124. [SEGUE] Frostkrillbane

Renate Sandvik broke through the ice and jumped into the open.

These were perhaps the biggest waves she'd ever made—even bigger than the ones from this day ten years ago. And by gods, she was going to make every ripple count.

In the space of a Ksana, her eyes confirmed what the scales atop her head had already read. Three hunters stood poised to strike the Frostkrill within its vanishing stagger window. Every one of them was so focused on their task that they failed to notice Renate's appearance—at least for the time being.

The Rakshasa with her six-shooter. The masked Manusya with his NINEFOLD techniques. And Rathor Tyrsen with his burning trident. Of these, it was the Prince who had by far the best shot at a smiting blow, thanks to the damage potential of his finisher…

… But perhaps not—if, say, a certain tree-frog were to throw a shovel in his plans.

[Chamber Two: APPETIZER]

[Dreamer Aspect: THE FIRST DAO—STEEL OF REFINEMENT]

[Auxiliary Technique: TRUEFLIGHT—TAPANA]

A Rakshasa's Zealous-imbued bullet. A Manusya's Erudite-imbued blade. And a half-blood prince's [Flight], blazing with hellfire. It was a veritable storm of intents, ripples, and elemental energy—the perfect substrate for Renate to feed upon and command as her own.

[Auxiliary Technique: ELEMENTAL FLUX]

The forceful displacement of air, ice, and water sent Renate into a true flight of her own—just a hair faster than her brother's. She doused Rathor's flames as she passed and threw him off-course, picking up more speed as she did.

And speed hadn't been the only thing Renate picked up. For as she approached the Frostkrill's exposed neck, the elemental energy from all three of her fellow Wayfarers swirled around her, sucked into the orbit of her rippling pocket. Now, it was a matter of adding her own touch of magic and sending the whole package on their way.

[Auxiliary Technique: ELEMENTAL SURGE]

Renate swung her shovel with all her might, DREDGING up—not the past—but the present [Hunger] to rise to the challenge of a good fight.

Some might call her Path dishonest and underhanded. Let them. Right now, there were only three souls in all the Realm whose opinions she valued. Two of whom fought alongside her now, shoulder to shoulder, while the third watched from the safety of a snowy bunker. Hiding, watching, waiting to witness the moment of her triumph.

[1,760!]

The combined force of four Wayfarers struck down the last quarter of the Frostkrill's health. The giant prawn's entire mass flopped and bounced one last time under an explosion of ice and fire—of green, purple, and hellish black. Then the Dusting began—starting from the antennae, to the ocular globes, and finally the flesh inside a jade-green carapace.

[GREATER ABERRANT SMITED]

[36,667 क]

[Waystation Privilege awarded. Current charge: 1]

[Realmhunt Score: 0 -> 1,000,000]

Renate noted the Karmic reward with equal parts relief and dismay. Relief that she herself had been awarded the smiting blow bonus—therefore denying Rathor the spoils. And dismay that she'd done Serac Edin the same disservice.

In her eagerness to join the Hunt in the eleventh hour, Renate had failed to consider how her interference might also throw a shovel in the wager between Serac and Rathor. The Rakshasa likely did receive a share of the Karmic rewards, with her bullets having contributed to HP damage on the Frostkrill. But her 'Score' would remain at a merely respectable [500] in a losing effort…

Now's not the time to worry about that, Renate told herself. I've done it now. Announced myself in front of the King and what's left of his Kronvakt. Things are about to move fast… which means I have to think fast!

The Frostkrill's Souldust faded into the evening sky, leaving only an empty carapace utterly devoid of its light and magic. Four Wayfarers stood under its shadow now, with each in their own way coming to terms with the events of the preceding few Ksanas.

It was the Rakshasa who reacted first—ever cheerful despite the circumstances.

"Renate!" the horned woman gushed, practically jumping for joy despite—or perhaps unaware of—the fact she'd just lost her wager. "That might legitimately be the coolest thing I've ever witnessed! How could you have kept that in your pocket all this time? And"—she suddenly gasped, eyes wide and trained on—"your head! Are… are those scales? But then… does that mean…?"

Instinctively and hastily, Renate pulled up on her hood, sending her patch of polished basalt back into hiding. In the heat of battle, she didn't realize her hood had come off. Not that it made much of a difference at this point…

"We can talk about my scales and what they mean later," she said, back to her coaching voice. "Right now, I need both you and the Manusya to run back to the Waystation and meditate. Then take your castle, along with everyone on board, and get out of here. Hurry, now. The clock may have run out on the Realmhunt, but it's still ticking on [Insatiable]."

The Rakshasa widened her eyes some more in realization. She turned to go, but not before looking back at Renate with a bemused frown.

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"But what about you? Aren't you in the same boat?"

Renate was touched by the concern—by the inclusion. All the more reason to put her foot down.

"I won't be far behind," she said—hopeful it wouldn't turn out to be a lie. "And don't worry, I'll find you again easily enough, just like I did last time. But only after I've taken care of a few odds and ends here. Realmhunt things. I'll explain later."

The Rakshasa hesitated for another second or two before turning her back. It was a good thing the hell bumpkin trusted Renate so much. As for the Manusya—never one who needed to be told twice—he'd already run out ahead into the distance.

With both outrealmers' backs turned, Renate raised her shovel, pointing its blade at Rathor. She was ready to fight him if he should intervene, but the Prince merely smiled and watched the outrealmers go, before turning the same oversweet smile onto Renate herself.

"Sister." Out of earshot of all other souls, Rathor spoke with the air of a casual greeting between friends. "It's been too long. But as delighted as I am to see you again, I do wish you'd given us more notice. We didn't even have the chance to prepare a feast in your honor!"

