Nerd In the North: 3-14

3-14: Dreadful II

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Guts smirked, leaning back like they weren’t sitting in the middle of a freezing, exposed ruin surrounded by god-knows-how-many enemies. “We don’t have walls. Of course we’re exposed. It’s war.”

Greg didn’t answer. his fingers curled absently into ash’s thick fur, the not-bear giving a soft huff in response, his glowing red eyes fixed on the shadows beyond the firelight. Greg let his own eyes close, just for a second, and tried to will away the tension coiled tight in his shoulders.

Just one week. That’s all I’m asking. One week without someone trying to kill me or us… or what the fuck ever.

The whistle of an arrow slicing through the air snapped him back before his brain could fully process the sound.

“Down!” Motherfuck!

His hand shot out, the Quen sign flaring into existence in a blue burst just as the first volley struck. Arrows shattered against the barrier, the impact ringing out like hail on glass, but not all of them missed their marks.

Shouts turned to screams as men collapsed, clutching at their wounds. The camp erupted into chaos, bodies scrambling for shields, weapons, anything.

Greg surged to his feet, his heart slamming against his ribs. “Shields up! get in formation!” His voice cut through the noise, harsh and raw, and the men obeyed—clumsily, but fast enough to matter.

Movement flickered in the ruins, shadows darting between broken walls and splintered beams. Bolton men. Their sigils glinted faintly in the firelight, and Greg’s jaw tightened.

His hand snapped up, and Igni roared to life, a cone of flame tearing across the darkness and forcing a cluster of attackers to fall back. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

It was never enough.

“They’re everywhere!” one of the captains yelled, his shield splintering under a heavy blow.

“Hold the line!” Greg shouted, the words ripping out of him as he turned, throwing out his other hand. Aard surged forward, a wave of force crashing into a group of advancing soldiers. The blast scattered them like leaves, bodies slamming into walls and trees with sickening cracks.

But more came.

From the corner of his eye, Greg saw movement—close, too close. A soldier’s blade glinted in the firelight as it swung toward one of the villagers, a boy no older than fourteen clutching the shattered remains of a spear.

Greg’s hand came up in a sign. Too slow!

The blade never landed.

Guts moved like a shadow, his massive sword cleaving through six men in one swing. blood sprayed in an arc as their bodies crumpled, the sheer force of the blow shaking the ground beneath Greg’s boots.

More attackers surged forward, their boots pounding against the frozen dirt, and he threw himself back into the fray.

Fire and force tore through their ranks, the air filling with the acrid stench of burning flesh and the screams of dying men. Greg’s hands burned with residual heat, the sharp pull of magic thrumming through his veins. The shadow of quen flickered in the corner of his vision, but even the barrier couldn’t catch everything.

An arrow grazed his arm, slicing through fabric and skin. The sting barely registered, drowned out by the adrenaline surging in his blood. He spun, flames licking at his fingertips as he launched another wave of igni toward the treeline.

“We’re pinned!” one of the soldiers yelled, his voice hoarse. “Archers in the distance—mounted knights cutting off escape!”

Greg’s stomach dropped like a stone. He’d missed it. 

The narrow path ahead was a perfect choke point, now clogged with mounted soldiers bearing Bolton sigils. Arrows rained down in sharp, rhythmic bursts, pinning his forces.

Trapped. They were trapped.

“Guts, take the horses!” Greg barked, his voice cracking under the strain.

The swordsman didn’t need telling twice. His jagged grin was already there, his massive blade swinging before Greg had even finished speaking. “Thought you’d never ask,” guts growled, charging the mounted line like a one-man battering ram.

Greg tore his focus upward, instinct taking over. His hands shot skyward, magical energy surging through him so fast it made his teeth ache. The incantation spilled from his lips without hesitation.

“Ignis Caeli!”

Fire erupted into the heavens, a torrent of blistering heat that roared through the ruins. Archers screamed—brief, pitiful sounds drowned out by the consuming roar of flame. 

The arrows stopped as the soldiers fled and Greg blinked for a moment, the world vanishing as his eyes crossed.

“Greg!” Guts’s shout cut through the night. 

Greg barely turned before he felt it as the first blade slid between his ribs, hot and sharp and wrong.

His breath hitched, a gasp tearing from his throat as he stumbled forward. Another blade found his back, its edge scraping bone, and then a third—no, two more—slammed into his stomach in quick succession.

Pain lanced through him, white-hot and blinding. He staggered, hands twitching as his magic flared instinctively, casting flickering light into the growing dark around him.

Traitors.

He twisted, his vision swimming. four of them. Their faces were smeared with ash and blood, their eyes wild and hollow.

“Die, sorcerer!”

It wasn’t a battle cry. 

It was desperation, venom wrapped around shaking words. The leanest of the group yanked his blade free and stumbled back, making a break for the chaos behind them. The others followed, panic infecting every twitch of their muscles.

