Chapter 55

Dane stayed at the boundary between the desert and the seemingly endless crimson sea of reefs, mourning. When night fell, the ocean resurfaced from somewhere, nothing short of an apocalyptic flood. Unable to sleep, he sat there cross-legged, ensnared in dour thoughts. 

He wondered if Flynn and Jeanne needed to die. If he had been caught by the monstrosity earlier, things would have played out to let the giant kill it, and his friends could have lived. Yet, with him gone, how long would it take them to fall from the cold, thirst, and hunger?

Dane could still see it; Flynn's shrieks as he burned and Jeanne's lifeless head rolling away from her corpse. His doing. Damn it all. If that wasn't enough, his future wasn't too bright either. 

The Spell had given him numerous notices but he hadn't noticed during the short period of his possession. When the skinwalker had taken hold of his soul, most of his Memories had been destroyed. All he had left were the Keeper's Half-Plate, the Myriad Vial, the Mercurial Maw, and the two Memories he received from killing Flynn and Jeanne.

The Bandit's Whistle, Dead Medallion, Gray Gust's Longbow, and Gray Gust's Quiver had been destroyed. He didn't even want to think about the Basket Blade, which the monster destroyed beforehand. All his food and anything else inside the Gargantuan Sack were obliterated along with the storage memory.

Stranded between desert and sea, he had lost his most important resources. At least he had Stalker; the trusty bear had survived. And if he was being honest, the Memories he received from…them were good.

From Flynn, he got the [A Promise of Safe Passage]. It was a charm…an amulet. How fitting. Dane learned that he could instinctually tell where to head for safety while wearing it. It wasn't as great as Flynn's Ability, but it was something.

 He clutched it in his right hand, gazing at the image on it somberly. The obsidian metal portrayed a campfire around which sat three people, each depicted in great detail. Flynn with his short hair and tall frame, Jeanne and her bobbed hair and lithe figure, and Dane. They were drinking soup, and Dane wore a sly smile.

They looked so lifelike. Crack. Dane crushed the ice forming on the metal in his anger. That was another thing. Soon after gaining his [Wight] attribute, he realized that things he touched would quickly gain a layer of ice. It was much sturdier than regular frost and could even be sharp in the right shape.

The Memory he got from Jeanne was called the [Sundering Swordstaff]. A swordstaff was a spear shaft fitted with a blade at the end instead of a spear tip.

The Sundering Swordstaff's shaft was sturdy, lacquered wood, with four langets of deep blue sapphire running down from the crossguard to the base of the shaft. The blade itself was steel, about 55 to 60 centimeters long, like a slightly smaller arming sword. It had a crossguard of deep-blue gemstone just a bit shorter than the blade.

It was a cruel piece of steel that couldn't help but remind Dane of what he had done to obtain the weapon.

His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it.

Dane pondered over his [Wight] attribute as he brooded. It was a strange one. For starters, his body was cold enough to form frost and ice. With enough concentration, he could form a thin but hardy layer of ice over his body. Likewise, he could control the cold, ensuring no frost built on himself or his things.

Secondly, his bearing. When the waters had flooded the crimson forest, Dane caught his reflection in the waters. He was startled. Though he was mucky, slathered in soot and ash, there was a quality to him. Inhuman and regal. 

Lastly, his voice. That was something else. It had a supernatural aspect that stilled the sounds around him. Silvery and bloodcurdling. Luckily, that could be controlled to conceal it, unlike his bearing.

His heart hammered against his chest. When he returned home, would he still be human?

***

When the sun rose and the waters retreated, Dane woke up. He had fallen asleep eventually, it seemed. His legs ached, and he had a knot in his belly. Worst of all, he was hungry. It was time to leave.

He summoned the Myriad Vial and washed himself, letting the filth splash onto the sand. He wore his armor and put the amulet around his neck, behind the steel plate, and armed himself with the staffsword.

There was a path that beckoned him to safety. West, of course. From white sparks, he conjured the Ashborn Stalker and sat on him. "It's just us now," he told the bear as he found a thick tuft of fur to hold on to. Holding onto his beast of burden with one hand, he held his swordstaff over his shoulder.

It whined in agreement as it trod down the hill and into the coral sea.