"I thank you for your generosity," Renate deadpanned, "but it's wasted on me. I don't intend to touch a single bite of anything that comes out of that woman's kitchen."

While the sentiment was unquestionably true, the intent had been a deliberate attempt to rile her brother. The longer his attention stayed on her and not the larger picture, the better.

"I see you haven't changed at all, sister," Rathor said pleasantly, with nary a flicker to his smile, "and I for one am glad. It means you haven't been beaten down—that you've held resolute to your Path all these years. Come. What say you join us in the palace—your rightful home—that we may toast your victory and trade Wayfaring tales? I could certainly do with some fresh education… especially after you've humbled me on the biggest stage, again."

"I couldn't think of anything less enticing," Renate said, expressionless. "And besides, are you sure you should be making such offers freely? Don't you need your parents' permission first?"

This latest barb did elicit a response. The muscles around Rathor's smile tightened, and so too did his grip on GUNGNIR. A little more, and perhaps her brother could be goaded into confronting her by his lonesome…

Unfortunately for Renate, the once hot-headed Prince had evidently learned some self-discipline in the interceding decade. He quickly composed himself and acknowledged the barb with a silent smile. He then watched his frog sister unblinkingly, as he waited for reinforcements to arrive.

And arrive they did. First, the handful of surviving Kronvakt members, who needed no instructions from their Captain to form a rough circle around Renate. Followed by the King and Queen—hurrying to the scene on foot without the aid of their salamander.

As soon as their eyes met, Loha's face—visibly aged since the last time Renate saw her—twisted in hateful fury.

"What are you all standing around for?" she screamed balefully, pointing a trembling finger in Renate's direction. "Seize her! This—this thing made an attempt on your King's life, and she'd do it again if given the chance!"

"Now, now, there's no need for that just yet." The King himself was the first to intervene, wedging his considerable frame in between the two women. "That's no way to treat my—ahem—to treat the victor of the Hunt. Whatever grievances there may be between us, I'm sure all can be washed away by some good mead. Am I wrong, Finless?"

Renate failed to respond immediately, not because she'd lost her words, but because she'd been taken aback by the changes that marked her father.

The last time she'd laid eyes on Tyr Djofulsen had been ten years ago, during the fallout from that fateful Realmhunt—the Hunt that had irreparably changed her life and Path. At the time, he'd been hale, strong, formidable—all the adjectives one might apply to a bull-shark Yaksha King who also happened to be Immortal.

But the man who stared down at her now with a peculiar smile—teeth hidden—was a mere shadow of his former self. He was still a mountain of a Yaksha, to be sure, but it was one whose forests had been felled and hills crumbled to landslides. If his body wasn't actively failing him, his mind certainly was.

They said eyes were the window to the soul. The adage proved itself once more, in the dimming of Tyr Djofulsen's eyes. Once shimmering-black and adance with passion, they now contained a hollow, white center—one that appeared to drain the very life out of a rather mortal-looking man.

When did this happen? Overnight, or gradually over the last decade? Did anyone in his inner circle notice, and if so, what was being done about it? Did his wife and Queen—

Now's definitely not the time to worry about that, Renate reminded herself. I've got plenty on my plate as it is. A King, his deranged Queen, and their volatile son… plus a handful of hangers-on. Not the worst I've dealt with, but I need to do everything right to get out of this situation. The outrealmers should be well on their way now, so it's time for me to—

And that was when a pair of new arrivals joined the manhunt. Well, not 'new', strictly speaking… but in the heat of the moment, Renate did forget to account for them.

The Tomasen twins had emerged from whatever corner of the ice they'd been flung to. They approached the circle now, OARs and COASTER at the ready—and no doubt relishing the rare opportunity to ingratiate themselves to the royal couple.

Drown the gods, Renate swore inwardly. The sturgeons certainly complicate matters. I've got to fend off a Kronvakt strike team led by the Captain himself, with Tyr and Loha ready to assist, all while the Tomasens threaten with their [Paralysis] and [Snap Freeze]. Right, this may in fact be the worst I've ever dealt with…

But then—to her astonishment—the Tomasens did not join the manhunt circle. Instead, they strode past the circumference to flank Renate on either side, with their backs turned towards her. The intent was clear enough, but the sentiment was anything but.

"I hope you two understand what you're doing."

"We do," Hans said, then left the rest to his more talkative brother.

"Yes," Lars asserted. "Maybe when day started, we would not make same choice. But now… we could never live with ourselves otherwise."

Renate allowed herself a small smile, knowing the twins couldn't see her. Well, things were finally starting to look up. She might have her cake and eat it too—shoo away the outrealmers to safety, and still be in good shape to make an escape herself.

And yet… Renate Sandvik of all people should've known just how cruelly fate could turn.

"Lars! Hans! What is the meaning of this?"

The cry of indignation, steeped in the practiced arrogance of the rich and powerful, had issued from well outside the circle. It belonged to Palmr Jorgensen, who now led a procession of his own as he hurried onto the scene.

The rotund catfish rode a palanquin made up of four tortoises strung together. The exorbitant waste of resources didn't end there—for it'd required no less than eight more tortoises to bind and drag the reluctant figure of Munkfred.

And sat atop the mound, flanked by armed soldiers and bundled by ropes on top of her blankets was…

Renate fell to her knees. All the fight drained from her in an instant. Even as she came face to face with the reality of her defeat, a niggling puzzle piece had suddenly fallen into place.

She understood fully and absolutely that Inge Bjornsdatter was the root of both her greatest strength and worst weakness. And she learned why a shrewd businessman might—under the right conditions—agree to a terrible trade.

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