Lionhearts ||Skephalo||

51

As the pair make it into the wilds, Stolfas decides to switch to his axe, deeming his crossbow now inappropriate for the situation. He unloads the bolt into the wall, hearing it thud into the planks, and returns it to his back, drawing his axe as he does so. Assu grips her sword.

This is a seven against two fight. Stolfas may be well trained, but...

"We need to get to the portcullis as quickly as we can," she whispers to him, and they press to the wall. He nods, slowly putting together a plan. It wasn't one he would've normally made, but...

Earlier, as he had wandered through the wilds, following their path as he checked he had it memorized, a loud sound had caused him to veer off course in curiosity, and he had found himself at the edge of a deep chasm that seemed to fade into somewhere else. The netherrack morphed into a dark stone he had never seen before– but it eerily resembled the material of the chapel's walls.

From the depths of it blew a breeze, choked with the scent of decomposition and bitter cold, stinging his sensitive nose.

He had stared into the depths, and abruptly, he had felt something stare back.
A rush of terror had sent him stumbling away from the edge and back to the fortress, convinced something would crawl up from the depths to strangle him if he spent another second near it.

And if these chasms—it seemed like the one Morou had described at the meeting—were truly caused by the mage they were saving...

He adjusts his axe, and whispers to her,

"I'm going to rush the doorway. Try to slip past them and jump the wall through the tower."

She stares at him, perplexed.

"What about you?"

"I'll fight," he answers, acting as though it was obvious. "Listen." He places a hand on her shoulder for a moment. "I saw another one of those chasms you talked about, and there was something in it– I looked in and it looked back at me. You need to stop them from opening, or there's no telling what would happen."

She looks up at him, baffled and concerned.

"Stolfas, you can't take them all," her tone is hushed. The sentries are arming themselves, one trying to pinpoint them in the darkness. He smiles grimly.

"Yeah, and neither can we. Get out of here alive and do what you planned to," he tells her firmly. She shakes her head,

"I'm— Stolfas, you can't."

"Just do it," he urges, reaching now for the door, "We can't raise the portcullis unless we kill or maim them all. And that might not be enough time, anyway. If you jump from that height, you might take a bit of damage, maybe sprain an ankle or something, but you'll make it. I'll occupy them."

She realizes the truth of his words, but still begs softly,

"Then jump with me, we can make it—"

"They'll shoot us both," he deflects, "If I occupy them you might have enough time to escape." Might, she registers, realizing there's a chance it wouldn't even be enough; one could jump after her.

"...Stolfas?..."

"If I die here, that's fine," his resolve is a facade, his lip quivering under the darkness that lets him hide his fear, "I felt fear like nothing I've ever felt before looking into that chasm. I know you have a plan to try to stop it."

He smiles weakly, and she gazes back despairingly. Was her lapse really going to cost the life of one of her friends?...

I've made a mistake, she realizes as her heart drops into some pit deep in her gut, oh gods, I really fucked up.

* * *

Though they'd have no way of knowing it was around the same time that Stolfas had found the rift in the Nether, the tremors began to fade. Philza glided to the ground cautiously. He and Wilbur approach the direction the wolves had been heard from, and soon enough, they're halted by a deep rift in the ground. Staring into it, Phil notes how the dirt and stone slowly changes into a white substance, almost like marble or quartz, and fog billows up from the crack, preventing him from seeing the bottom, or if there even was one.

Wilbur gasps softly, and urgently whispers,

"Phil, Phil— it's like the cracks in the sky, it looks similar—"

Phil kneels, trying to a better look at the depths, but can't make out any more details, only getting blasted by cold air and a cloying scent that overlays a smell that's almost sanitary; but it smells too clean...almost lifeless. He reels back, feeling a chill down his spine.

He grabs Wilbur's hand, ignoring his questions, and hauls him into the air. They've flown several minutes away from the rift when he finally answers, clearly shaken.

"Wilbur, that wasn't just some chasm," he snaps out, his voice shaky and filled with uneasiness, "It was otherworldly. Something is going terribly wrong with the mana, and it's causing this. I feel it."

"Phil," The ghost asks timidly, "do you think that it has to do with the mage you mentioned?" Phil nods, pressing forward urgently. They're less than a day away from where he feels Tubbo, if they don't land for the night. Wilbur looks unnerved by his determination, but Phil knows now that he's needed in the Nether—if he doesn't get there soon enough, there's a possibility that the mage causing this will fully break, and the resulting mana unleashed will continue to open those cracks, until their world is overrun with them.

Gateways. That's what they have to be. Somewhere else is starting to encroach on this world. He can't shake the nagging wrongness as they dip lower to warm up, his back starting to ache as the hours wear on. He knows that he needs to rest, but urgency gives him energy and he presses on and on despite the ache, flying lower and lower to help prevent the risk of injury if he falls.

Eventually, the air grows cold again, despite the ground only being a short drop below as they glide into the mountainous area, snow coating the ground and Phil's skin stinging from the sudden chill.
The embassy comes into view, and to his surprise, so does a group of people, standing at the door as they await entry.

And as the door opens, his wings finally give under how hard he's been forcing them. He and Wilbur spiral into the snow, the ghost floating up in panic to avoid the touch of the cold.

Phil is not so lucky, falling face first, painfully, into the small snowbank. The noise of his descent draws the attention of the group, a few of them turning to inspect the source.

Are we finally here? The mage wearily wonders, pulling his face out of the snow. I can feel him here, he's been here— he's here.

Tubbo, we're here.