It screams

The plan was simple and Arthroo quietly appreciated that. He could dedicate his entire attention to his own actions, and gave him a moment to steel himself for what was about to happen again.

He briefly laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder to check if she was alright. He knew her well - almost all of his life, in fact - so he could see the same anxiety in her that was in him. The siblings stood at the ready at the edge of the semi-natural cavern they were waiting out the patrols just moments before, his sister Cockatoo close behind him, her staff in hand. So far, it has been more useful as a third limb planted in the ground to fight against water currents running through the dungeon’s floors than a magic focus.

On Tycho’s count from three to zero, he raised his round shield and dashed forward at speeds beyond what an armored figure should be capable of, especially in those conditions. He slammed into the urchin-like monster shield first, and within a few seconds, the two finblin humanoids with crude weapons were removed from the fight by the Wych and Rogue abilities, paralyzed with terror and stunned respectively. Their dropped weapons were carried away by the currents. Sinistic and Bittervet both followed him immediately, even though a Wych could do his work from a distance.

Now was Arthroo’s moment. Don’t frakk this up, he told himself. He held his somewhat impractical but adequately “dark” jagged sword lowered in left hand. It was a basic piece that felt more like a burden than an aid. He heard that combat gear of good quality fills the user with a delicate tingle of lightedness, of potency, of power; better gear, stronger the feeling.

He outstretched his right arm towards the fight, focusing his attention on the snake-like monster that was not very large, but partially submerged and thus difficult to keep track of. The Dark Knight now needed to suppress all irrelevant thoughts: the temperature, the weight of the sword, the water, the sounds (the sounds!), the desire to not frakk up. This was the true test, the difference between clicking a button to cast a spell on a computer versus doing it by oneself, personally. He conjured up a vision of himself casting Flesh Grip, just like the tablet at the Guild depicted. He envisioned it happening to the target. He grasped at the air in front of him.

The forbidden power answered his call. A malignant force manifested within a red-and-black miasma cloud, seized the serpent monster hissing and biting at Tycho’s legs, lifted it above water, and pulled it a few dozen feet back to where Arthroo was standing. There the enemy was dropped, but being too stupid or too bent on attacking the Warrior, it completely ignored the Dark Knight next to it and set off back towards Tycho, as was planned.

He permitted himself a tiny bit of relief. I managed to cast a simple skill when it was all I had to do. Meanwhile, the high-level guys do it while talking, maintaining passive skills, preparing the next attack, or listening to the leader’s callouts. And then there’s remaining fourteen skills to learn at the Guild. Sigh.

He followed the serpentine monster, careful not to attack and thus draw its attention, and by the time he reached the other three party members, the urchin was dead, but it started. The screams.

The finblins were humanoids. Not truly intelligent, but sentient. They felt pain, and when they did, they screamed and yelped. The siblings still stood far, but they could hear it well enough. It was not at all like the game. This was savagery, kill or be killed, and it was what Sinistic was doing this very moment. With ease. Without the smallest remorse, she plunged her knives into the bodies of the enemies, spilling blood into the stream. Indiscriminately. Throat, eyes, joints. Male, female. And I have to do the same. There was no other way. Though Tycho and Bittervet were there too, a Warrior in a leading role fought to block and disarm the enemy and a Wych fought by magic, usually from long distance, so there was something detached and impersonal in it. Sinistic’s work looked very personal.

In the end, Arthroo only managed to land a Darkblade attack once, aimed at the serpent. The ability came to him with difficulties, several seconds after he intended. But it’s something, he thought. It was more than he could do a week before. The entire group of enemies, a pathetic one by a veterans’ standard, was dispatched within less than a minute. Tycho made sure to approve of the group’s performance and adherence to the plan. Cockatoo’s touch mended what insignificant wounds he took, more for the sake of practice than for actual concern. She also restored her brother’s health.

‘You know you don’t have to, I can regenerate that,’ he told her several times.

‘I have nothing better to do,’ she would respond.

