Chapter Text
Lightless trees are packed on the land, as if corralled into a tiny pen. The gravel path is only discernible from the brush thanks to the veins of Curse-induced ice that decorate it. The trees themselves are gnarled and decayed, be it by natural causes or magic, and many seem to be partially torn up. Their dirt-clumped roots coil up and under the ground like jagged ocean waves. Logs or awry nature laden with icicles serve as passing obstacles. A crackle there, a shuffle here, a wisp of movement between the trunks; there were Sadnesses inhabiting the territory.
The canopy’s branches curl inwards, some yearning for the sky while others are poised like talons over the undergrowth. Serrated leaves and vines grow in bunches from the wood or sit discarded in the earth. These weave an intricate web to filter out the sunlight. Kaleidoscopic shadows are cast on the dirt, the glaciated sprouts, and the rimy grass. The sun had only come up a few hours ago. Yet the light- or lack thereof- could trick one into believing it was dusk.
The final Orb is here, in the depths of the dark forest. Mirabelle had sensed as much. Precisely why she and her team of to-be Saviors were exploring the beaten (and quickly deteriorating) path.
“Why does the dark forest have to be so…dark?”
Siffrin laughs, undeterred by Bonnie’s disgruntled statement. “Because it’s in the name!”
Odile has been glancing around warily for a while. “Be on your guard. There may be more Sadnesses, the deeper we go.”
“The ones we’ve fought so far were pretty wimpy!” chirps Isabeau.
“That does not give us an excuse to slack off.”
Siffrin gasps in mock offense. “Slacking? Who, me?”
“Of all people, especially you.”
“Ouch. So cutting, Odile.” He hops over the tapering tip of a fallen branch, while the others simply walk around it. The path curves sharply right, so he ventures ahead to ensure there’s nothing unpleasant lying in wait.
Mirabelle’s rapier is out, and she thoughtfully rotates the handle in her grip. “I think we’re close. I…I can feel it.”
“Well, that feeling hasn’t failed us the last three times, so it must be the case.” Odile states, taking out her notebook.
“I mean we’re really close! We won’t be searching for much longer!! It’s in our vicinity!!”
Siffrin whistles suddenly, pointing ahead. “Not a very convenient vicinity.”
A giant root blocks the way. It’s taller than even Isabeau. The bark is thick and chipping, dotted by odd fungi. It’s surrounded by stocky trunks and ivy that make it impossible to walk around the obstacle.
“Yahoo.” Odile says flatly.
Siffrin shrugs and takes a running jump towards the root, managing to grab an offshoot at the top and pull himself up. They stand and plant their feet, testing the sturdiness of the platform, then send a grin at the others. “I’ll pull you up! Who wants to go first?”
“ME!!!” Bonnie cheers, bouncing forward. “I WANNA GO ON THE BIG TREE!!!”
“Bonbon called dibs!!”
Isabeau whispers to Mirabelle as the rogue begins to lean down to help them. “So…do you think the Orb is on the other side?”
“I hope so…”
He listens. When there’s a long pause, he ends it. “Wanna ask?”
She mulls the proposition over, then bites her lip. “…um, Siffrin?”
They look at her, about to grab Bonnie’s hand.
“S-sorry! But…w-would you happen to be able to scout from where you are? S-see what’s there? Like, the Sadnesses, and…hopefully the Orb?”
(In some other world, this was asked a little sooner.)
“Ohhh! Sure, no problem. Hold on, Bonbon, I’ll get you up here in a second.” Siffrin pulls away, straightens himself, stands normally again, and takes out his dagger. “Let me check what’s-”
A bright whirl of Craft rushes forth from the unseen side, breaking over Siffrin’s head. His breath hitches, making a strangled sound. A stumble, a sway, and then they lose their footing and fall forwards, hitting the earth in a crumpled heap. The dagger clatters uselessly nearby.
The others cry out in unison, but there’s no break between the moment Siffrin collapses and the moment a monster claws its way onto the top of the root.
It’s a Sadness, and a hideous one at that, scuttling like a tarantula on eight spindly limbs. Its form is wrapped in a thick hooded cloak that was once intricately patterned and adorned with various jewels, metal ornaments, and shiny woven thread. The regality of the garb is unfit for the creature, whose lightless countenance is decayed like the surrounding forest. Its fangs are visible through fissures in the cheek. A trio of beady, ever-crying eyes glare down at the spectators.
Two of the eight limbs serve as hands. They clutch a staff fashioned from frozen wood and shrapnel, and the crescent-claw tip has ivy vines tethered around a smooth, flawless centerpiece.
A sphere that shines even in the dark.
“Everyone, be careful!” Odile shouts, “Boniface, fall back, take care of Siffrin, and stay out of this! That Sadness has the Orb!”
