𝘏 𝘌 𝘓 𝘓 ' 𝘚 𝘎 𝘈 𝘛 𝘌 «𝔡𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔰»

●︎ 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜

Mortimer was no stranger to fear. For as far back as he could remember he was afraid. He knew he was a timid child when his parents were alive. The mere booming bark of a village dog sent him running to his mother's arms as she and father laughed at his frazzled state. When he grew older his aversion to fire grew to horror as he watched his village and loved ones burn in the fire meant to rid the region of the Blight. Later he learned to fear his own restlessness, the magic surging through his veins that would pop and sputter when not used. He feared the nights when he was left only with his thoughts and the sounds of his grandmother's breathing—practically the breathing of a total stranger forced to share a cramped, dirty room with him. He feared the nightmares the plagued him—the distant sounds of screaming, the smell of burning flesh, the distorted face of his father as it faded further away, deep into the blackest parts of his memories.

And when his fear of loneliness became too much, he turned to empty promises and false companions to fill the growing void within him. The rush of thievery, addiction, and love scared him and yet he felt as if he could not live without it. When that was torn from him, he feared he would be alone forever again, but Harrison, though Mortimer resisted as any damaged teenager would, found a permanent, comfortable seat in Mortimer's heart. Over time that seat turned into a table that began to seat new faces, new friends, and Mortimer was happy.

But fear still grasped him by the throat, its black fingers tightening with every new adventure and every new enemy.

Now standing before what could barely be called a man with its elongated, pale features and fur...Mortimer was terrified.

A whir of movement to his left nearly caused him to topple over as Cedric thrust his great sword into the chest of a howling, bloody werewolf, and with a squelching twist it fell dead at the armored man's feet. There were so many of them. Mortimer mumbled a lightning fast incantation under his breath and a long, icy hand pierced the chest of another beast just before Calypso brought her fiery rapier through its skull. Mortimer knew he would hear those creatures' screams in his sleep.

Mortimer could barely keep up with the action racing around him, the claws ripping through cloth and flesh alike, the blood spilling onto the ground, the shouting—the screaming—the sounds of bones snapping into pieces, the gurgling of blood around blades in throats. And then there was a familiar pulse of energy throughout the chamber that Mortimer knew all too well. For just a fraction of a moment, everything froze, and Mortimer felt the air around him condense and grow hot. The mana in his body sputtered to life, and he desperately searched for the source of power only to find Goddard's outstretched metal gauntlet pointing directly at Lorelei.

Mortimer did not have the Hero Gene as he so confidently believed men like Cedric Blackmire and Tarthuul son of Tarthus had, whatever clicked inside of him sent him running to her, dust flying at his feet, his heart thundering in his chest. There was nothing he could do but watch as a sickening yellow bolt of energy crashed into her figure and sent her sprawled to the ground. Seizing the opportunity at hand, another beast raced to her body and was poised to strike at her searing flesh.

"Don't even think about it, you bastard!" he screamed, thrusting his hands from a spiral at his chest and a burst of blue ice sent the creature staggering on its legs only a few feet from Lorelei's head. Without thinking, Mortimer slid to his knees and cradled her head in his arms as he quickly scrambled for a healing potion. The werewolf was recovering too quickly—

The bottle pressed against her lips and he tilted the bottle upright for Lorelei to down it without needing to physically drink. A gasp of relief shook Mortimer's body as Lorelei came spluttering to life in his arms, but the moment became short-lived as the creature lunged again for Lorelei's weakened body. Mortimer threw himself upward with his dagger aimed to its throat, a bolt of energy readying to spill from his hand. "Run, Lorelei!" he shouted and dared to throw a glance to her over his shoulder. She sat motionless, green eyes wide in horror—in the fear that they both shared fighting in the white wolf's lair. "Please!" His plea was enough to send her scrambling to his feet. The werewolf's eyes trained hungrily on her and its drool pooled down Mortimer's arm as he fought valiantly to keep the beast at bay. But a well timed strike from the creature stole Mortimer's breath as a claw sank savagely across his chest. Blood began to pool in the back of Mortimer's throat, but he pushed back the light feeling swarming his head. Not yet! he shouted to himself in his mind. Another claw splayed his side open and Mortimer began to fall.