>6262078

Silver Knight Quest Thread 6 - Update FINAL

(end of Thread 6 - next Thread September 22nd)

>>6262667
>>6262667
>>6262667

You strike hard and true!
For all that is worth.

After all, as the Stilladìa gently points out, you are still a puppet on strings.

Or... can you be something else?

Perhaps.

(thanks for playing everyone! the thread is being archived, and there's a link at the bottom of the thread if you'd like to vote!)

>>6262071

>1d100+18+66 (critical)

There is something inside you that screams, screams, screams for you to stop.
Your fingers close around the edge of Carnaval’s feather.
It pulsates with the blood inside it, its crimson light pouring between your fingers, between your flesh, highlighting the outline of your bones underneath.
This is Saint Bragia! Bragia, who was there with you all the time, Bragia! She was there in the Well! She gave you strength!
A traitor.
Of the worst kind.
The Adversary.
How dare she.
You don’t even blink — the tears just pour out of your eyes, and your hand grips the feather with enough strength you can feel it bite into your skin.
No matter.
“You!” You cry, scraping your throat with the strength of your yell. Your body moves as if in a dream.
And in that ‘you’ — there’s all the pain you felt.
Your family’s ruin.
The loss of everything you had.
Ansàrra leaving you.
Because of her, because of this monster, for sure!
Carnaval had the right insight, though.
The Stilladìa — not Bragia, not Bragia, you burn these thoughts like she burned through her glamour, through your visions — doesn’t even move.
Her smile just turns a bit thinner.
You strike, leaning into it, with all the might of your broken body, leaning into it, screaming, crying — a beastly yell, releasing all your anger for everything that went wrong so far.
Like days ago when you first touched the shores.
You cry for your family.
For your lost friends.
For poor Willow.
For Master.
For the lie you believed.And a bit, just a bit…
… for yourself.
The strike goes through her cursed heart. The crystal shears her white skin, and it plunged deep into it, you push it until your hand hits her torso — and — it rumbles — it shrieks as well — the burst of searing blood and shards of crystal — as the feather joyfully explodes inside her body, scouring the wall behind her with her entrails.
The eruption pushes you back, like a giant hand shoving you about. You hit the wall, slump against it, your broken hand forgotten, the left one still holding a shard of her feather.
The liquid, the blood that was inside it, still stuck to the fragment, kisses the stone in a heated, smoky touch.
Her body is cratered with wounds, oozing burning blood. Under the crimson light, the inside seems black, twisted like she was made of ropes, like she was made of entwined hands, fingers holding onto each other, squirming and writhing as the blood smokes in a tall column of billowed steam.
A scent of burnt metal spreads.
“… ah…” she says, her face brightened from the below by the crimson blood and from above by the silver of her own stars. “… how it stings.”

[cont.]