[Cursed Crone] The Final Showdown

As Arianwyn picked herself up off the ground from where she had last fallen, she knew she needed to end this fight quickly. Every moment she spent here was one of imminent danger: the meteors whizzing by would certainly hit her if she was in their cloud too long, the grasping tentacles flung themselves at her form, and the deadly claws would hit their mark sooner or later. If let the combat draw on too long without making a big move, she would doubtless fall victim to the onslaught. Her luck wouldn't last forever.

So, she needed to plan her big move. With a satisfying thud, she warped the silver of her shield to toss aside the meteor embedded in it, noting as she did the heft of the metallic ore. The hairs of her mane tingled in fear at the very thought of what that projectile could have done had she failed to protect herself in time, she could not allow herself to linger on that thought. Thinking too hard about her own mortality was definitely a bad move when a monster was actively blotting out the sun.

Think, Arianwyn! She found herself almost pleading to her own brain, rushing to come up with a plan, a final move that might end the Cursed Crone's onslaught. Reacting had kept her alive so far but was doomed to fail. She needed to make a bold move. The flapping of great wings, ever present in her peripheral vision, caught her attention. Were they actually lifting the behemoth, or was she held aloft by some darker magic? They seemed too small to support to the great mass of the monster, but who knew what shadowy powers were at play. If nothing else, the flesh of the wings looked soft, more organic than the otherworldly tendrils that twisted in the air. Perhaps, Arianwyn realized, the wings were a weak spot. There was only one way to find out.

Daggers flew to life around her, spun and morphed by Arianwyn's silverweaving magic. Though it took few a moment to find the most stable shape, the argent mare weaved the ore of her blades together into one. Noting the heft of the meteor which had nearly hit her, she increased the weight of the new weapon, hoping that would help ensure that, if it hit, it would do significant damage. In the air around Arianwyn, a new weapon was forged: a heavy bola, of strong chain flanked by weights with deadly spikes. Though Arianwyn tended to prefer elegant weaponry to heavy combat, this was no time to focus on aesthetics. Her forging was crude, the shape of the bola needing much refining, but that hardly mattered in this moment. Before the next claw-strike could be aimed at her flank, she hefted her bola with both magic and telekinesis, aiming for the wing of the Cursed Crone.

Whether luck or miracle, her aim was true. The impact –a sickening, cracking thud—echoed loudly across the river valley. As the weights of the bola wrapped around the base of the wings, Arianwyn weaved the silver chain together, melding it into one single object: a binding, holding the appendages together at the shoulder, preventing the Crone's flapping. The monster was restrained: though she struggled, she could not seem to break the fettering chains.

With a screech loud enough to be heard across Ivras, the great Crone fell from the sky. Arianwyn instinctively fled—though she was far enough distance away to avoid the impact, she was not about to risk it. The Crone crumpled into the earth, unable to catch itself with talons alone. The claws scrabbled, the tendrils struggled, and the raven's beak dug into the earth, but the great monster was, for the moment, dazed.

This was the opening Arianwyn needed. Summoning the silver that had formed her armor to the ready, she approached the Crone, preparing the land a lethal blow.