Blood, Blades, and the Weight of Right Choices
Scrawled by firelight in the ruins of an ancient temple
The sacred branch still hums with that goddamn light, casting shadows that dance like the dead things we just finished killing. Vaerenth’s mount Hogpog is breathing steady now, thank the void, but I can still see that moment when the patchwork bastard’s makeshift arm connected. That loyal beast took a hit after dealing crucial damage to our biggest threat. Brave creature—charging in when it mattered most, just like its rider.
But it was the right thing to do.
The oracle dreams have been quiet since the branch lit up. Maybe even cosmic horror takes a break when something genuinely pure enters the world. Or maybe it’s gathering strength for whatever’s coming next. The waterfall in my visions has been flowing faster lately, reality bending backwards at an accelerating pace. This sacred branch… it’s not a solution. It’s a bandage on a severed artery.
Augustus nearly died today. Nearly fucking died. I watched him use “I Am Your Shield” until his body gave out, taking hits meant for the rest of us. The way he threw himself between me and that zombie horde—Veiled Gods, I haven’t seen protection instincts like that since Old Whisper-Steps. Different motivation, same result: good people willing to bleed for others.
The difference is Augustus chose it. Whisper-Steps got corrupted.
I keep my weapons clean between uses now. Not because of blood—blood washes off. It’s the other stains that stick. Every blade that goes into corrupted flesh carries a little of the darkness back out. You don’t wash that off. You live with it. You make sure it doesn’t spread to anyone else.
Today’s tally:
- Banjo’s Rain of Blades: Four zombie kills, final Hope token spent
- Vaerenth’s Hogpog revenge strike: Three damage to the patchwork bastard
- Total personal corruption exposure: Minimal (temple’s radiant barrier helped)
- Party members who saw me punch a zombie in the dick: All of them
- Regrets about tactical decisions: None
- Regrets about comedy timing: Several
Hart struck the killing blow. Clean, efficient, coordinated with Aster. No hesitation, no mercy, no corruption signs afterward. They’re learning to do what needs doing without letting it poison them. Maybe that’s what separates a team from a collection of survivors—they can share the necessary darkness instead of one person carrying it all.
Vaerenth’s magical control impressed me. Restrained the biggest threat while maintaining archer positioning. Tactical, clean, effective. No wasted motion, no unnecessary violence. The kind of precision that comes from understanding your role in the group’s survival. Their performance in the tavern opened doors we couldn’t have breached with violence. Sometimes the right word hits harder than any blade.
Aster kept us functional when the stress maxed out. Prayer dice to Hart when hope ran low, leadership during the townmaster negotiation, flight magic that saved the river crossing. They make decisions fast and stick by them. The kind of leader who steps forward when things get complicated instead of looking for someone else to handle it.
This is what a community should look like.
The sacred branch secured, Davrith rescued, Mire’s End saved—at least from this particular crisis. But I’ve seen what’s coming in the oracle visions. Cosmic entities with impossible proportions trying to breach the veil. Reality breakdown accelerating beyond anything local defenses can handle. The corruption at my old community, the dying wolf pack spirits, the coordinated Umbra attacks—it’s all connected to something vast and malevolent.
Today we saved a town. Tomorrow we might need to save existence itself.
The party doesn’t know the scope yet. Can’t know, not until they’re ready. The cosmic horror would break most minds, and these people need to stay functional for what’s coming. Better they focus on immediate threats they can actually fight. Let me carry the knowledge of what we’re really up against.
But for tonight, watching Augustus breathe steadily by the temple fire, Vaerenth keeping protective watch over Hogpog while maintaining our perimeter, Hart and Aster discussing tactics—for tonight, it feels like we might actually have a chance.
The sacred branch chose to come with us instead of staying in its ancient shrine. Maybe it knows something I don’t. Maybe there’s more than one way to fight the darkness than becoming it.
The river crossing nearly lost us Augustus. When that supernatural undertow grabbed him, dragged him under that black water—for a moment I saw Old Whisper-Steps disappearing beneath corruption’s tide all over again. But this time was different. This time we had rope. This time we had each other. This time I didn’t have to watch someone I care about slip away because protocols said to wait for proper authority.
I tied that rope around my waist and dove in without hesitation. Latched onto Augustus with all four limbs while Aster grabbed the line. Hart and Vaerenth coordinated from shore despite equipment mishaps. Everyone contributed to pulling him out alive. That’s what community looks like—shared risk, shared responsibility, shared success.
No one died because I was too slow to act. No one got lost because I followed protocol instead of instinct. The oracle visions guided me to the right tactical position, but it was the party’s coordination that made rescue possible.
The black water held threats beyond the undertow. I glimpsed something massive moving beneath the surface—serpentine, hungry, patient. The corruption isn’t just spreading randomly anymore. It’s organized. Coordinated. The snake was driving Augustus toward itself using the undertow as a delivery mechanism. Strategic predation on a scale that suggests something vast and intelligent directing from behind the veil.
That’s the kind of information I keep to myself. The party doesn’t need to know their rescue operation was performed over the maw of something that could have devoured us all. They deserve to celebrate their success without cosmic horror contaminating the achievement.