Dark Knights paid for their abilities not with mana or stamina or energy, but by their life force. To compensate, they had ways to recover health in combat, and thus constantly balance combat effectiveness against self-preservation. The siblings were told once by someone in the Guild that there’s only one, maybe two Dark Knights in Rockbase who are good enough to dance that fine line while maintaining situational awareness.

Arthroo mulled over Bittervet’s cold detachment and Sinistic’s natural affinity for dirty work, and felt the gap only widening. There’s even more than that to learn. He did a quick glance towards her talking with the Wych while flicking off blood droplets off her blades. Then he looked at his sister’s hands and noticed how clean they were. What would mom and dad feel seeing us do this?

---

The whole escapade was wrapped within four hours of descending and without notable incidents, unless one counts a sack of food rations floating away into the subterranean depths as a casualty. Back on the surface they set up a makeshift camp before sunset where Tycho was taking stock of what little resources they used and the loot they obtained, and who received what. Everything would be carefully logged and submitted to the Administration at Rockbase. Tycho was quick to accept this practice when the purpose was explained to him.

The flames danced over the firewood and casted frivolous shadows around the camp, although none of the five characters needed the heat it provided despite the cold of the night. Still, they were human at heart. They liked comfort, warm food and warm drinks.

‘Shame about the sack, but don’t worry about it. Anyone used any potions? Three? Hand over the bottles. You didn’t throw them away, did you?’ he asked the group. ‘Good glass doesn’t grow on trees. Neither do the corks.’

‘Actually,’ said Bittervet. ‘Corks are made of tree bark. They’re imported to Sorostade from down south.’

‘Really? I didn’t know. Huh.’ Tycho was genuinely surprised. He stashed the empty bottles in a pouch to be reused. He sat crosslegged on the ground, his gauntlets and helm removed. It was nicer to hear his voice unfiltered by the steel of the mouth grill.

‘So, anyway,’ an oval face with lilac eyes and long lashes popped up between them. The rest of the Rogue’s black cloth-and-leather-clad body seemed to almost meld with the darkness. ‘Are you going to talk to the rest of the frakking Clanmasters and our elected chief nerds and tell them we’re ready now?’

‘I am going to,’ Tycho assured her, ‘but if you think this is what was stopping us from going into the raid zones, then you’re wrong.’

‘Then what the hell is it?’

‘This,’ he slapped the pouch where he had just put the empty potion bottles. ‘A raid is far away, and needs dozens of people. They need to eat and drink, and they need reagents. We need to figure out what to bring. The food must not spoil. The glassblowers at Sorostade suck at making tiny but durable bottles for potions. And poisons,’ he added the last part quietly. ‘Sorostade alchemists brew elixirs slowly. We have no reliable maps of the area. We don’t know what’s inside the raids, and we don’t know what manpower is ready for this kind of challenge. We don’t even know the full list of things we don’t know and don’t have. But before we go, we must have it all. We can’t afford to have people die in a raid and be teleported back to town far away, leaving the rest of us standing around like tourists. The nerds, as you call them, work sixteen hours a day to figure it all out, while you think about high-heels and drink around.’

Silence fell. Bittervet raised his eyebrows hearing this kind of tone from Tycho. The siblings who were already laid down for sleep but still paid attention gained new admiration for the Warrior veteran who talked down to someone with a reputation as grim as Sinistic.

‘Ouch,’ she said finally. ‘That burn almost sent me back to spawn.’

‘I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. That being said,’ Tycho lightened up. ‘If I end up leading one of those groups one day, I want you both in it,’ he said. ‘You complained a bit today, but in the end did as I said. That’s fine with me.’

‘Huh? I never volunteered for that,’ protested Bittervet, raising his hands.

‘I’m not forcing you. You do you. I’m only saying you’re needed.’ To this, the hooded Wych nodded his understanding.

Silence fell again, broken only by crackling of the fire and the scribbling of Tycho’s graphite stick over parchment.

‘By the way, did you know?’ asked Bittervet. ‘Until as late as the 1930s, toiler paper still had splinters.’