Headed by a Snake

Priestess Ariadne pointed accusingly, "Look, Fel! You scared Mister Tactician!"

Tycondrius narrowed his eyes. He wasn't scared. That was ridiculous.

"We must exercise a healthy amount of caution," Hunter Felinus warned with a grave expression. "The Dread Wraith's very existence weakens the boundary between the corporeal world and the Plane of Shadows. Balance must be returned."

"Eh, should be a simple fight," Bannok shrugged. "Won't be an easy one, but it'll be simple. Tell 'em, Hero."

Tanamar was finishing up his plate of spiced marinated beef, caught off guard by Bannok's questioning. He hastily swallowed, washing the bite down with wine, "Ahem... Yeah, it's a pretty straightforward fight. We enchant our weapons with Spiritbane and we survive the illusions."

"There we go," Bannok drained another winecup. "We kill the ghost, grab its spirit stone, and that's it-- quest complete. We'll spend a bit snooping around for a Dungeon Core for some extra coin, but that's secondary."

​ The details the Holy Lancer had provided were vaguer than for the two previous large-scale encounters. Tycon feared that the wraith's illusions were far more dangerous than he was making it out to be.

...

"(Why has the Flame forsaken us//The enemies are breaking through

I long for the warmth in being surrounded by my kin//The enemies are breaking through

They cast me and out and call me a witch//I am but a mother who loves her children

Their hatred is stronger than my faith//Without faith, I am nothing.)"

The White Lady drifted alone through a field of frozen statues, tattered and translucent robes billowing in the cold winds. Her lamentations echoed, a hundred spirits lending their voices to the chorus.

The Tyrion Old Language was not something well-known to modern Tyrions... the Dread Wraith's diction and inflection were more aligned to Tycon's understanding than he had heard in recent practical discussions.

She was from an age long past.

And judging by the transparent form the ghost took... she was once human.

⟬ White Lady, Adamantine-Rank Dread Wraith Witch. ⟭

Upon the woman's head, she wore a peculiar metal contraption that blocked her eyes and ears. It was an ancient device that had fallen out of favor, once utilized by the Witch-Hunters of the Church, and likely unfamiliar to anyone save himself and Hunter Felinus. If the mask was corporeal, it would greatly weaken or nullify the woman's ability to cast spells.

What was the significance of her torturous helm? Of what battle did she sing? How much pain had she endured? How much hate had she amassed to grow so much in power?

Tycon sighed and shook his head.

Ultimately, such things did not matter. There was no humanity left in the Dread Wraith. Like the other undead the Brazen Guard had encountered, she was no different-- naught but a visage of her former self, her actions guided only by an instinctual hatred for the living.

Tycon looked to Felinus. If anyone knew of the White Lady's circumstances, it would be the well-traveled elf. The Elven Hunter was shutting his eyes, visibly trembling as he circulated his internal mana to calm himself.

That was not a good sign.

Combat engagements with the undead tended to be difficult to gauge. Such creatures tended to emanate an aura of fear... unnerving even the strongest and most powerful living adventurers. Flinching against the swing of a heavy sword or a stray arrow plummeting from the sky could prove fatal for even a Gold-Rank. Even a sliver of fear in a warrior's heart could lead to their undoing.

Worse was that the source of fear on the battlefield was not just from the Adamantine-Rank undead flitting in the distance... but was empowered by its class as a Witch.

Over a hundred ice-frozen statues were arranged in a field, each serving as a testament of the Dread Wraith's deadly effectiveness. Logically, each statue was once living, sentient being.

As worrisome as the encounter seemed, the Brazen Guard collective had enough factors in their favor. They had four Gold-Rank adventurers and plenty of skilled Iron-Ranks.

Then there was the fact that Holy Lancer Tanamar was confident of their success.

Unfortunately, even he knew very little of the Dread Wraith's abilities besides its illusions. There was only so much his overpowered cheat was capable of. Casualties were certain-- Third and Fourth-Circle spells, even illusory, would wreak havoc on the Brazen Guard.

Their victory was certain. The point of contention was how much they had to sacrifice in order to grasp it.

Tycon had an additional trump card in that he was more-or-less immune to illusions, as he could circumvent them with his System. Further, he had a ⌈Mark of Pride⌋ inscribed upon his soul, which prevented the effects of Domination-type spells cast at Fourth-Circle and lower.

Still, Tycon prepared additional precautions. He had his crossbow ammunition enchanted with blessed Spiritbane oils. He retrieved his Decanus armor from Athena, the Tyrion steel slightly more resistant to witchcraft than his mundane chainmail. In the same vein, he also borrowed a Munifex helm and a medium-weighted shield from the Brazen Guard armory. Most importantly, he swept up a thicker, black, fur-lined cloak that he wore over his armor.

The cloak was so very warm... He did not look forward to returning it.

Bundled up from the cold, shield and sword strapped to his back, and with a crossbow in his hands, Tycon was a very comfortable combatant. He thought he looked quite stylish with his red scarf matching his black cloak, though he did appear somewhat thick and cumbersome.

Then again... his peers consisted of adventurers, a profession analogous to murderers and graverobbers. At the worst end, the Stormbrands were a garish rainbow of nauseating colors. No one on the field should particularly care how he looked. He could afford looking... puffy.

"Brazen Guard!!!" Bannok raised his voice, lifting up his axe overhead. "Engage the enemy!!!"

A collective shout of excitement rumbled through the collective as the near-forty adventurers navigated through the field of statues towards the Dread Wraith.

The floating ghost turned her head, near 270 degrees, her transparent body turning and shifting to follow. It loosed a ghastly shriek, swelling in power and size, growing to a height similar to the Throned Giant they had encountered prior.

Ice and frost mana whirled around it and within moments, the field was overtaken by a blinding-white snowstorm. The harsh winds and piercing cold threatened to cut through Tycon's thick cloak.

He expected no less.

Adjusting his cloth scarf over his face, Tycon trudged forward through the mounting mounds of snow, towards his next fight.