It hisses, provoked by the volume, and uses a fisted limb to send a wave of Rock Craft towards her. She takes the hit with gritted teeth, responding with a Paper skill while Isabeau runs over to support her. Bonnie yelps and hastens to Siffrin’s side, deeply concerned.
The Sadness shrieks angrily upon being struck by the skill, disoriented.
“This thing’s a Rock type!” Odile reports.
Mirabelle is fearful, but takes the lead and prepares a counterattack regardless. “Isabeau, please focus on supporting us or taking hits if necessary! A-and be careful- try not to damage the Orb!”
“Understood!”
The team weaves and calls out, barraging their opponent with effective attacks, until the smell of leaves overpowers the area. The Sadness is fast and angry and hits hard, showing a measure of intelligence behind its movements, but in the end, Mirabelle reduces it to ice and dust with a final blast of woodsy energy.
Wind pushes through the canopy, sighing in relief. With the present threat gone, Mirabelle picks up the staff and cuts free the Orb, which she clutches close to her chest. “Oh, thank Change…”
Isabeau immediately pivots away. “Bonbon! Is Siffrin okay?”
He, Mirabelle and Odile approach where the two have been stationed. Siffrin has not moved an inch. Bonnie looks distressed. “I-I don’t know!! I tried to get them to drink the Crafted water, but they didn’t respond!”
“What??? The item didn’t work?”
“C-can you turn him over?” Mirabelle asks. Healing Craft already glows in her palms. “So we can get a better look at his condition?”
Isabeau does as requested. Siffrin is pale, and his hair drapes messily over his face. There’s a gleam from underneath. Odile narrows her eyes and kneels, brushing aside the bangs. Sharp intakes of breath go around the group, followed by silence.
Snowy white veins are woven in his scalp, crawling across it like gossamer lace. Two veins- one for each temple- trail down, down, down until they’ve twined around the throat. His face is tense and pained, fidgeting in a nightmare.
“What…” Bonnie gulps. “What is that?”
“I don’t know.” Odile replies briskly. “But whatever spell that Sadness used is at fault.”
“Are they going to be okay?”
“Well, they’re not dead. But…if this is a status spell, then it should have worn off once the Sadness was dead. But it hasn’t.”
She hovers her hand above their head, concentrating as she casts a basic spell that is supposed to help break the efficiency of status effects. It’s not much, but-
The veins constrict and brighten in protest. Siffrin’s eyes fly open, and he starts screaming. It’s a hair-rising scream, sharp and painful. Odile jerks her hand away. Siffrin curls in on himself, clutching and pulling at his hair. His eyes are unfocused, darting about wildly.
The others shout and try calming them. Mirabelle attempts to swoop in with her healing, but her hand is slapped away.
“Who’s there?!” Siffrin bellows, “GET AWAY FROM ME! Who is that- where’s the threat?! What happened?!”
“Agh! Siffrin!” exclaims the housemaiden, nursing her knuckles. “This is Mirabelle, we’re all here! The Sadness is dead, you’re okay!”
“It hurts!” Uncharacteristically vulnerable, the rogue cries. “ARGHHH!!! It hurts! There’s a thousand blinding glass knives in my head! Get it out, it hurts it hurts it hurts!!!”
They’re loud, and the movement in the trees seems to get more noticeable. Odile bites her lip hard enough to draw blood, and- in one swift motion and sign, governed by rationale less than emotion- knocks him out, silencing the anguish.
“SIF!!”
“M-Madame!!”
“Dile?! Why’d you-”
“They were in pain, and that was the fastest solution. We’ll treat him when we get back to the town. We can’t stay here any longer- this place is dangerous.” She stands, gazing cautiously at the forest. “On your feet, all of you. Isabeau will carry Siffrin.”
Her words are efficient and logical. No one is any less disconcerted, not even Odile herself. But they listen.
Mirabelle attaches the staff to her belt for safekeeping. She is also sure to retrieve Siffrin’s dagger. Then she puts the Orb in her satchel, caressing its surface. A person does not have to be a mind reader to know she feels guilty. After all, if the price of this item (no matter how critical it is to saving Vaugarde) ends up being paid by her ally, she’d never forgive herself.
The town celebrates the Saviors’ return and, of course, provides care and attention for their injuries. Bonnie is seated next to Siffrin’s cot, attentively waiting for the moment he awakes. Mirabelle, Isabeau and Odile remain in the hallway. After some time, the three of them are approached by the elderly man who owns the makeshift clinic.
“I’d like to open by saying congratulations on obtaining the final Orb,” he states. “Vaugarde’s liberation is at hand, and we are all very proud of your efforts thus far.”