Cowards.

Greg didn’t get the chance to move. a deafening whoosh ripped through the air, and suddenly there was blood—so much blood, and it wasn’t his.

The traitors dropped. Three of them, cleaved apart in one brutal arc, their screams ending in wet gurgles as their bodies crumpled like broken dolls.

Guts stood at the edge of the carnage, his sword dripping crimson. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with something cold, something ancient and ruthless.

The last man froze, his knife trembling in his hand as his knees buckled. He babbled something—a prayer, maybe, or a plea—but it didn’t matter. Guts’s blade came down again, ending it.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Greg swayed, his breaths ragged and shallow. his gaze dropped to the blade still embedded in his stomach, the edges glinting dully in the firelight.

Focus.

His hands trembled as he gripped the hilts of both and pulled them free, letting them clatter to the ground as golden light flickered faintly across his fingers.

“Oh, radiant light,” he muttered, his voice low and firm, each word dragged from the depths of his being. “Mend what has been torn. seal this flesh lest others mourn.”

The magic flared, bright and searing, as it rushed into his body, holy and pure.

more cleansing fire than simple warmth, burning away the edges of pain and exhaustion. 

Greg’s breath hitched as his ribs knitted back together, flesh sealing over jagged wounds like liquid gold painting over cracks. 

When he stood, his chest rose and fell like he’d just sprinted miles, but his face stayed unflinching as stone. He barely glanced at the crimson stains smeared across his tunic, but his eyes lingered on the bodies at his feet.

Greg let out a slow, uneven breath, the words slipping from him before he realized he was speaking. “Fuckin’ idiots, man.”

It wasn’t loud. 

Wasn’t meant to be.

“They stabbed you, kid.” Guts’s voice came rough, steady as his hand wiping blood from the massive blade. “What did you think was gonna happen? Flowers?”

Greg didn’t answer. didn’t even look up. His hand flexed at his side, faint golden light still sparking between his fingers.

He turned toward the camp. 

The men stood frozen, staring at him the way people stared at storms—awed and afraid in equal measure. He could see it in their eyes, in the way their hands clenched their weapons tighter like they didn’t know whether to follow him or run.

“Just… bury them,” Greg said, letting out a low sigh. “They made their choice, but we honor the dead all the same.”

The men hesitated, a ripple of unease passing through the group, until one stepped forward, then another. Slowly, they moved, dragging bodies with hands that trembled as much from fear as exhaustion.

Greg’s gaze swept over the battlefield, taking in the blackened ground where fire had scorched away life. At least thirty more. Thirty faces I’ll never remember. He flinched. Not that I ever knew them.

“Path’s clear.”

Guts’s voice pulled Greg from the spiral, the swordsman appearing at his side like he hadn’t just waded through a sea of bodies. His grin was still there, sharp and jagged, though his armor bore at least one fresh dent, and blood smeared across his face like war paint.

“Great.” Greg’s throat felt dry, his words sharper than he meant. “That’s just—great.”

Guts raised an eyebrow, his grin fading slightly. “Don’t fall apart on me now, kid.”

Greg snapped back, “I’m not falling apart.” He swallowed hard, dragging his gaze back to the camp. His men moved like shadows, silent and slow, their faces pale in the dim light.

He brought his hands together, the gesture instinctive, automatic. Light flared between his palms, soft and steady, but his focus was sharper now, honed by two sets of memory that weren’t his—a flash of something holy, sacred.

He blinked again, a sudden pull in his soul bringing something to his attention. Huh… He glanced down at Shiro and Ash both, confused as something clicked. Huh. The teenager shook his head a half-second later.

“We’re not staying here,” Greg said, his voice low. He looked at Guts, then at the men still moving through the carnage. “I don’t care what I have to do. we’re making it to the Dreadfort by morning.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Battle Synergy (100 GP)

10K Words (100 GP)

Roll: Light in the Darkness [Warhammer Fantasy: Imperial Colleges of Magic] (200) {Benevolence} – “The light you wield is more than just a sword or shield against the darkness. Your battle is for the souls of mankind as much as it is for their lands. For those tempted towards evil by their own fear, pain, or loss, you may be the last hope of their seeing the light. In your immediate presence, the light of Hysh drives out despair in all those you do not see as enemies. This will not protect them from dark magic on its own, but you can at least drive back the darkness threatening their hearts.”

Roll: Ixalli’s Keeper [MtG – Ixalan] (200) {Domain} – “Fostering the growth of the creatures of the land is considered a righteous action in the Sun Empire, and you are among those who can – you have learnt how to use mana drawn from the land to spur on growth in creatures and enhance their physical capabilities to beyond what would be considered their potential. This is moderately effective on sapient beings and domesticatred creatures, but where this shines is in undomesticated “Wild” beasts such as the dinosaurs of the jungles – the same amount of mana causing much greater growth with them.

Grimoire Points: 500