Arthurian Cultivation

Smoke curled around Gring with every wing beat, surrounding them. They couldn't get clear even with his control over air empowering each sweep, there was just too much of it.

It wasn't thick, but it was an added frustration, one among many.

Lance, in spite of her current frustrations, was loving her path in life. This was adventure, the kind that got turned into stories, the sort of tales that her parents would reminisce about over dinner. She battled around a swaying tree, broken in half yet rooted into the sky. Pursued by wicked cultivators with dark designs above a burning fae realm. She dodged their flickering tongues of fire and poisoned blades to keep a damsel in distress safe, one thrown over the saddle of her pegasus, who would soon become her bonded companion.

She'd craved an experience like this for as long as she could remember. This is what it meant to be a knight.

Her body thrummed with power. She could feel it brushing up against the part of her soul that she knew was connected to her intent but didn’t waste time thinking about it. There was too much going on right now. As amazing as this story was, she knew the retelling would require some editing. Right now, her story was full of frustrations.

First, there was the smoke, which limited her vision, totally blocking her view across the monster infested river. Only the occasional yell, mostly Bors' bass voice, made it across the thrashing water. Not knowing what was happening across the monster-filled water was worrying, especially as the fires over there only seemed to be getting worse.

Second, there was the fact that the damsel in distress she'd been tasked with protecting was subpar at best. In all the tales of random members of royalty who fainted and had to be thrown over a white charger by a knight and carried to safety, every last one she could recall was a damsel. Arthur was, despite the fact his charm and looks leaned towards the beautiful rather than the rugged, definitely not a damsel.

Third frustration! He looked just like her. She'd assumed that the others had been ribbing her about their resemblance, but it was undeniable. They both had the same eyes—the eyes she shared with her father. She wanted to dig into that and the secrets the Lady had hinted at in their conversation, but it seemed her reprieve was up. The fourth frustration was going to yet again show why it ranked higher than an existential concern about her origins.

Her ear buzzed, a warning from Gaz’s little water orb. “Watch out, she’s lining up an attack. She’s right by the trunk.”

The centrepiece of their fight was the strange, shattered tree. Broken in half by Ursul's violent awakening, it hung from the sky, a blunt reminder they weren’t in the real world anymore. The wind and their fight had accelerated its swings, the wood creaking as it swung back and forth like a pendulum. As her eyes scanned it, she caught a glint of steel hidden among the leaves.

Her buckler snapped out to catch the blade, and a pulse of her moon glamour repelled the blade and its sickly coating. She could almost taste the wasted poison glamour in the air.

A burst of flame followed the throwing knife, but a sweep of wind from Gawain, and a couple of wing beats from Archimedes turned the flame away. He’d arrived a second too late to intercept the blade, but that was understandable. He’d been unlucky, getting hit with the poison early in the fight, and his actions were more sluggish than usual as he fought off the invasive glamour. Combined with the fact he had to shield Archimedes and Gaz, who rode with them, from her attacks, he was severely limited in his options.

Even with the Inquisitor being Iron ranked, Lance wasn’t too worried about the match-up. You could only throw or shoot things so fast, and without a power to support ranged attacks, poison glamour was limited to being an up-close-and-personal affair. Still, her gift kept them from just retreating—leaving the Inquisitor alive to come after them again wasn’t an option.

Poison gifted excelled at assassination, or if you were more like her mother, some very specialised healing. Technically, they relied on the same skill, as what might cure you in a small dose could be lethal with the smallest increase. As proven when she wounded Gawain and Arthur with her opening attack, their greatest strength was surprise. Killing them was also the fastest way to neutralise the threat of their poison, as without their gift to support their poison, the body could purge it like any mortal contaminant.

If they retreated, she’d haunt them, maintaining their debilitating injuries as she waited for the perfect opportunity to strike again.

Lance knew this because her mother hadn’t skipped out on the details of what had made her so happy to leave behind her former coven. These days she mostly used her gift in some very specialised applications of healing, the fine control needed to reach that level necessitated a lot of practice, including plenty of ‘mistakes’. The invasive glamour stopped a cultivator from neutralising a poison with their aura. Antidotes or other healing was required to stop the attack, and while a cultivator could with concentration limit the damage it did, that fight consumed a portion of their power.

They were at a stalemate, but it would only take a single error to shift the battle—or the introduction of an unexpected factor. This being a fae realm, an unexpected factor was overdue.

A shriek carved through the air, and something dived at them.

Lance only caught the shift in her peripheral vision, but Gring was on it. He chuffed and dived right, using a burst of wind glamour to accelerate as he dodged into the cover of the shifting branches of the tree. Archimedes dived as well, heading for less poison-filled cover.

Over her shoulder, as the wind stung her eyes, she caught a glimpse of what looked to be an animate cloud plunging after her friends. Streamers of mist trailed from the vaguely bird-shaped mass, that was easily twice as large as Archimedes. The only clear visual sign it wasn’t a mere clump of shaped water vapour were the talons like scimitars that stretched out, clawing at the smaller bird. It was a monster she’d only ever heard of, a Nimbushawk—a mid-range Iron beast.

She couldn’t spare too much attention, though. Gring was clearly afraid of the creature, enough to willingly get within the Inquisitor's range. All that saved them from a fresh knife was their rapid descent, Gring plunging faster than a man could fall. Her beautiful mount dodged between the branches, little bursts of glamour changing his course each time it seemed they’d strike a branch. She was lucky to have such an ally.

She heard the hiss of the wind and the sound as his wings sliced through leaves. He eased up his descent as the ground was coming rapidly into focus. Yet they couldn’t leave the protection of the branches.

Checking on the others she saw the Nimbushawk clawing at a nearby tree. It screeched in fury, talons empty, it rose over the battlefield, its eyes watchful. Waiting for its prey.

