[Great Hunt] The Pyre of the North

Finally, Arianwyn and the Pyre of the North stood face to face; two foes on opposites sides of a battlefield here in the wilderness of northern Ivras. On one side, a monster born of corrupted magic, of a mage twisted and consumed by darkness until there was nothing left but flame. On the other side, a young mage, fierce with determination but beset by the costs of her own magical tendencies. The Pyre dwarfed the silver spotted mare, but the mare's resolve more than made up for the difference in size.

For a moment, the two regarded each other; Arianwyn could feel the world around them fading away in the background as she stared down certain death. The scent of smoke and foul ichor in the air hardly seemed worth perceiving when she drew shaky breaths, the way her heart fluttered in both anxiety and adrenaline reminding her just how terrified she truly was. She raised her head, trying to project her determination in her stance, though she knew her movements were jittery and stilted like a caged bird. Eyes met the beast's gaze; Arianwyn was not sure if the Pyre truly saw her or if she stared into the void of a body empty of its soul, though she did not know which possibility she found more terrified. To corrupt so explosively and be trapped somewhere inside the beast, or to pass and watch one's monstrous form ravage a world left behind? Still, she held the Pyre of the North's gaze for a moment, the flames dancing in her amber eyes.

Suddenly, trying to catch the monster by surprise, she lunged to life. The daggers she had crafted, razor-sharp and deadly, flared to life in her orbit, hovering around her in her practiced dance. As they flipped and spun around her, they reflected the orange light of the flame in a hypnotizing pattern. Long had Arianwyn practiced the perfect spin of her daggers, juggling the silver weaponry with finesse. She had found that carrying her weapons openly not only helped her feel the argentum, to allow the metal to resonate with her magic and allow her a faster reaction time to shape it to her needs. She unfurled her blades from her pack and sent them spinning in the air, hurling them at the beast as she ran parallel to it.

She could tell her attempt to surprise the Pyre had worked: it took a moment for the beast to surge to life after she began her sprint. She tossed the first dagger towards the monster's head, aiming for those creepily empty eye sockets. Though she missed, the blade still lodged itself in the charred skull, thudding into the zygomatic bone. The beast reacted with anger; though it could not cry out, Arianwyn felt a wall of heat hit her as the monster opened its mouth in the mocking imitation of a scream. Its wings danced anew with fire, and Arianwyn saw in her peripheral vision as tongues of new flame licked at the grass below her feet. This only spurred her on faster, desperate to escape the sudden heat and growing pyres.

More daggers sailed through the air: one lodged in charred rib, another in its radius. Another yet was knocked from the air with a swat of those deadly sharp tusks; Arianwyn managed to catch that one before it hit the ground, sending it back into the dance of her remaining blades. On one level, her plan was working—she felt the rush of satisfaction as yet another blade hit the monster's left leg, this one connecting with its ulna. She felt the thud as much as she saw it, the thunk of metal into bone feeling like a ringing in her ears as her blood resonated with the silver knife. At another level, though, it was clear that the daggers were having trivial effect. Though she had lodged multiple weapons into the charred bones of the accursed mage, the only consequence was the Pyre's rage. She did not see any signs that the injuries were slowing the skeletal beast down.

Her mind raced, trying to come up with a new plan: the silver was working, so perhaps she could sever a bone if she could hit it enough times; but her aim simply wasn't strong enough when she had to simultaneously focus on avoiding the flames and pools of ichor in the makeshift arena. Besides, the Pyre of the North was unlikely to stand still enough for her to sink enough daggers into its femur that the charred bone shattered. Already, the heat of being so near the beast and stench of the ichor was getting to her, and her vision was beginning to swim before her. A desperate cough for oxygen turned into a retching as the fumes of burning ichor reached her nose anew. No, she did not have the time to play the long game. Besides, who knew if breaking bone would even work? Whatever force holding up the skeletal husk was more magic than physics; it may be perfectly capable of killing her even without a few of its bones. Hell, even if the beast did fall, the spreading fires could still be enough to end her.

Arianwyn saw the lunge of its tusks just before the monster moved—the way it tilted its head and stiffened its neck as though preparing for the swing. Thank the patrons she did; the swing of the head was fiercely fast, almost too fast to dodge. The ground where she had run mere moments before was gouged with sharpened tusks that she just barely managed to avoid, leaping to safety a mere step out of reach. She could swear she could feel the wispy hairs of her tail and mane catch fire as the Pyre passed by so close, and she gritted her teeth against the sudden heat. How it could get any hotter than it was before, she did not know; she was certain she would spontaneously combust any moment now. While she predicted the swing of tusks, Arianwyn did not see the stomp of hooves that followed it, a massive skeletal leg lashing out in her direction. Scrabbling to get out of its paths, the Silverweaver tripped in her panic, hooves kicking up ash and embers as she rushed out of its way. She managed to survive, though she knew she could not trust her luck that that would happen again.

This monster was fast, and even being in its vicinity brought with it a heat that dulled her every sense. The overwhelming stench of ichor made her sluggish; despite her panic, she could feel the pain of a budding migraine settle behind her eyes at the smell alone. Her muscles flared with pain already; she had to shake loose an ember which had settled on her leg and begun to burn into her skin. This fight already felt hopeless. As terrifying as the Cured Crone had been, its claws and meteors had at least been something she could dodge; being light on her feet had kept her alive. Against the Pyre of the North, dexterity and determination simply were not enough. So long as the flames burned and ichor dripped, even being near the monster would wear her down. A mistake was inevitable if the fight stretched on. There was simply no way her luck would last forever, nor would her body. She could practically feel her blood boiling in her veins.

No, she needed some way to stop the beast; to cripple it and give herself distance from the aura of pure and unyielding heat surrounding it. She regained her footing, shook away the embers from her coat, and called the silver to her bidding once again. She regained her footing, shook away the embers from her coat, and called the silver to her bidding once again. She had little time to act, and even less time to plan. She just hoped an idea came to her quickly.