Don't Corner a Dragon

Well, we made our to Processing easily enough—a rather drab, stifling room. We quickly learned that the processing to be done was that of people, rather than items. I saw not a soul familiar to me from the drop corps or the like; I found myself dismayed that they were unaccounted for, but also admittedly relieved that they were not in the captivity of the Oprishniki, which itself is a fate I would not wish upon any being, dead or alive.
 
Ah, I should not jest. Their absences weigh heavily on my mind, though I cannot bring myself to believe yet that they have perished. No matter where they are, I will find them.
 
A witchhunting dog burst through the door, shaking me from my musings. Ordinarily this would not have posed any significant additional threat, but, quite unfortunately, this particular Oprishniki barreled right through my companions and I, the violent movement wrenching us from beneath the convenient cloak of Orlando’s invisibility magic. All of a sudden, seven pairs of hostile eyes were fixed on us!
 
We ran, the guards hot on our tail. I would have been boxed in by the brutes, had it not been for a daring strike from Kyliko—gunshots echoed after us in the tight corridors.
 
I was perhaps more vulnerable in this moment than I had ever been: without Cloudpiercer and Riptide, my sun and my moon, I had no means of defending myself, no implement through which to channel my deadly focus… Aside from, I realized, myself. In the moment of that realization, a profound feeling of peace came over me. Those who follow the way of Pilgrim’s Invested Divinity refer to this sensation as “passing the crossroads”: the moment a person steps through maze of decisions, choices, and doubts and their path once again leads in a single direction. I would not perish here amongst these pests. As I saw Orlando make a break for the vault, I knew what I had to do—one path lay before me.
 
Bellowing like Baz’duk of the Blood Wing, I charged up the stairs, seeking to lead as many of the guards towards me as possible. My ploy seemed to work! When two Oprishniki pursued me, I electrocuted them both with my wrathful breath. More followed, though, their gunshots whizzing past my head and reducing the marble bannister to fine dust. Another group approached from the opposite stairway, and from above: there was no place to flee. I hoped Orlando would be quick with opening that vault—I would be needing my swords soon.
 
As the three squads of jailor brutes converged on my, though, I remembered something, a token I’d received closer to a year ago in Del’Orta: a small blue size-changing potion! There was no telling whether it would make me a titan or a titmouse—only one way to find out! I supposed, in the heat of the moment, that either direction would be useful, though I secretly hoped I might become the size of a storm giant and crush them all there before razing the complex itself.
 
Perhaps the Great Spirits were winking at me as they replied, as I felt myself shrinking down to the size of an ant. Hah, so be it! The harmony of the spheres was sounding an awful lot like a jaunty jig in the moment. Still, I could hardly have asked for a better result; with the fearsome blue dragonborn suddenly out of sight, the Oprishniki fell into disarray, and I made my escape!
 
It was easy enough to rejoin Orlando; I found him and Kyliko standing amongst frozen statues and bullet-riddled corpses. I can only imagine his chuckles at the sound of my voice masked a deep desire to also explore the world from my new perspective; who would have thought a carpet could be a forest, staircases a vast mountain range? Besides, my new diminution posed such a potent tactical advantage. I’ll have to see if I can have this potion reproduced somehow when I return home. Imagine if I maintained my strength while in this form!
 
I never had the chance to find out, unfortunately; as soon as I stepped foot within the vast vault, I began to return to my typical size. This new place was its own manner of extraordinary, even from my usual vantage point—every inch of floor was strewn with treasures, both magical and mundane. A tax collected from many slain mages, it would seem.
 
Cloudpiercer and Riptide, of course, shone from amidst the curios like diamonds in the rough. As I returned them to my hip and my back, I felt an immediate sense of potency; there will be nothing these witchhunters throw at me that I cannot cleave in twain. In addition to my own priceless treasures, I retrieved a strange cane topped by a gleaming silver dragon, as well as a fine opal earring. Time will tell what these may be. I knew they would not be missed, though, because in that moment, Baltos rejoined us, bearing grave news: a swathe of mages had been freshly executed by the Oprishniki, and with them apparently a man Orlando had arranged to meet. The catalyst for this execution? Apparently the fool Jensen had given us all away.
 
I can’t seem to remember a time I saw such fury on my friend’s face. Certainly, a fire burns within him, but nothing so vengeful as what I now witnessed. My surprise, to be honest, was as much at the fact that Orlando hadn’t seen it coming as it was at his anger itself. Surely a first-rate silvertongue would recognize such a cheat without a moment’s hesitation? It had felt quite evident from the moment the swindler took my hand in his that he was nothing more than a charlatan—perhaps I owe that to my training and my Draconian social sensibilities. I can only guess. Still, in a way I almost admired his anger. Where elven Invested Divinity and Draconian Invested Divinity diverge is our thoughts on that deadly emotion; the elves see it as a hindrance, a roadblock, and seek detachment from it. Such niceties don’t exist in Draconia—fury is a weapon to be tempered and brandished as one must. The Codex of Sun and Moon cites that, while we cannot allow it to control us, there are certainly times where great strength may be found in channelling it through us. I am curious to see where Orlando’s takes him; I was reminded of the great feats of the Paradoxes in the old days, the wrath they loosed on the unworthy. Still, they practiced mercy in equal measure.
 
Some of them, at least.
 
It had been awhile since our chase, and no Oprishniki followed us into the vault. The clamor had abated. Orlando took the time to describe his plight to me, one of which the news he sent had never reached my ears. His goal was to reconnect to a man from a mages’ lodge, an organization called the Possums. Strange choice of mascot if I ever heard one, but apparently they’re quite skilled in the magic of illusion—makes sense. As a result, he had submitted himself on-purpose to the Oprishniki, in hopes they would lead him to the person he sought, already in their captivity.
 
So much for that plan. Still, I was more than willing to aid a friend in need—Orlando’s abilities could prove pivotal in my own quest, and he readily agreed to aid me in return. A dragon forgets no debts, nor do they leave them unpaid—and a Pilgrim accepts whatever help they can get! Now I only need to hope he gets along with Kyliko.
 
Resolved to assist one another, we prepared to exit the prison. We heard the brassy voice of Olivia the warden, echo through the complex; brash words about foiling us and thwarting our escape. As she spoke them, though, a fine dust descended upon us from tiny vents in the walls, dust seemingly comprised of a similar substance as the stone manacles which had bound Orlando before. I had to be careful—there would be no immediate returning to my hand of Riptide, covered as we all were in this antimagic powder. And there was one other matter which was unsettling to me: the complete lack of any noise throughout the complex. Practically dead silence, only the gentle hiss of the dust rushing through the slats.
 
I checked the hallway in the reflection of my blade; no guards masses outside our position. Whatever countermeasure Olivia had planned for us, she expected it to be capable of pacifying us all by itself. Hah! I have tangled with demons, beings far fiercer and crueler than her ilk. The Oprishinki were nothing. I stepped furtively outside the vault—only one direction to go, after all. I took it as almost a given that I would be spattered against the walls by massed sniper fire, but no such fate befell me! Only a cavernous main hall before me as my companions followed.
 
Then, in the silence, I heard it: a deep clanging rumble, sounding deep from within the walls. A slight shudder in the ground. And a large set of doors, rumbling open…
 
… To reveal a suit of magitech armor, bristling with weaponry, plates as thick as my leg, ready to charge. Well… Great Spirits guide my blades as I figure out a way to chop this one open.
 
May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.