ground as the wick lit up. An orange glow surrounded his form, illuminating the area with a dim light. His glowing yellow eyes, thankfully, were more than capable of seeing through it. Squinting, he began to traverse the caves.

Minutes passed. He had still not found a way out of the caves. He kept his pickaxe in hand, recalling the blind wampa that had assailed him and Danish back in the mines. After a while, he came across a giant, room-like area, bigger and taller than all the ones previously. He stood on one end of the room, the other being an ice cliff connected to him via a bridge composed of ice. He looked over the edge. Nothing but pitch black darkness for miles on end. Blueish-white spikes loomed overhead as he started to cross it, digging into the ground to prevent himself from falling off.

As he reached the end, though, he saw something else: a light completely unknown to him. A beam that shot forth in circles all around and bathed the area, and its inhabitants sitting next to it, in a chrome incandescence. It was nothing at all like the flickering, warm, crackling fire he held in his gloved palm.

He would have stared at it all day, encapsulated, if not for one thing: the inhabitants, if they looked his way, as the entryway towards the group was right behind them, they would certainly see him.

He took the chance he had to toss the wick into the pit below, the warmth dissipating as his makeshift torch became nothing more than a glowing dot as it fell. He slid behind a wall, observing the group.

They were a diverse group, most certainly; humanoids and non-humanoids alike. The first person he saw was the child and the flower. Already, the spectre inhabiting his form was curious as to how this could be. A flower in a land as cold and inhospitable as the Fields? And one rooted into the cave grounds? A most peculiar thing, indeed.

The child wore a green sweater with a single stripe down the middle that was tinted a lighter shade of green, similar to Ballad’s own style of coloring. She was munching on the end of… some sort of food? Brown in color, let out a loud crunch when chewed off, and was covered in multi-colored wrappers.

I identify that edible substance as chocolate, o Ballad.

Chocolate?

A foodstuff. Composed of cocoa beans, sugar, and other such ingredients. I have never had the pleasure, or, perhaps, misfortune, of consuming such candy.


We’re not eating the chocolate.

Your partnership skills are lacking.

His attention soon shifted to the flower, the other most interesting specimen in the room to the gunsmith. Yellow petals, a green stem; such a beautiful looking botanical specimen. He had forgotten just how bland his homeworld could be when everything was just made out of the white color of snow and the grey color of the metal sheets of houses, and maybe some blue from the ice. Nature wasn’t very creative, it seemed, so witnessing something as colorful as a flower wasn’t something he saw everyday.

However, a nagging thought invaded his brain. He had encountered a child before, and the kid had turned out to be potentially dangerous. And had a friend; a massive tentacled beast that spoke like a child as well. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, even without fighting them himself.

Speaking of giants, as he observed the group speak, his attention soon shifted towards the massive robotic organism that towered above the rest just as soon as it began to make its speech. It commanded attention, and its booming voice likely would have collapsed the cave if it had been a bit louder. The gunner had no clue what to make of the robot; it was simply massive, stood on multiple legs, and looked like some form of triangle. The fact that it was easily twice his height was enough to make him have second thoughts about what would happen if they discovered his eavesdropping.

Finally, there was the humanoid, and the least normal looking one he had ever seen. He wore a cloak over his head, a gauntlet in his hand and a scythe-like object hung over his back, as well as canisters of... something on his person. Aside from his appearance, he was also close to the loudest and the most attention seeking, if his almost comical monologue resembled anything close to his personality. He gesticulated, he rose his voice, and he at times shouted; he looked almost like a stage actor at certain points.

Despite all of this new information, however, he was deciphering what they all had said. He had been right in his assumption of the child; she was no ordinary kid. Fell down a hole in a mountain to discover an entirely alien world to her own, only to be adopted by their leader. Then killing herself to have her surrogate brother absorb her soul to kill more humans to free the “monsters.” She did not appear to be fibbing, either. In a sense, the green sharpshooter felt a sense of pity for the child. All of that at the age of what couldn’t have been more than nine.

He held no such feelings for the machine, however. The machine, henceforth identified as a “Reaper,” made its former purpose clear: a genocidal tool of destruction. A group of machines whose existence was to slaughter all organics they found for the sake of “order.” He felt the urge to charge out from his hiding spot and personally turn the arrogant, non-living thing into a pile of scrap, with only the calming influence of the shade stopping him.

As for the human? He at least knew his name: Scarecrow. Abused by a religiously fanatical grandparent, he studied the mind in several places that he had no familiarity with at all. He sighed, keeping as quiet as he could; why did every single religious figure have to be a fanatic? What was the point? All it did was create monsters.

Monsters like these people.

There was no denying the facts; these people were monsters. By all rights, he had to kill them. For his quest to succeed, they had to die.

So what was staying his hand?

Ballad, remind yourself, what did I inform you at the beginning?

We can’t do this alone.

Correct.

Were you even listening to what they were saying? That machine up there literally said-

Ponder this for a moment, please. That machine was, indeed, once a machine built for the slaughter for millions.

What?


I’m merely implying that those skills could be useful.

… Go on…

This ‘Scarecrow’ desires partnership. He desires ‘fear.’ What creates fear more than anything else?

War.

Precisely.

… I see…

He was just about to stand up to introduce himself to his new unexpected allies when a loud thud rang out from around the cave. Everyone nearby flinched, standing up to prepare themselves for what was coming. Ballad remained hidden, his pickaxe at the ready in case this happened to be an unruly troll approaching them.

Soon, a body fell forward into the room Scarecrow and his cronies were in. A troll, just like Ballad had predicted, with its head twisted around. No one moved for a few moments as the one who had killed the troll stepped out, and the gunsmith’s eyes widened in recognition.

“Salutations,” said Koal Lynch, gesturing his hand out towards Scarecrow.

“Well… you have returned…” he said, moving out from the shadows of the wall and into the room, standing underneath the entryway to it, in plain view of everyone.