KESM: Terra Quatuor Chronicles

It moved like the storm itself: swift, deafening, and utterly devastating. A blur of motion, its wings cleaved the air with thunderous force, descending from its perch. The ground erupted beneath the humans, barely having time to react, but react they did.

The female with lustreless chestnut hair — Emaila, was the first to act. Constructing barriers of pristine golden light, shielding her comrades from the gale-force winds churned by the beast's descent. 

A fleeting thought coursed through the Fiend's mind. 'What a nuisance.'

It could no longer speak — the scar on its throat saw to that.

The injury which caused this strange phenomena never festered, it didn't even bleed, but it still left a scar…. and it couldn't speak. Yet somehow, it could make every other sound with unstifled clarity…. Needless to say, the cut was special. And that pained it the most. Consequent to that thought, it grew more furious.

Shortly after, Angelie, the one clad in odd apparel the Drake hadn't seen before shot forward, Her twin blades — which weren't as rare — sang as they met its scales. Sparks flew, but her strikes glanced off harmlessly, their edges failing to pierce its ancient hide.

'A samurai.… That's a first.' It scoffed silently, intrigued despite its rage. 'Quite the diverse team this Sabbath fellow commands.'

The thought was short-lived. Its focus shifted to the cloaked figure — Jon, as the others called him — inscribing glowing Glyphs into the air with fluid precision, each one pulsing with latent power. Even as one spell erupted into existence, he was crafting another. 

'He seems to be a denizen of Thalassor, a Mage. Their culture and abilities always did intrigue Me.'

Moving swiftly across the battlefield Jon stood out in Sabbath's cohort, not just because of his distinct skillset, but because of the energy he carried — a quiet, contemplative intensity that drew attention, much like his magic. His blond hair was swept messily to the side, as though he'd been too engrossed in Magecraft to bother taming it.

His crimson cloak — billowing like a war banner in the wind — showcased jagged ends. The faintly glowing embroidery near its edges hinted at protective enchantments, a necessary precaution for one who danced so close to death. Beneath the cloak; a crisp, high-collared white tunic hung untucked over fitted trousers that ended mid-calf. The pants were made of durable fabric, one could tell. Somewhere between travel-worn and refined — practical for a mage who balanced scholarly pursuits with the dangers of combat. Strapped slanted around his waist was a leather belt weighed down by small pouches, each a mystery unto itself. The sound of their contents silenced by some unseen spell. To the Fiend this hinted at secrets: potions, crystals, and other components only the Mage could unravel. His knee-high boots strapped with contents of their own.

'I wonder…. what is it he keeps saying?'

The Cumulodrake's curiosity turned to malice. With a mental command, it summoned a bolt of lightning from the heavens, aiming to silence the mage. 

Jon sidestepped the strike with practiced ease, already weaving another spell. Uttering words which were as clear as day and even seemed to carry a resonant frequency, but could never be understood — Tendrils of pure Mana erupted from the ground, vines and hooks clawing toward the Drake in an attempt to restrain it. Wasted effort. He must have truly hated the Arthurian trait; resistance.

In one hand, his dominant right, Jon carried a staff nearly as tall as he was, its design an intricate blend of natural growth and human craftsmanship. The gnarled wood bent like a sickle, then once more, almost resembling the shape of a diamond sigil. The nestling gap which would close it in on itself cradled a tiny sphere of translucent crystal that pulsed with Mana, as each spell was woven. Symbols — Glyphs etched onto the staff glowed in tandem with those that were conjured whenever Jon displayed intent or activated an already prepared Spell.

In his other hand, a ring of jade sat snugly on his index finger, its surface reflecting nothing. It wasn't just an accessory, it hummed with dormant energy — Unrefined Mana — waiting to be Polished and utilised. His other trinkets; a single brass key dangling from his neck and an ornate brooch clasping his cloak, the brooch was one intricately carved in stunning detail: Team Holiday's emblem — A Citadel, crossed on one slant by two swords, and on the other by a witching staff, with a star atop the citadel shining brightly.

'There's a delay between each spell, that's why he strings in already set up tricks and casts the next Spell so quickly.' The Drake observed, knowing this information would come in handy.

The Cumulodrake's claws scraped against the rocky terrain, carving shallow trenches as it shifted its weight. Sparks arced across its obsidian scales, the storm above raging even more as it wished.

With a low growl that rumbled like distant thunder, the drake couldn't decide which human to focus on, it had initially settled on the idea of studying the human who was actively attacking at any given moment, but it seemed to have favourites….

If it could laugh now, it would.

'That Mage', it noted, 'He's using a Spell to draw my focus and attention to himself', with a short pause, surveying the surrounding space, he continued 'Potent…. too potent, there must be a trick to it.'

The four figures before it moved like a hive mind. Clashes of steel, bursts of light, and tapestries of deceit the beast could neither fully understand nor entirely ignore unfolded in cadence. Each strike they unleashed tore through the chaos, but none reached its core. They certainly were unyielding too.

'It about time I lead the offensive front. Maybe that would lead them to reveal their trump cards fast enough.'

The static in the air thickened, a high-pitched whine preceding the formation of a ball of crackling energy in its maw. 

"Dragon breath!" Emaila shouted, activating her staff, while coalescing Light into a concentrated beam of her own.

A second later both forces clashed. Light and Lightning. It wasn't a contest of power or output — the Drake would win that instantly.… This was why Emaila's beam split into 5 smaller beams before the Fiend's blast could devour it, targeting its head and blinding it temporarily.

Jon followed up with a cascade of explosions, the concussive blasts disorienting the beast further. But the Fiend was far from defeated. 

'A nuisance.'

With a snarl, it called down a barrage of lightning bolts. The humans dodged with basic ease — until the bolts curved mid-flight, striking true. They were too fast to be tagged by mere lightning…. this time though, the bolts changed course, homing in on their targets.

Breaking the team's formation.

These weren't ordinary lightning bolts. Forged with the power of a Tier-2 Fiend, they carried enough force to kill lesser beings outright. When the dust cleared, the humans were battered — but alive.

Bleeding. Burnt. Caged. The humans were losing.

At this point the battle had taken more of a toll on them than it had him. A testament of the Drake's prowess and cunning. 

Jon, ever the forerunner, had already weaved yet another Spell, The Fiend recognized the Glyphs forming before him, he could anticipate their result. Its effect hadn't registered yet, there was always a delay in their realization — a fatal flaw of human magic.

'Once more.' it thought, ready to unleash another rain of Lightning. 'These four have too much spirit left in them, not nearly enough desperation in their hearts.'

The thought lingered, a gnawing realization creeping into its mind. Its gaze swept the battlefield, counting again. 

'Four….'

A second too late.