Chapter 395: 396: A slow turn

“Ah~” Fresh clutches her hands together next to her face, looking at the world around herself. A color comes to surround them all, herself and the entire city, just on time, just as expected.

A chilling hue, indistinct of the color of the hero, who has stopped moving, indistinct of the color of the wizard, who stands there at his side, ready for a fight that Fresh still hasn’t brought to them, makes its way towards them all and as for that fight, well, see, the thing is, the fight is coming all on its own. Fresh doesn’t have to do a thing.

The color of red fills the horizon, surging towards them now that the shield of the world-tree has fallen. A crimson flood crashes across the landscape like a tidal wave, the roaring waters coming to consume the last island in the entire world.

- The wild hunt.

The horrible witch holds her arms out in delight, spinning around and around in the air, listening to the cries that come to drown the world. Wretched, horrible screams of hundreds of thousands of clawing, dead, twisted things and many other noises fill the air; screeches of kobolds and zombies and the gnashing of vampires and the howling of wolves and the thrashing of leviathans and giants, whose silhouettes dot the crimson fog, towering through it as black, indistinct shapes of living mountains. There’s even a few angry mush-mushes and goblins squeaking in there too. Every monster from every dungeon has come to make their final onslaught, led from three sides by the dungeon-masters of the north, west and south.

That of course, leaves one last dungeon. One last point of entry, one last point of assault for the members of the wild-hunt.

Fresh turns her head around, looking towards the central-city behind herself, towards the dungeon at the base of the world-tree. The gate of the central-dungeon has now begun to glow red, the attack happening from inside of the walls as well as outside of them.

By all accounts, it’s a perfectly coordinated scheme from Perchta, the fountain.

Everything has come into play. The world-tree is withered from the inside out, the outer cities are destroyed, the central-city is next to defenseless, but even to surmount what little resistance they could offer, there’s the booby-trapped dungeon inside of the walls too. Plus, on top of that, the hero himself had been corrupted to not only aid the onslaught, but to dispose of any useful ‘tools’, like Fresh, in the process.

But Fresh continues to spin around on her broomstick in joy, humming to herself and smiling, her eyes, not watching the hero, or the apocalyptic army marching towards them all, but rather, they focus solely on the central-dungeon.

A giant claw of some grotesque monster reaches out of the gate, the attack starting as the dungeon at the roots of the world-tree is breached.

The only problem with Perchta’s plan, is, of course, that she just doesn’t have any friends. Fresh feels kind of sad for her, really. But she herself has some and that’s why Perchta is unfortunately going to be pulling the short end of the stick today.

“Right about…” Fresh leans in, narrowing her eyes. “NOW!”

Nothing happens.

She frowns, clearing her throat.

“- NOW!”

Nothing happens.

Fresh sighs, looking around herself for a moment, before looking back at the dungeon, that some horrible thing is crawling out of. Monsters begin to pour out of it, spriggans and harpies march out of the red-glow by the dozens.

Fresh points at the giant tree. “NOWIAH!” she yelps as an explosion shakes the world. The home-made clock she had made has ticked down to zero. The grim-powder explosive device that she had set up on the branch of the world-tree explodes, fire erupting out into all directions. The massive branch, hanging far above the dungeon-gate, gives way and crashes down into the city with a deafening shattering of stones and wood, sending up a cloud of dust and debris into the air that blasts out of the city with so much force that it reaches her even out here, this far outside of the walls.

The entire marketplace plaza is essentially gone. She hopes that nobody was there anymore. But Basil should’ve taken care of that.

Thousands of birds fly out of the city all at once, together with the screams of many people, creatures and things. The central-dungeon is sealed, covered in debris, rubble and the mass of the giant branch.

Fresh spins around and around. This is the best! Her friends are the best. How could she ever have gotten so lucky, to have such smart and diligent people in her life who care about her? A useless, worthless, dumb, ugly thing like herself? Fresh clutches herself, beaming, the broom stops, pointing back towards the hero. She’s the luckiest person in the entire world!

As for the hero, well, actually, he’s not doing much. The red-wizard is shaking him, trying to get some response, now that he’s drunk the healing potion. But now the man isn’t moving anymore like before, nor is he acting like a healed, normal person. He’s just kind of… catatonic.

In a way, she feels bad for him, really. The man had never done her any wrong, not out of his own volition at least. Fresh taps her chin, thinking. Garnett really did lose this cosmic coin-toss, didn’t he? Sure, Peridot didn’t like him that much, she thinks…? But he hadn’t ever actually seemed like a bad guy. Not that they’ve ever actually spoken more than two or three sentences to each other.

