Remora was the first Relic I've ever had the honour to behold. A veritable wonder both in its strength and deadliness. Relics are one of the Powerbound's most well-kept secrets; as it stands, even I do not know exactly how they operate. Their value is meaningless without a contract, and holding one could even do more harm than good if the original bearer has ill-intents. That's what makes stealing a Relic unfeasible, lest you fall into madness if not worse. Holding what literally amounts to a God's body-part obviously has its downside, even if it was gifted to you.
From Ixchel's world, Alba observed a paling Cartha struggling to breathe and screamed.
He had no body, and therefore no mouth, but the screams seemed to have quite the effect on the current host of his body.
He shared in the brain-hammering feeling the ruckus he caused had on her.
Stop it! Alba 'shouted', time and time again, and his voice echoed in the silence of the pocket dimension.
Get. Out.
In that form, his cognition and vocabulary also seemed limited, as if the air—flowing differently through his gaseous vessel—slowly suffocated his brain and altered his speech.
He felt Ixchel's surprise at his rebellious pleas.
She must have thought it easier to dominate his body but forgot how weak she herself has admitted to be.
Her grip on Cartha's throat only tightened as the edges of their vision blurred with smoke.
"How did you…Nevermind. Just wait, I'll hand it back to you," she replied calmly. "But the girl's a danger to our survival, I have to take care of this."
Trying to argue that he knew what was best for himself didn't do it for her.
The words had little weight as they shared consciousness and both knew him to be wrong; she declared having noticed how he looked at the girl and rapidly dismissed his ability to think clearly.
But it is that same care that also made for relentless determination to get Ixchel out.
As he pleaded for her to give the reins of control back to him, he instinctively pulled, as if to rip the invisible tie between the soul he was and the body she housed.
Her grip on Cartha seemed to loosen as she resisted the possession.
Finally, she went limp for a second as Alba came back into his own.
Once in his body, the fiery heat inside the tent instantly made the hair on his body rise in response.
Idiot, she said sheepishly as her consciousness retreated to the back of his mind. As long as she lives, you'll be in danger.
He ignored her nasty remarks and shook an unresponsive Cartha by the shoulders, calling her name.
When she coughed and opened her eyes, he let out a sigh of relief.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out, "I had to let her in, it wasn't…"
"It's fiiine, but I have an important question," she replied, sounding hoarse. "How is to have voices in your head?"
"Okay…right. Piss off."
Even as she almost died, he couldn't catch a break from her nonsense.
He dropped her back onto the floor and perused the large tent.
Smoke built up into dark clouds above them as fire almost made it through the thick layers of canvas.
It seemed a miracle the thing hadn't completely burned by now after the anchors failed and almost had the tent's walls fly away.
Only thanks to the pavilion-like structure underneath, acting as a skeleton of sorts, did the structure still stand.
It seems Ixchel's 'Rapture' had most of the camp in a rampaging rush of fear, confusion and whatever else made them run around like headless chicken (for those who could move at all, as a good other half didn't seem capable to).
And in the middle of that chaos, he met Elder Zenobia's red eyes once more as she sat on her butt, her eyes wide and twitching under the spell's influence.
What are you standing here for? Ixchel urged him as he froze under Zenobia's gaze. Go, quickly. Reach for the necklace; I gave it back its light.
"How can I know it's not one of your—"
Silence, stupid mortal! My spell won't last forever. Go, NOW, or condemn us all.
And he could see that she was right.
While her people seemed dominated by the spell, Zenobia somehow still had the strength to get back on her knees, then work up to her feet, with a hateful frown on her face.
On the way up, her body quivered and held a slouched posture, as if she was fighting gravity itself.
Alba cursed and rushed in for the necklace, reaching his hand out as Ixchel guided him to.
He needed not touch it for it to react to his presence, only get a few feet away from Zenobia.
The faint light that once emanated from the green gem now blinded him as it burst out brightly.
