162 One Hundred and Sixty-Two – Playing the Flue (1/2)

Errant thumbed his chasuble reflexively as he made the long walk upwards, traipsing up sideways along the windy passage to the top.

It had taken him several months to finish it, as he had to first commission the cloth with extraordinary workmanship through his contacts in the Church of Amana. Once it was delivered to his specifications, he then had to spend a small fortune empowering it properly to do its job.

The wide strip of cloth looked like part of a priest's or sacred knight's vestments... mockery on the part of many Warlocks, but an honest acknowledgement of the position and mission of the Heavenbound. It wouldn't fall off, it passed through any fingers but his own as if it were liquid, and if damaged by an attack or energy, it would respin itself back to full form, powered by his own Wrath.

It gave him two additional Slots of Wrath to use. Bound to his Throat Chakra, it gave him another one, and when enchanted as an Arcane Mark Soulbound item, +1d6 extra damage per Soul Essence invested in it. It was the first time he'd taken it out.

Eight slots Topped for 48 damage, +6 for Warlock Sword +4d6 Mark +Con bonus in damage. Sole had forged the way for multiple Pacts, able to get twelve Slots this way... but without the power of Purity. On average, the damage from the two Paths were close, but a pure Pact had much less versatility then multiple ones.

But that was fine. The Heavenbound Pact was versatile enough, and if he couldn't Shape Stone or manipulate fire or play with lightning or make the grass grow... well, he couldn't, but that wasn't his job.

He was Heavenbound, and his job was to fight. The Warlock Pact of Heaven did that very, very well.

The matching ends of the Chasuble were stitched with platinum threads in symbols honoring the gods of Good and Law. The threads gradually turned golden, and the symbols alternated to those of pure Good, then multiple colors adorned the middle and backside of the Chasuble, none the same, honoring the gods of Good and Chaos.

Heaven was united. Heaven did not war against itself. There were too many ways for deities to settle their differences then fighting amongst themselves for such to occur, and such happening meant that a god was going to Fall, and all those who blindly followed Him as well. Supposedly, that was how much of Hell's senior hierarchy came to be...

His father would freak if he saw it. The son of a family loyal to Hell, selling himself to Heaven. Might even try to kill him. Errant found himself amused at the thought.

But as long as he only used Wrath internally, there would be no Sign, and his eyes would not be silver. Normally, this would not be allowed, the very existence of Pacts was predicated on the basis of showing Sign... but as the Warlock who'd replaced his mother had demonstrated, Pacts could be subverted if the purposes behind them deemed it right.

Heaven certainly didn't mind if he delayed showing Sign until he came of age.

The sound of the airflow around him was actually deafening, vibrating the whole shaft at this point. It didn't bother him, however. The default resistances of his Pact were to Cold and Lightning, and with Purity, included Thunder. Sonic damage simply couldn't affect him at this point, and he couldn't be deafened by loud noise any more than he could be blinded by bright light.

The flue was getting broader, and lighter. He could see some faint illumination up ahead...

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The wind tunnel ahead was broad enough to fit an ogre, scoured by ceaseless flows of air pulled out of the opening of the cave. A couple other side tunnels poured into this one, driving the air out of the cave, as pressure differentials sent the dank, cool air behind him screaming out into the thin atmosphere.

Where the air got into the Felldeep, he didn't know. But places like this pulled it out constantly, helping refresh whatever lost and forbidden things were buried down in the magical mantle, ignoring all the physics of air pressure and internal heat of the world...

That said, he was pretty sure the side tunnels would lead into the home of the Stormcrone. He was also sure that she'd be very sensitive to changes in the winds and air pressure.

He was also certain that she wasn't just a Stormcrone. He'd read some battle reports about her, listened to the tales of adventurers who crossed her, and her ability to take punishment while raining down lightning was legendary. Blood would fly, and yet the wounds would vanish instantly...

She was a Legendary, a Boss-level Hag in gaming terms. The tales had made it plain she had a nasty level of Witchcraft, in addition to her native abilities, and copious amounts of Health Qi. From what he could interpret of the battles, she never let her Health Qi vanish before fleeing, probably spending several days using healing magic to restore it before getting into another fight. She would hound people for days if she could, using magic to track them down and simply pummeling them to death from afar with her greater recovery ability and massive Health Qi pool.

Definitely not something he wanted to deal with, so he had to make sure she couldn't run.

There were ways...

He sat there, looking at the intersecting passageways, the swirling winds, and then down at his finger.

She could smell the blood of the young, eh? Well, that could work against her...

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It wasn't hard to hear her coming, by the way the wind was warping. He sucked down a Potion and remained perfectly still as the wind blew past him.

She came floating out of the side tunnel swiftly, buoyed by the wind, scrawny legs with oversized clawed feet never used to walk if she could help it. She had a mouthful of teeth like a barracuda, the face of a withered crone too mean to die, wild white hair longer then she was tall, and she probably didn't come to his shoulder, with claws longer than her gnarled fingers and toes.

Oh, and lightning crackling around her hands, up her arms and across her shoulders. Couldn't ignore that.

She floated right on by him, drawn by the smell of the drops of blood he'd smeared in the air pipe, thirty feet down. The thought that there might be a human child down there was probably the equivalent of sugar plums dancing in her head.