Odile catches on quickly. “Do you have something to tell us?”
He smirks, strained and resigned. “I want to know what exactly you fought in the forest…I’m going to suppose that whatever it was, dropped that staff. And did this to your friend.”
“It did,” Isabeau confirms. “A Sadness. Not like any we’ve ever seen before, though.”
“And why is that?”
Mirabelle has taken off the wooden staff, letting it lean against the wall beside her. She glances at it, then launches into a hesitant description of the creature. As she describes its spiderlike appearance and decorated clothes, the man’s frown deepens, becoming troubled.
“Do you know what it was?” Odile presses.
He nods reluctantly. “I believe that was the remnants of a scholar that came through here right before the King’s attack. That staff was theirs. They were researching and developing a…volatile type of Craft. I’m not sure if that Sadness was them, or if it was an imprint of frustration and grief, or if that scholar is even dead at all. Regardless, it seems your friend was hit by one of their spells.”
“Developing…? What kind of Craft?”
“A mixture of Body, Piercing, and Creative Craft. They called it Inner Craft, I believe. Quite unethical. Consider hypnosis, mind reading, the like…Given your friend’s current state and reaction upon waking up, I assume they must have been experiencing some sort of…” He steals a glance at the cot to make sure Bonnie is out of earshot. “…mental torture.”
“I tried to dispel it,” says Odile. “It didn’t work.”
“That may be because it’s already been embedded in his head. Inner Craft was far from perfected. The scholar was still developing a way to make it easily erasable, so they wouldn’t have to expend time and energy removing the effects from a subject.”
“We killed that Sadness, but those weird veins haven’t gone away yet.” Isabeau’s face contorts with worry. “How do we reverse it? Will Sif be in pain when he wakes up?”
“I can’t answer those for certain,” the man replies gravely. “But I assure you I will do what I can to help.”
Assurance does not mean much in the face of this prospect: that Siffrin will be unfit to continue journeying. Personal attachment aside, Siffrin has been a vital boon to the team, as both a trap-finder and ally in battle. Are they about to lose him because of a lapse in attention and judgment? Because of a basic mistake?
“FRIN!!!” shouts Bonnie from their place next to the cot. “GUYS, HE’S AWAKE!!!”
Not needing any more prompting, the three of them hurry into the room. Siffrin is kicking off the bed sheets as he struggles to sit up. He soon props himself against the pillows and groans, nursing his snow-speckled scalp. “What…?”
“Hey, buddy…” Isabeau approaches hesitantly. “Um, how are you feeling…?”
“I feel like absolute garbage, my head is throbbing, but it’s not as bad as whatever the heck it was doing earlier.”
“Oh no!” frets Mirabelle, “Can we do anything to make it better? Maybe water or a snack?”
Siffrin turns his head and looks at her. The darkless ivy on his throat almost seems to be glowing in the way it reflects light. “I don’t know, I think I’m a little thirsty. Not that hungry. What happened earlier? Is everyone okay? Wait, did I hit you?”
Mirabelle blinks. “H-huh? Oh!! You mean when you swatted my hand away. It didn’t hurt.”
The next words tumble through Siffrin’s lips like a hushed whirlwind.
“So I did, I did. Stars. I can’t believe I hit you, why would I do that? What on earth was I thinking? Wait, what…?!”
Siffrin stops, their hands going to their throat in evident confusion and quiet horror. It is now terribly obvious that the spell’s effects are coming into play.
Bonnie tilts their head. “Why are you talking weird? Normally you’re super, um, reed-eye-sense.”
“Reticent,” he corrects at the same time as Odile does.
“Ready-cent.”
“Wh-what’s happening? Why am I- why am I still talking?! Why is- mph!” He claps a hand over his mouth, forcing the cutoff of the sentence.
Isabeau turns to the elderly man, who has been watching from afar. “Monsieur? Do you have any clue what’s wrong?”
The man, wearing a pensive expression, hobbles closer. “Traveler,” he says to Siffrin. “Please speak to me.”
Siffrin shakes his head frantically. Muffled noises can be heard behind his fingers.
“Please.”
Odile leans forward. “Siffrin, listen to him. We can’t help you if we don’t know exactly what’s wrong.”
He angrily lets go of his mouth, and the response spills out:
“I don’t know what’s wrong, either!!! I don’t wanna talk!! I’m talking too much! I’m scared! AGH, NO, STOP IT!!!” Their mouth clamps shut, and furious sibilations slip between their teeth.
The man closes his eyes, muttering a prayer, before turning to the others.
“Seems like some sort of mind projection,” he reports. “Your friend is unable to lie, and all of his thoughts are forced to be said aloud. I’m sorry. I don’t know of any cure for this Inner Craft.”