Fresh sighs. This won’t do. She needs the man to be responsive and active for the plan to continue working. She stares towards the horizon, watching the red-mist draw in closer and closer, churning and twisting, as if the ruby fog were the physical embodiment of rage. Horrible, twisted faces gnash and lash out of the fog, as if they were all already close enough to bite and tear into.

Should she go and talk to him? Maybe she should offer him something? Maybe some token prize, to motivate him? The potion worked, for sure, so the only reason she can imagine that man is acting like he is, is because he’s been suddenly struck with the weight of his past actions, now that control has been returned to his body.

He’s probably in shock, actually. The hero is just a man, a boy, after all.

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Fresh scratches her cheek and then donks herself on the head. “Oh, right!” she says, laughing quietly to herself. She’s been having too much fun, but now it’s time to play the part of the evil witch.

Everyone needs something to believe in, after all and heck, maybe that something doesn’t always have to be a good thing? Maybe that something can be revenge, maybe it can be greed, maybe it can be grief and longing? But a purpose is important. A goal is important. Something to yearn for, to fight for.

Fresh pulls her witch’s hat out of her bag, setting it onto her head and clears her throat.

She places her hand by her mouth, letting out a loud, shrill cackle as she flies towards the two of them, unhindered by any gods this time around.

Metal rattles as the man moves, lifting his head for the first time to stare at her. Fresh continues to cackle, watching the tremor grow in him. It starts in his chest and then moves to his arms, a tremor born not of fear, but of strained, stressed, blood-pumped muscle and clenched fists.

“Some hero you turned out to be!” mocks Fresh, gesturing all around them. “I made you hurt so many people. My armies are here. Your sister is my prisoner and you…” She puts on her best smug smile, leaning down forward to look at him from the flying broom. “- You’re just standing here like a broken doll!” She clasps her hands together. “It’s kind of sad, honestly. You’re the hero?” she asks, leaning back and cackling again. “You’re just a big old chicken!” she says smugly, looking at the man who, having found a healthy, therapeutic dose of rage, seems to have managed to come back to life after all.

That look in his eyes, that fire of the human spirit, Fresh smiles as she sees it. The plan is safe. The hero is alive and well and just in time to pick up the fight.

But it’s not her fight. She has better things to do than to hang out here.

A blade swings out from below, glowing with light. “STOP!” yells the red-wizard, clinging to his arm, stopping him from swinging the hero’s sword towards Fresh. The city is just behind her, after all.

Fresh cackles again. “You better listen to her,” says Fresh, shaking a finger. “You wouldn’t want to kill your last party-member too, would you?” she asks, waving as the broom hovers backwards. “Oh, Red,” says Fresh, looking at the wizard, who is clutching onto the hero’s arm, throwing the entire weight of her body against him to stop him. “Let’s be friends next time, okay?” she asks and then flies off back towards the city.

That was kind of mean. But it had to be done, in order for her preparation work to be completed.

Fresh turns back for a moment to look, just as the red-fog swallows the hero and the red-wizard.

She closes her eyes, looking away, as a blast shakes the world, a scar of pure light cutting through the landscape, away from the city and blasting away a tower of red-fog from the east.

“PERCHTA!” yells a voice. Fresh looks over her shoulder.

“Oh, hey,” she says, looking at the familiar glowing gestalt that is the eastern dungeon-master. “Wasn’t expecting you here.”

“What’s going on?!” asks the glowing entity. “What happened to the dungeon?! Why is the hero here?!” It looks around. “Do you know how much of the hunt just died?!” it yells. “THREE-THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED AND TEN! We have to do something!”

Explosions ring out outside of the city.

“Yeah, uh…” Fresh scratches her cheek, somewhat awkwardly. “I should probably tell you something,” she says, shrugging. She looks around, as if to see that nobody is listening in on them and then waves the dungeon-master in with a finger. She leans in to whisper into its ear.

“What?” it asks.

(Fresh) has stabbed (Dungeon-Master {East}) for {6} DMG

Applied status: [Bleeding 3]

The creature lets out a sharp exhalation, looking down at the twisted dagger, sticking into its chest. “Per…chta?”

“My name is Fresh,” says the horrible witch.

The dungeon-master of the eastern dungeon dies, its body violently hurtling through the air, smashing into the rubble below in a twisted, leaking heap.

Fresh looks down at it and then stows away the dagger, flying back to the city.

That was for Basil’s leg.

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