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The storm continued to pound Lam Berel. Thunder rumbled, shaking its buildings, from the gatehouses to the north and east, beyond the merchant and faun districts, to the west where it was little more than a soft wash in the itchyoman district, down south to the port, and even underneath it all. Water rushed through the sewers, gushing and roaring through those deep stone basins. Four men high, yet the water eclipsed it, washing the grimy paths that ran its sides. Light flashed through the waterfalls pouring down from above, the thunder’s heralds giving such beauty to the rotten, murky underbelly, sending cascades of rainbows through the filth and decay.

Yet, to Olivier, it was all one color: Yellow. He could not hear, his heart aching in his chest. The thunder, the rumbles all were deafened by that poor organ’s beats, crashing in his ears. His feet throbbed, boots sodden, and his green tunic was stained brown by things he didn’t want to give any though to as he rushed on, spurred on by that proud muscle in his chest.

His shell got the better of him at times. That spiral weight shifted too far forward, unable to be kept back by his tendrils. He bit his tongue, and white overtook his vision, hiding the filth he fell in.

But he didn’t only fall.

He rolled, end over end. His yellow-and-blue form crackled and popped, bruised and bloodied on the stone path- until he came to a halt, face down. He raised his head a touch, spitting out a mixture of that slurry and his blood, panting as he fought so hard not to gag let alone expel more.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not push away entirely the scents that congealed around, that threatened so to strip him to his very bones, diluted enough by the rain to keep it at bay. But it wasn’t the effervescence around that worried him. He tried to still his breathing, pushed away his heart’s beatings, listening.

Come on, he thought, holding his breath, enduring his head. It throbbed something fierce, sending dozens of shocks of white into the yellow. They couldn’t have given up, right?

He simply laid there, listening, waiting.

Until he heard them. Footsteps. Fire flickering. Metal scraping. Grumblings; Olivier even felt a bit of warmth on his back from their torches. But, as he rolled over, he saw they were still a ways back with only the torches to be seen through the gloom.

Olivier huffed, finally allowing his head peace, and stood once more, leaning on the wall.

With his right arm.

Lightning lit the sewers again, filled the halls with rippling color cast through the falls, but no light dared to touch that arm. The rest of him was a swirl of blue and yellow and smooth as could be, but that arm? It was purple, jagged, etched in red, as if he drew blood from a stone. Not a bad comparison considering. It was dribbling a nasty, purple ichor, and the pearl on the back of its hand was bright. Normally it was a green, though it shifted in between so many. At that moment, though, it was pure white.

With a golden arrow in it, pointing behind him.

Olivier spat out another round of blood and vile remnants, and spun to it. Break time was over… How long has he been down here, though? The storm was raging when he ran through the Hag’s Loveshack, when he parted ways with his friends. For their sake.

It was better this way. They shouldn’t be caught up with a killer. Like him. Olivier... he didn’t even mean to do it. Madam Volum... W... why did she threaten his friends? Why did she say such spiteful things? Why did she want to taunt him so much?

Why did she taint him? Further... He understood that she wanted to die, after... whatever happened to her- what did happen to her? It was so familiar to Olivier, but, as far as he knew, only he could do that- something like that... Right?

He stopped for a moment, sliding into a tiny nook.

Against the will of the arrow.

He settled his chest again, eased his breathing, and listened for the mob as they continued to follow. As he wanted them to, guiding them away from the rest of the gang. However, was it everyone? Were all of them still there or did some of them finally grow bored and leave? There was a third option, but Olivier didn’t want to consider it.

But he did need to consider one thing, something he didn’t give thought to and really should: Was he the only one with this power? Was he the only one that could wield this... this...

Corruption.

A thought struck him, making him gasp from how hard it hit.

Wasn’t Baro supposed to be up in the market at that time?

Yellow filled his eyes again. The Dread Pirate Baro. The first captain of the Scylla... and whom Olivier replaced. The poor lad had doubts about what Squall told him, that the aceon known as Plu could have been the wicked Dread Pirate, living fine and well in plain sight... but now... That level of carnage. That willful toying with other’s lives. It matched the legends and rumors spoken of the Dread Pirate.

Red returned to his gaze, and he growled.

Curse you, Squall, he thought... but grimaced. No. I’m at fault here. I agreed, after all. I’m her... friend.

For someone -rather something like Olivier- friends were rather hard to come by. Being a cephamorian-Terrahn, also, he needed to be careful with whom he called such. Everybody always wanted something. It was never good enough to simply want to be with him for the sake of such... and it seemed Squall was no different.

He shook his head, and stepped out from the corner again.

Only to duck back.

Sparks still hissed and sizzled on his tendrils, the crossbow bolt that hit his shell clinking on the ground. More whizzed through the air, cracking and sparking on the stone before and beside him. Olivier tried to step out again only to be met by a fresh herald of bolts, forcing him back into his nook.

The lad cursed under his breath, muffled further by the creak of crossbows, their strings pulled taut once m-

“What do you think you’re doing!” Someone, a Terrahn woman, cried out. Someone Olivier knew, somebody that shouldn’t have been there nor be this close to his life ever again. “Put down your weapons this instant!”

