Chapter Text
The Ironclad, a fierce, diabolical bronze-clad warrior stood at the precipice of ascension, one floor beneath his cynosure. A collection of self-inflicted and external wounds riddle his green flesh, his burning blood coating his curved blade in furious, feral flames. Between him and his foe; a towering spectral being formed entirely from ghostly hands cloaked in dark, yet undeniably regal attire with two green, eternal flames spinning beneath her crown; lay a defeated construct, which once bore three hanging lanterns, ravaged by the very flames of the Ironclad’s assault.
In a swift motion, the weakened Ironclad launched forward, blade aloft, striking his target in a blind, uncontrollable rage, but it did not fall. Its flames, acting as the being’s omnipotent eyes, lay on his form in judgement, before the Ironclad found himself immobile, restricted by tight, sharp, spectral chains that bind him to the royal grounds, as their creator lifts its sceptre. He makes attempts to continue his assault, but it is no use.
“You should never have come here.” the Queen speaks, plunging the base of its sceptre into the ground, facilitating vile, brutal punishment, as its mantle rises from the stone beneath her, and its tendril-like collection of arms and hands violently protrude from the opening, bludgeoning, grabbing and slashing at the Ironclad. They did not relent until he had become suitably dismembered, falling at the hands of the tyrant, what was left of his body rapidly deteriorating, until all that was left was his still-burning blood defacing the sacred stone.
The Spire, ever-cursed to shift, stood still in reaction to the warrior’s defeat.
All was as it should be, so the proprietor of the Spire would proclaim.
Though the Ironclad was defeated, all hope was not lost.
“Awaken… Ironclad… rise… once more…”
In response to the bellowing voice, the once-dead Ironclad jolted awake once more, observing his surroundings with unbridled wrath, as the kindle of his cursed blood was ignited once more. As he discovered where he had awoken, within familiar glowing waters, he found his senses, and the diabolic voices fell dormant, ushered away by the divine presence of a gigantic, light blue whale-like beast with six glowing eyes and a mouth large enough to swallow any and all of the Ironclad’s previous foes whole.
“I have… remade you… brought… you back…” It spoke in a calm, soothing tone, despite its enormous size and painful volume, “Ascend… go up…”
In a moment's notice, the Ironclad felt a rush of relief overcome him, as he recalled his previous climb, cut unceremoniously short by a tyrant of the upper floors. Memories of his rage, his skill, and what little knowledge his patron sanctioned, were restored… all was returned to him but his name. He looked up at the blue creature that had summoned him back and understood immediately what he must do: receive the ancient’s blessing and rise to, as he had fallen from, the top, and slay the Spire’s keeper, the Architect, in vicious revenge for his patron, and for the ancient before him, and what he had taken from them. He knew not, no matter how much effort he made, how he came upon this knowledge, had it been instilled by the ancient’s resurrection? Had he always known, and simply remembered? Had his patron implemented blind loyalty, ambition and desire in his name, in lieu of his individuality and autonomy?
It was no matter. He knew what he must do, and knew that to walk against his nature was certain death, so he, as ordered, stepped forth, and from the beast’s gaping jaw, he took its blessing, a golden, arcane scroll, imbued with knowledge… knowledge he once had… and had been stolen from him? When? How?
The Ironclad’s uncertainty, however, did not deter him. This was no time for questions, no time for doubt. He took the scroll, silently bowed his head in respect and thanks, and climbed the steep stones of the watery enclosure with one directive, one order repeating incessantly in his twisted, cursed mind: kill… the… ARCHITECT!!
Swinging open the rusted iron gates of the ancient’s prison, the Ironclad arrived within incredible overgrown ruins, possibly what remains of a once thriving civilisation of peaceful, magical creatures, now dried up and infested with invasive species, feeding off of the natural resources that kept the indigenous critters alive. The monsters here were smaller than that of the upper levels, but no less aggressive, accustomed to the success of their territorial nature. The Ironclad had been here before, of course, but the sense of wonder of a first-time arrival filled him still. Remnants of the old fauna and flora remained, but were few and far between. It was beautiful, in a strange way, how the Spire itself once adapted to the monsters within, reconstructing itself to divide the ecosystems. The potential of the Spire’s floors to provide fruitful resources to all within and without was astounding and yet, disappointingly, an impossibility whilst the Spire remains heralded by a master who would divide and distinguish artificially. The Ironclad knew that this is what would become of his own home, outside of the Spire, should he fail.
It was his responsibility. His tribe was dependent on him, and the demon’s contract. Though he would lose his mind, body and soul in the ascent, he knew that it must be done, he had to kill the Architect and reward his patron with his title, in doing so, he will be granted the power to destroy the enemies of his tribe. He was, as with all of his thoughts, plagued by this one repeatedly, perhaps as a result of his own love and devotion to his people, or perhaps a consequence of turning one’s own mind over in parley. As he became accustomed once more to the Overgrowth, he too recognised a sound, a low, menacing hiss from the bushes, followed shortly by the appearance of a creature that thought itself a predator… how quaint.
A nibbit, a dark green-blue amphibious reptile with a striped back and two rows of sharp, but small teeth, skulked out from the greenery, before rushing forward with its claws. The Ironclad, expecting the attack, was quick to plant his feet and place his blade in the dirt to block the creature, before retaliating with his own swift strike, wounding, but not killing the beast, which steps back, undeterred, and angrier than before.
Vile creatures, nibbits are, and not indigenous to the Overgrowth, either. It was, as far as anyone is aware, a failed domestication attempt by the previous inhabitants of these floors that led to the overpopulation of nibbits in the overgrowth. Why anybody would want to keep an aggressive, odorous lizard as a pet is beyond anyone, but that is the explanation nonetheless. The Ironclad stepped forward and punted the creature back into the bushes, taking a step back, aware of the presence of another, noticing the foul stench had developed beyond that which a singular nibbit would produce, and being somehow innately aware of the nibbit’s nature.
The Ironclad lifted his sword again to his side, waiting for both the nibbits to step into the open, where he could keep an eye on both, and anticipate their attacks. One nibbit alone is not a threat to any warrior worth half the weight of their sword, but two can prove a deceptively tough challenge, as the pair works in cohesion to split the attention of their prey, this is why nibbits, as a rule, move in groups of two. This pattern often culminates in the two of them growing a particularly strong bond and, should the two be divergent genders, potentially the introduction of even more of the blighters to the Overgrowth. This was a possibility the Ironclad was more than happy to ensure would not happen. As one of them, the wounded one in the bushes took a hesitant swipe at the Ironclad, stepping backwards to defend itself, the other leapt forward with its full force, in defence of its partner. Unfortunately for both of them, their aggression was not comparable to that of the Ironclad’s, who spun his blade to block the second one, utilising the velocity of the first spin to riposte the second nibbit, slicing it ferociously in two with surprising elegance for one so heavily armoured such as himself.
The first nibbit, visibly frightened by the simplicity with which the invader on its turf ripped the life from its bond partner, retreated slightly in an act of rare cowardice. For a moment, the man of bronze considered mercy for the creature, but despite his desire to let the creature retreat peacefully, by the time the thought had concluded, he found himself standing above its dismembered corpse, covered in its blood. How had this happened? What had he done? He pondered these thoughts, as his bloodlust subsided, but only for a moment, before he shook away his doubt, as he always did. There wasn’t room for error. Besides, the death of a couple nibbits is hardly of any consequence… they are but misguided, mindless creatures, they would not be missed. Not by the Ironclad, not by anyone.
Blood dripped from his blade as he wandered away from the carnage, his direction decided by his boots, before his mind.
All who would prevent his ascent will perish.