Lance swore—they were trapped. Archimedes was hiding in a different tree, the Nimbushawk just waiting for its opportunity to strike. She had mere moments before the Inquisitor caught up with them. She could hear her crashing through the canopy above.

“This is such bullshit,” she swore. “Gaz, if you can hear me, she’s coming for me.” The bauble at her ear was inert; she couldn’t feel the connection to Gaz. Her stomach sank. Despite there being plenty of good reasons for the technique to have failed, her mind could only jump to the worst options. She needed a plan, but she was coming up empty. This was so far outside of what she knew—the duels and occasional unsanctioned fights that broke out around Fosburg.

Her only hope right now was that the Inquisitor seemed to want Arthur alive, as no attack beyond the first had come anywhere near him. Lance nudged Gring, and he shifted so they floated over a break in the canopy that exposed the drop to the earth below. If she tried to strike Gring out of the sky, she’d lose Arthur.

The Inquisitor dropped down from the branches above. The woman was a mess, her armour was drenched, and the raiment she wore over it was stained with blood. She wore an open-faced helm that did her no favours. Not only did it frame a visage of a woman who looked like she spent her free time sucking lemons, but she also sported numerous small cuts. Her left arm was close to her side, using the armour about her hip to support its weight, and her leg twitched as she landed. Gawain hadn’t been entirely passive in the fight, striking whenever he had a chance.

Lance eyeballed her. Her stance lacked a certain crispness she expected from competent combatants. She had an instant sense that this woman was no warrior. The fact she carried only knives told her that this woman was more rogue than paladin.

“This has been much harder than it needed to be. Give me the Silver Lion and you can go free. I do not care for some weak heretic and her pet.” The woman’s voice matched her puckered face. Gring whinnied at the insult.

“And lose my only leverage?” Lance replied, deadpan. She had to keep her talking, find some opening. “If I hand him over, you’ll kill me and Gring. What guarantee can you give me?”

“You’re more open to this than I expected. I thought his team was fanatically loyal. Seems you have some traitorous converts among your ranks too.” The woman spat the last part before looking about, no doubt trying to find her own opening.

This was another stalemate, and they both knew it.

“First time I’m meeting him today. I got dragged into this.” Lance hunted for a solution, thinking about what she had in her ring. She did have quite a few antidotes; her mother insisted on her having them. Could she survive a fight with them, could she win against a wounded iron rank? It was the last option, Lance knew the tyranny of rank but if there was ever a time to fight upwards this was it. Still she looked for something, anything, a way to tip the scales and end the standoff.

And to watch for outside forces. Lance suppressed a smile as she saw a flicker of movement behind her opponent. This time, the fae realm's interference seemed to be in her favour.

“Inquisitor Clove, of the Ray of Truth, pledges on the Guiding Star that if you place him on one of the far branches and fly away, I will not pursue or harm you.” Her face eased as she spoke, her voice smoothed and almost warm as she invoked her god, before instantly switching back to harsh tones. “But if you try and get clever, I’ll throw everything I have at your damned winged horse. He’s weak, my poisons will work quickly. I’ll focus on pain, and you’ll feel it all through your bond.” The woman watched Lance like a snake, her eyes unblinking. A clear sign she wasn’t normally a front-line fighter. A real warrior would’ve been aware enough of her surroundings to spot the tree branch snaking down from above.

“That works, how about here?” She nudged Gring. Her new friend was smart, even if he couldn’t yet speak, and followed the conversation perfectly. He drew out the moment, slowly shifting them towards the edge of the canopy. The woman took a step forward, wary of deception. She focused on them, unaware that she was blinding herself to the true threat—the branch mere inches from her. Lance gripped Arthur’s back, looking at the woman for confirmation.

“Yes, and then finally, this can be over.” A prophetic set of last words, as the branch dropped around her neck. The wooden noose tightened around her. She tried to claw it off, daggers coming up, but this was no slow hanging where she’d fight for breath, nor was it the clean drop that snapped the neck.

The noose sat at the end of a long branch bent like a fishing rod, catch secured, the power that bent it was released.

Ever pulled a branch back and let it snap into place? Lance had, but she’d never done it with a tree’s worth of wood.

Head and body parted ways. The body plunged to the forest floor below, and the head continued upwards like it was launched from a trebuchet. Lance had heard that a decapitated head could remain conscious for a few moments, and she wondered just how far the Inquisitor would travel in that time.

Closer to the trunk of the tree, another Inquisitor in a full-face helm descended using a smaller vine as a step. Lance was wary, but they held up their hands in a sign of peace. Lance sought to look alert and threatening, though it was a bit of an act—this person moved like a warrior and had the spiritual weight of an Iron rank. Plus, they were clearly a nature cultivator, which meant they could’ve killed them at any time, given that they were surrounded by the tree.

“Please, hear me out, I’m not with them.” It was a woman’s voice, far less acidic than the last. “I’ve been busy killing other blood thralls of the Astor before they destroy more treasures and draw in more beasts. When I came to help you were all moving far too quickly for me to be able to act. This is the longest she’s stayed still. I hope that you’ll judge me by my actions, not my uniform, and at least hear what I have to say. It may be difficult to believe, but I owe no allegiance to them and hate them more than most.”

Lance had a few things she wanted to say. Obviously, she really wasn’t shocked that someone in their ranks would be a turncoat—she knew Taliesin, after all—and another ally would be a welcome boon. She wanted to say that, but an overwhelming realisation sank in, and she groaned.

“What’s wrong, she didn’t poison you, did she?”

“No, no.” Lance sagged in her saddle and glared at the slowly rousing Arthur. “I’m listening. It’s just... I realised I’ve somehow ended up as the damsel in distress.”