He couldn't see it happening clearly, but the necklace expanded, growing into a large and long set of chains he could only see the outlines of.
Like a parasite, the chains attached to his arm, coiling around it and gripping tightly until his veins—now a dark shade of green—popped from under his skin.
Then, he felt a heavy weight on his arm and couldn't keep it extended forward anymore; he dropped his arm and heard something slam the floor with a muffled thump as he did so.
Once the light blinded them no more, Alba didn't know to be amazed or frightened.
"I-I can't feel my arm!" Alba said. He had pins and needles in there, from his shoulder to his fingertips. "What is…this?"
Making his arm feel a hundred times heavier, and bearing the likeness of a row of shark teeth stuck on a large blade, was what had become of the necklace.
It was a blade like no other, heavier than a full cart of stone bricks and curved in all the wrong places.
Every curve looked like a cry for help, as it deformed what possibly was an unorthodox but decent curved sword underneath.
The deformities now carved jagged edges on both sides of the dark sword; the browned handle had clearly rusted away while the blade was a mix of black—like obsidian—with a few layers of white and grey, forming ridges along its surface.
Between the two edges of the blade, the darkness of the groove ran deep with rivers of green liquid seeping inside and spilling on the ground.
The best way to describe the weapon was simply to call it a mess.
"No, no, no, no…" Zenobia frantically mumbled, holding her head together as if it was about to implode.
Her whispers echoed like prayers in the background.
"What have you done to me?" Alba said, dragging his feet away from the delirious Zenobia.
Ixchel didn't answer.
"You…? You can hear her voice too? But how? Why? I…" She shook her head. Twice. "No, no. Of course not. It has to be a test." She reassured herself. She still struggled against the weight of her own body but then stood straight thanks to the pole of her glaive. "I'm glad, actually, Usurper. Glad that you and your little snake have decided to storm us. Ixchel chose me, after all. I..She believes in me. And if it is Her design… then I'll grant you both a swift death."
'Rapture' seemed to have mostly faded on her as she swung her glaive and held it behind her back.
With the inability to feel his arm, and the slowness of his movement as he tried to take a few steps back, Alba felt terrified at the sight of her pointy smile.
She squatted on her veiny legs, stretching perhaps, before she ran at Alba at disorienting speed.
The blade, Ixchel whispered in his mind. Swing the blade and let us get rid of that lunatic.
But he couldn't.
All he tried to do was run away, and even that proved itself difficult.
The blade was too heavy, visibly draining his vigour as the green liquid in the blade and the chains poured into his veins while it also put him in the same state as the night of the bargain: hot, dizzy, stiff…
"Don't you forget about me!" Cartha shouted from behind him.
A trail of ice ran across the ground from her to Zenobia, which then expanded into a relatively large path about two feet wide.
She jumped on her forged ice-path and slid up to and right under Zenobia's legs.
Sweeping at her feet with the sword, she got in a single light cut.
Then, Zenobia dodged, jumping and rotating in the air, glaive shifting from one hand to the other as she aimed for a quick decapitation.
For a split second, they held each other's gaze, exchanging smirks meant for those too daring for their own good.
Sword and glaive clashed left and right in rapid succession.
Swirling inside the now curving ice-path, Cartha easily deflected and sent Zenobia flying with the little leverage she had while in the air.
She halted her slide by planting her sword into the ground, while her opponent tumbled and did the same with her glaive, simultaneously slamming it into Cartha's ice and making the construct disappear.
"Opportunistic cunt…" Zenobia bit her lips as the words seemed to escape her mouth.
The only answer she got was a giggle from Cartha.
As the two combatants held up their weapons to each other, Alba was still confused as to how he was supposed to wield the sword.
"Your Remora," he said through gritted teeth. "It's killing me!"
Being weak, Ixchel said, is acceptable. That is half the reason I chose you, I'd say. Being stupid, however, is not. Listen…
She began her explanation as Cartha and Zenobia's weapons clashed once more.
Remora is a marvel I once gifted to mortals, she said. It is half of the dearest part of me. My love.