But I need to record it here. The patterns are accelerating. The corruption showed tactical awareness today—using the temple’s corpse mound as camouflage, coordinating zombie attacks, employing the river’s supernatural properties for strategic positioning. What we’re fighting isn’t mindless anymore. It’s learning. Adapting. Planning.
The tavern intel gathering went better than expected. Vaerenth’s performance was masterful—shifted the entire mood, opened social doors that violence couldn’t have touched. Their magical battlefield control later proved equally impressive. There’s something to be said for versatility, for tools beyond elimination and tactical positioning. Maybe Old Whisper-Steps was wrong when he said scouts should stick to traditional methods.
Watching Augustus use “I Am Your Shield” until his body gave out—that hit different. He chose protection as his role, embraced it willingly instead of having it thrust upon him by circumstance. No one forced him to take those hits. No authority figure demanded he sacrifice his health for the group. He saw what needed doing and stepped forward because it aligned with who he wanted to be.
That’s the difference between duty and calling. Between exile and belonging.
Aster’s leadership emergence feels natural, not forced. They committed us to rescuing Davrith without lengthy debate or committee formation. Quick assessment, clear decision, immediate action. The kind of leadership that emerges during crisis rather than being appointed during peacetime. Their prayer dice support kept Hart functional when hope ran low. Strategic resource management combined with moral decisiveness—exactly what a group needs when facing existential threats.
Hart’s killing blow on the patchwork zombie was clean, efficient, coordinated. No hesitation, no mercy, no apparent psychological contamination afterward. They can handle necessary violence without letting it poison their core self. That’s a rare gift—being able to do what needs doing without becoming what you fight.
The sacred branch ritual countdown created urgency that forced rapid tactical adaptation. When Davrith grasped that glowing artifact and awakened the corpse mound, we had seconds to shift from exploration to survival. Everyone found their combat role without discussion or coordination delay. Natural tactical instincts synchronizing under pressure.
That’s what distinguishes a team from a collection of individuals—the ability to function as a unit when survival depends on perfect coordination.
My Rain of Blades spent the last Hope token to maximum effect. Four zombie kills, strategic horde reduction, tactical positioning that opened the statue approach. Resource management paid off when resources mattered most. The blade-work felt clean, precise, necessary—violence with purpose rather than violence as release.
Rolling through the restrained patchwork zombie’s legs to reach the statue base felt like the old days. Pure tactical movement, obstacle becomes opportunity, size advantage leveraged for strategic positioning. The improvised groin punch was perhaps unnecessary from a strictly tactical perspective, but effective psychological warfare has its place in combat doctrine.
Clearing branches from the statue base to accelerate Davrith’s ritual—small actions that compound into mission success. Environmental awareness, objective prioritization, collaborative problem-solving under extreme pressure. Everyone contributed crucial elements to the final victory.
The oracle visions have been quieter since the sacred branch activated. Maybe divine light creates temporary interference with cosmic horror frequencies. Maybe even reality breakdown pauses when something genuinely pure enters the field. Or maybe the waterfall dreams are gathering strength for whatever revelation comes next.
Tonight, wrapped in the radiant barrier’s protective glow, watching my companions recover from injuries and exhaustion—tonight I can almost believe we might actually succeed at something larger than mere survival. The sacred branch pulses with steady rhythm, like a heartbeat, like hope given physical form.
Tomorrow brings new challenges. The Shalk Chasm mission still awaits. Craven Vakvom remains a threat requiring eventual confrontation. The cosmic entities pressing against reality’s boundaries continue their patient advance toward universal corruption.
But tonight, we saved a town. Tonight, we proved that protection doesn’t always require becoming the monster. Tonight, we demonstrated that community can share burdens instead of one person carrying them all.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything.
The last wolf pack spirits may be failing in my homeland. The Reachguard Elders may still consider me a corrupted threat requiring elimination. The rival scout who spread lies about my actions may still poison my community against my return.
But here, now, surrounded by people who choose protection over protocol, who risk themselves for strangers, who coordinate rescue operations through supernatural hazards—here I’ve found what I lost when exile separated me from everything I thought defined home.
The sacred branch chose to come with us. Maybe it recognizes something worth protecting in this strange collection of outcasts and heroes. Maybe it knows we’re the kind of community that deserves artifacts of genuine power.
Or maybe it just knows that standing still gets you killed when reality itself is under assault.
Either way, we carry light into the darkness now. Not metaphorically—literally. The branch glows steady and sure, pushing back shadow and corruption with equal determination.
Let the cosmic entities press against the veil. Let the corruption coordinate its strategic advances. Let reality bend backwards like water flowing uphill in oracle dreams.
We have each other. We have shared purpose. We have light that chose to join our cause.
That has to be enough to build on.
That has to be enough to fight for.
Written by firelight in the ruins of an ancient temple, sacred branch humming nearby, party breathing steady around the protective barrier, Augustus alive despite the odds, hope feeling less like delusion and more like tactical advantage.