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“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Jimmy says. He tries not to laugh, fWhip can tell, but fails miserably. The corners of his mouth are doing that twisting thing again.
“I know how to brew a potion, thank you,” he says.
Jimmy is a witch. What does he know about alchemy? He can just use water in spellwork. fWhip has to— fWhip has to transmogrify. Jimmy “calls” the Universe or whatever. fWhip has centuries of science and rune circles to build from.
“If you say so,” Jimmy says. He doesn’t move to help at all. Good. Fine.
The Wither Rose Alliance is blood and sacrifice. Their history is built from rot. They’ve built incredible things from abandoned carcasses, ash.
The Grimlands are their technological helm. They are their— Well, they’re not the sword, that’s Mythland, but they’re definitely the bomb. Like all other Counts before him, fWhip lives for their cause.
He aims. He kills. He lights the fuse. The Codlands wage war against Mythland —Jimmy picks fights with Sausage. Every part of fWhip knows what he must do. The King of Mythland and the Count of Eastvale are like brothers. One cannot ever betray the other.
Sausage aims the weapon. “You would betray me?”
Xornoth— that demon laughs and laughs and fWhip cannot stop running. The heat of the Nether is overwhelming. Gem is by his side and still he sees no way out except to kill Sausage, feed the stupid portal and then— and then—
What now?
“You’ll regret this one day,” Jimmy said once, standing on his crooked rooftop. “And I’ll be right here waiting.”
fWhip’s gut turns and turns. Sausage keeps cackling, rageful. He hates—
Nothing to it. fWhip will die here. fWhip will die to a weapon he put in Sausage’s hand.