Cartha didn't look as potent a caster as her father, and forged no more ice after her first construct.
Either she was saving mana for the afterlife, or she ran out of gas.
She lunged at Zenobia, however, so as not to let her regain a strong posture.
Holding the sword like a rapier, she aimed her thrusts at Zenobia's arms and legs.
Even as she struggled to get back on her feet, Zenobia now held the glaive with her two hands, easily keeping Cartha at range and deflecting her thrusts.
You must stop panicking; you must trust in our eternal bond. Remora isn't in your hand or around your arm. It is your arm. It is part of you just like it is part of me.
He stopped in his tracks, halting his heavy steps and looking away from the fight.
When he tried to move his fingers, they didn't even twitch, but instead the blade's jagged edges seemed to slightly bend and stretch.
She was right.
He didn't feel his arm per se, but what he felt was the unfathomable weight of the sword that he could somehow move with ease and maintain in his weak grip.
Focusing on moving the weapon, his arm followed instinctively.
The blade's form seemed fluid despite how heavy its metal was.
He looked up, watching Cartha slowly getting a haircut as she dodged her opponent's retaliating slashes.
Zenobia had now regained a strong footing and advanced on a visibly tired Cartha.
The maraj girl coughed, leaving herself open just long enough for Zenobia to shout:
"You're mine!"
She handled the sword very well for a maraj monk (too well, really) but her lack of skill had just shown.
Zenobia's glaive slammed onto Cartha's weapon as she sadly parried on the weak instead of the strong of her sword.
The blade broke, shattering into pieces that scattered around the two combatants.
Red then splattered onto the nearby wall as Cartha narrowly avoided the glaive's blade; she sustained a deep cut in her left rib gills.
She dropped the hilt of the broken sword and held her side, oozing with blood through the cracks between her fingers.
If you truly care for that demented woman, then handle the pain and swing, Alba!
So he started running.
Alba indeed has had enough of watching powerlessly.
Blood rushed to his head, and he cried out as he ran and awkwardly swung his arm.
To his surprise, the blade extended as he tried to swing his arm farther than he usually could.
The attack caught Zenobia mid-swing as she tried to finish Cartha, and the noxious blade landed on her left arm.
He then pulled back his arm, sending the sword's fluid blade whirling back into its smaller form and ripping clean through her flesh.
She cursed, her big bloodshot eyes about ready to explode.
Alba stumbled from the impact of his own swing while she fell on her back, far away, on the other side of the tent.
She was dangerously close to the flames.
"Nicely…Done…" said a paling Cartha, panting from exertion. She still had enough energy to coat her wounded gills in solid ice for now.
"Too early for celebrations, I'm afraid," Alba said. "I have a feeling this shit isn't over."
Zenobia never left his gaze as he stood back on his feet, and he felt a rush of confidence now that the blade somewhat obeyed him.
He still couldn't shake off the numbness but was getting used to it.
"It is far, far from over, usurper," Zenobia groaned.
Without hesitation, she bit her right arm and plunged her left, wounded arm into the flames, stopping the bleeding, yes, but at a painful cost.
She barely winced, however, maintaining eye contact with him the entire time.
The woman must have had the biggest set of stones he had ever seen.
His footwork got sloppy.
He ran, holding his sword in a loose stance trailing behind him as it slightly bent before the slash.
Zenobia picked her glaive back up and parried part of the serpentine sword only to be cut from the sides by the ever-extending blade.
"I don't know why you came here," she shouted, "but I am Ixchel's chosen! You will not defile these lands!"
She seemed awfully disoriented, spouting nonsense about their visit as if she weren't the one who had ordered them here. What the…
Because of his confusion, she was allowed to push his blade away and strike back at Alba's arm with the butt of her glaive.
The following slash came down on him fast.
He barely had the time to blink and ended up taking it right in the middle of his arm.
It didn't go through, thankfully, as the chains tightened around the impact zone and protected him.