“And why should we, sister?” A man said.

Every part of Olivier tensed, hearing that oh so familiar snap. The man’s hearty voice, so deep, such timbre, became that of a swine at the slaughter, squealing louder than those that exclaimed around before there was a hefty thump. The crowd, the water, even the storm around were stifled as a soft smack filled the air, and Olivier’s eyes were once more red.

“It’s lady, and you shall not hurt him,” the Terrahn woman stated. “Do you understand? He is my responsibility.”

“Then go get him. He’s pinned down,” somebody said... exclaiming as he most likely pointed after Olivier. “Hey! He’s getting away!”

Olivier didn’t look back. He did not dare to look back. He simply ran, harder than ever before, following that yellow arrow as it grew, pulsed and brightened with every desperate stride.

The path was blocked ahead. The grate in between sectors was raised, forced even higher on its chains by the torrent of water rushing underneath. The lever for it was on the other side; under normal circumstance, one could take the stairs down and over the bridge on a lower level. The grate was only lowered to allow movement of blockages from the bars to the ocean. The other side, though, was a solid wall of water, all rushing towards those bars, easily Olivier’s doom if he slipped and fell in now.

He needed to act- to think! Now. He didn’t have much time. His mind was buzzing, piecing together what to do, racing and roaring as he heard that smacking behind. Rapidly gaining.

He was on the steps to that grate, his left hand flailing.

Landing on his sword.

A spark of blue fluttered across his eyes, sent through his blade as he flung it. It spiraled, whispered through the air, before it sung on the chains of the grate.

Breaking them.

It fell of its own accord, bobbing on the water, but Olivier was able to jump on it, sliding, rolling onto the other side. His sheathe heavy once more. The swords three gilded braids on its pommel seemed to wrap around his wrist, caressing it, as if congratulating him as he continued to run, but he didn’t feel much like celebrating.

After all, that snapping didn’t slow, nor did it fade. It was no good. Staying down in the sewers wouldn’t be enough.

Olivier simply hoped it bought enough time for the others, but it was about time to consider getting out. He thought the arm was showing him the way, but it seemed more like a glorified compass than an actual guide. A masochistic one at that.

However, what else could he do but follow it. He simply prayed he did not come across any rats... or spiders. The garolot was the closest he wanted to deal with those. What if he ran into a strigborg’s den, or was hunted by a luurepo –thoughts and scenarios he really didn’t want to know about.

Yet both of those were more inviting than the actual thought he needed to tackle.

Lady Naomei, he thought. Her very name locked his legs. It was only a moment, the briefest of glimpses, the shortest of breaths, but it was enough to send him tumbling again.

This time into the water.

No! He scrambled at the sides, clawed at it. Sparks flew from his right, leaving thick lines in the old, withered stone, but the current was too strong. He could only watch as the grate passed again, but it was quickly lost to a fall and froth, carrying, tumbling him along.

Olivier gave up on the sides. It was useless to stop the current, stop his descent. That didn’t mean he gave up. He refused to, now more than ever. He was no longer the scared, starving little urchin stowaway on the Kraken. He had grown, toughened up, found his resolve. Hell, he was even a captain! The terrors he faced, the... the war it had become against that darkness. He would not give in!

The lad made it to a crossroads of sorts. Water funneled in from nine different sectors, all culminating into one great river, heading down to the ocean. Though all nine great flows met, the current was the weakest here, as if it needed to settle a moment, to compromise and compose with the others.

Olivier looked around, looking at the nine entries, and saw the arrow under the water grow bright, pointed at the third on his right. He went to it, and found it wasn’t as deep, that he could at least stand and walk.

The water pressed against his legs, rushed by his boots, trying so hard to upend them. He simply scoffed, though, and slid out of them. Not like they were any good now, anyways. He let them drift off in the current while his feet, their suckers, held firm to the stony basin. It might have slowed him down, but he wasn’t in a rush. The crowd, that smacking, finally faded.

Olivier heaved a weary sigh, but did not feel any better. He still had no idea where he was, if he was able to get out of there, if his friends were safe, or, for the most pressing matter at hand, why Lady Naomei was there. What was she doing out of Terra, and why was Olivier “her responsibility”? Was it because he... “saved” Madam Volum? Why were either of the members of the Church there to begin with? Nobody started a pilgrimage in the winter, so what business did they have to be there?

Was it... because of me? He thought. Green touched his eyes as his stomach tightened, knotting up on the stone, stones that rested inside. But why? Why now, after all these years?

The walls, the halls seemed to fade, widening, opening to another crossroads, but Olivier didn’t choose any of them. Instead, he climbed the steps to the right, back onto the path, back on drier land. Lightning flashed in the tunnels again, catching him in that colorful blast as he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. All the muck on him shined like gems in that brief flash, feeling like a slimy coat... making him want for the one he left back on the ship. But, also, for something else.

I’m definitely going to need a bath once I get out of here... if I get out of here.

He sniffed- turned to a snort as he gagged and coughed. He picked at his nose, clearing it of that foul tincture, and heaved another sigh as he once more followed the arrow. One way or another, he will find a way out. He will make good on his promise. On all of them.