The harvest dinner had been relatively normal, and something Machiavelli would argue wasn’t really a dinner. It was more people standing around in the vicinity of food without actually eating. There was the regular unnecessary, ego inflating speeches, boring small talk with people he didn’t know, and the urge to get away to somewhere quiet. The music had been nice though, and talking to Lady Luxelen about fans had been intriguing.
All relatively normal. That was until the cultist on the warhound burst through the door and the screaming began. Fire, Machiavelli had seen fire. It had rained down upon him from above, the heat of the flames nothing unusual to a blacksmith, but the danger was all too familiar.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, everything had started to spiral out of control. His hands began to shake, his chest began to constrict, and he couldn’t help but feel as though he was suffocating as his limbs went numb.
Control, he needed his control. The fragile illusion of self-assurance he carried about him was shattering like glass, his control slipping through his fingers, leaving him with nothing but the ever present and almost paralysing fear.
A bubble of chaotic energy surrounded him, Miss Witt, and some blond woman that he thought had introduced herself as Kylie. The flames slammed into the dome, which shielded them from the heat, keeping them from being burnt to a cinder.
He turned his head to see Lady Luxelen holding up the shield, her eyes narrowed in concentration while his were wide with terror. The magical energy seemed to emanate from the fan she was carrying and Machiavelli suddenly felt very glad that she’d brought it. Some part of his brain told him to thank her, but she was already swaying where she stood, her eyes rolling back into her head as she lost consciousness.
Machiavelli stepped forward quickly, catching the socialite before she hit the floor. They needed to run, he realised, needed to get out of here, so he swung the lady Lux over his shoulder, carrying her like a fireman, and started to look around for an exit.
He didn’t see one in time however, not soon enough to stop himself from coming to harm. The Warbeast charged directly at him, shaking its head back and forth as its metal hooves crashed against the ground.
Machiavelli acted on instinct, snapping open his own fan, the prototype he’d brought to test especially for today. It was the only reason he was even here. He channelled his magic through it, calling upon the earth itself to surround him.
The stone crawled up from the ground at his feet, ruining the tiles, but covering him in a thick crust of earth that served as a kind of armour, keeping him safe from damage even as Lady Lux’s magical barrier fell around them.
Machiavelli raised his fan to defend himself from the Warbeast, but he wasn’t a man of action, wasn’t well versed in combat, he had hardly even seen it. The Warbeast slammed into him, forcing him back into the pillar behind him.
One of its black, flaming horns brock through his fan, and in his terror he sought out some sense of normality. He began to think over how best to improve the fan, even as the Orichalcum metal bent and snapped under the force of the blow.
That wouldn’t do, he couldn’t have his products breaking like that when put under the slightest bit of pressure. The metal had to be thin, but durable, and light enough to hold in your hand. The balance was already wrong, the fan felt too heavy, and now that the metal was bending it was clear that Orichalcum wouldn’t work, especially if put up against something like a great sword.
He watched as the metal ribs of the fan splintered and shattered, the fabric tearing as the Warhound’s horn broke through it, piercing the earthen armour that covered him and driving itself into his chest.
Machiavelli watched as the cracks spread over his armour and a crimson stain plumed at his chest, ruining the white cotton dress shirt he wore, the only tailored shirt he owned. He thought absently about how he would hate going to the Cavalli tailor to get another.
He saw Miss Witt get flung off to the side, hitting the pillar herself as the warhound bashed into her, stampeding past, and another part of him cringed at how much Lady Luxelen must have been hurt by both the warhound and him falling against her and the pillar, but he held onto her none the less, unconsciously, hardly even registering she was there, like he was holding onto her as some kind of life line.
The warhound ripped its horn from Machiavelli’s chest as it barged past. Machiavelli had enough time to look up to briefly glance at its rider, just as she pulled the trigger of the shotgun she held in her hand.
The shards of lead smacked into him, his armour crumbling around him as the metal embedded himself in his flesh. Then he registered the pain, a blinding, agonising pain that wracked his whole body.
He coughed, bringing up a lung full of blood that dribbled down his chin. He heaved, trying to catch his breath, but the blood was filling up his chest and making it hard to breathe. He felt himself choking, coughed up another mouthful of scarlet liquid.
Miss Culnamo was suddenly in front of him, her raven hair billowing out behind her as she moved. She looked frantic, her eyes so wide that they looked almost white. Machiavelli briefly wondered where he son was before his own safety became a more pressing concern.
He had to run. he knew he had to run, to get to safety. But where was safety? Stairs, there was a flight of stairs directly in front of him. That would do, he had to run. Miss Witt was right in front of him, on her knees, not moving an inch.
He called out her name, grabbing hold of her arm with his free hand and hefting Lux over his shoulder with the other, carrying her like a bag of potatoes, only better dressed. Without thinking he called Miss Witt by her first name and had to remind himself to apologise later for being so informal to her. It was very remiss of him.
He dragged Selena and Lady Lux towards the stairs, his head spinning, though that might have been the spiral staircase, he wasn’t entirely sure at this point. Things had started to grow spotty, his vision dimming and becoming black at the edges.
There might have been a Sylvari, or was it two? Then there was a jarring, lurching feeling and he felt himself coughing up more blood. Then he was floating, drifting along as the stars in the night sky looked down from above.
He held onto Selena and Lady Lux, but he wasn’t sure why at this point. Everything felt very far away, and the searing pain that until a moment ago was as burning hot as fire, had started to become cold.
Everything was becoming cold really.
Machiavelli knew nothing more.
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