His arm, pulsating with green veins, seemed hard as steel, yet she kept on pushing with all her might, almost bringing him to his knees.
As their faces drew awkwardly close, she eyed Cartha with surprise.
"What's a maraj girl doing here?" she whispered. "Braves! Get over here! We're under attack!"
What in Lire's name happened to her mind?
Did she lose too much blood?
Alba could only wonder, but her weight on his body felt too heavy to think clearly.
Manipulating it as if it were his fingers, he clawed around the glaive's blade, getting Remora to curl around and rush for Zenobia's face.
She dodged that first attack but then had to release him.
That's when he struck with the little strength he had left.
A barrage of downward slashes came onto Zenobia, and she could still block them for a while, until she couldn't.
Until she winced during a trade, and her right shoulder faltered.
The last brutal cut was to be the last, slicing the middle of her chest as she grunted and dropped her weapon.
Yet instead of falling, she held her footings.
With the blade still stuck in chest, she surrounded Alba's throat with her hands, squeezing.
This time, he really couldn't move an inch.
The blade was too heavy, while her grip was too firm and violent; she was stronger and simply refused to die.
His heart beat at a racing horse's pace as his vision reddened.
Only when her eyes went blank and she finally lost consciousness could he cough and desperately gasp for air.
Before she fell back and went limp, she still had her hands firmly stuck around his throat until the very end.
What a m-monster, was all Alba could think at the moment.
Soon after, Ixchel's presence finally dissipated, and the blade smoothed and shortened until it went back to its necklace form, proudly sitting on Alba's neck.
Both the headache and the dizziness went away, leaving way to excruciating fatigue.
The hateful way she had glared at him as she tried to rip away his throat had him just standing, panting, for a while.
"Hey, land-dweller," Cartha's words brought him back from his fright's contemplation. "I think we…might have to find a way to put out this fire."
Now that his mind felt clearer and his body lighter, the sense of urgency of standing in a burning building did hit him, yet he looked around and saw most of the Irshya warriors either curled up on the ground, running in circles, confused, or frozen solid on their feet.
If Alba and Cartha didn't act, those people were in deep shit.
Don't even think about it, Ixchel said. Her presence felt less tangible in his mind now, as if their bond had waned, or deepened. He couldn't really tell. My enchantment won't last long on strong-willed warriors; you have to escape Aethercrust before they wake up to their senses. At best, only some of them will die, but at least, we'll also get to live.
He was too tired to think this through carefully and didn't care enough for his less than enthusiastic hosts, anyway.
So he put Cartha's arm over his shoulders and got her walking.
"The spell is fading," he said. "They'll be fine. Probably."
"Can't argue with that solid logic," she snarked back. Even if she cared for those people, she didn't care enough to protest, wounded as she was.
When he glanced back at Zenobia's body, he saw her barely breathing, with her right side engulfed in flames.
Her pearly tears and face almost broke him, as the mighty giant she was now snivelled and grimaced like a child.
A nearby pillar fell over her body, probably crushing some of her bones.
In the end, Ixchel had truly betrayed her.
No time, Alba thought.
The wind had pulled away the entry flaps, while smoke filled the air around their heads by now.
Once outside, Cartha freed herself from Alba's helping hands and declared she could run.
She didn't look like much with her thin frame, but in this whole ordeal, she stood out as much more of a warrior than Alba was.
They ran to the gates, ready to burst through, but Alba couldn't help but notice a crying Valor petrified on his knees, nearest to the tent.
He'd truly believed in him, it seems, even eavesdropping during that terrible encounter with Zenobia.
Alba picked up a pebble and threw it at the child's forehead.
Valor cried out and looked towards them with bleary eyes.
"Get up, kid!" Alba shouted through the camp. "Get up and save your people!"
He wasn't sure how Ixchel's spell worked, but perhaps the child stood a chance of surviving this, as did his kin.
Turning his back to him, he only heard him scream and cry louder.
Sorry about the mess, my guy.