Heroist
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While his companions were engaged in tense negotiations with the band of inquisitors, Renold was lost in his own world. The image of Roheya falling into the bottomless abyss still flickered before his eyes. The duelist's hands trembled, and a wave of nausea washed over him. He tore his gaze away from the black stone wall and looked at the enemies, whose actions had led them to this accursed mine, and tried to listen to the conversation.
Taking a step forward, Renold slapped the goblin on the shoulder:
"Calm down a bit, hunchback. You're not our brother or sister, so don't overestimate your importance in this dialogue." He turned to the inquisitors:
"So, the secret informant who orchestrated all this mess remains unknown?" Renold suddenly laughed and clapped his hands: "Bravo! Simply bravo, gentlemen. But let's set aside the excessive familiarity, Sir Tyros, my lady." He nodded to the named NPCs and looked with disdain at the nameless grunts 1-5. "Let's leave the flowery language for high society; we are surrounded by darkness. We've become so engrossed in searching for enemies among our close ones that we've completely overlooked the unknown factor, the one whose actions have set all these events in motion. Tyros, you grew up and learned the art of the sword from Sir Rudger. Does your father, even if only an adoptive one, seem like a mad villain? And what about Countess Hecate, who replaced your mother? We've formed a similar impression. They may be manipulated, deceived, or acting for someone else... for a different, hidden purpose. As for the vividly described healing ritual, is this information reliable? The blood of a thousand fallen, the soul of a valkyrie, what else? All for what? To heal a couple of burns from a monster's stomach? And suddenly, Artoria expresses support for her de facto enemies from the church? You are either naive or blind," the young man said with a smirk, shaking his head. "We, gentlemen, have been drawn into a most intriguing game, whose mastermind remains hidden behind a veil of mystery. If this game were just beginning, I would suggest that we join forces and try to thwart his plans at any cost, even if it means destroying your 'tear,' if possible. Because I sense that such a large-scale bloodshed is not necessary for simple healing. Or perhaps, it's not Count Rudger who will be healed..." The duelist sighed heavily. "But, unfortunately, at this moment, the game is coming to an end, and all the moves have been made and calculated. Whoever emerges alive from this mine today will no longer be able to influence the situation. We have no chance of dissuading our 'superiors': the countess will hang us; the Arterians will execute you." Renold paused for a moment and continued: "I don't think that such righteous servants as you would lie. But our fate has long been predetermined. Let's set aside ideals, loyalty, and honor, the hostages of loved ones and friends: the situation will not change. You, Sir Tyros, will never become the ruler of Myrkoria. My lady, you will never return to your native Regnleyv. Grunts 1-5, you will fall first as cannon fodder. And what about us?" He looked at his companions. "We, like you, are standing with one foot in the grave. The one who started this game has already won, so I don't see the point in wasting time on empty talk. Alas, I am not a god and do not control fate. All I have is my rapier and my loved ones behind me. And all that remains for us is to see whose faith will prove stronger."
Taking a step forward, Renold slapped the goblin on the shoulder:
"Calm down a bit, hunchback. You're not our brother or sister, so don't overestimate your importance in this dialogue." He turned to the inquisitors:
"So, the secret informant who orchestrated all this mess remains unknown?" Renold suddenly laughed and clapped his hands: "Bravo! Simply bravo, gentlemen. But let's set aside the excessive familiarity, Sir Tyros, my lady." He nodded to the named NPCs and looked with disdain at the nameless grunts 1-5. "Let's leave the flowery language for high society; we are surrounded by darkness. We've become so engrossed in searching for enemies among our close ones that we've completely overlooked the unknown factor, the one whose actions have set all these events in motion. Tyros, you grew up and learned the art of the sword from Sir Rudger. Does your father, even if only an adoptive one, seem like a mad villain? And what about Countess Hecate, who replaced your mother? We've formed a similar impression. They may be manipulated, deceived, or acting for someone else... for a different, hidden purpose. As for the vividly described healing ritual, is this information reliable? The blood of a thousand fallen, the soul of a valkyrie, what else? All for what? To heal a couple of burns from a monster's stomach? And suddenly, Artoria expresses support for her de facto enemies from the church? You are either naive or blind," the young man said with a smirk, shaking his head. "We, gentlemen, have been drawn into a most intriguing game, whose mastermind remains hidden behind a veil of mystery. If this game were just beginning, I would suggest that we join forces and try to thwart his plans at any cost, even if it means destroying your 'tear,' if possible. Because I sense that such a large-scale bloodshed is not necessary for simple healing. Or perhaps, it's not Count Rudger who will be healed..." The duelist sighed heavily. "But, unfortunately, at this moment, the game is coming to an end, and all the moves have been made and calculated. Whoever emerges alive from this mine today will no longer be able to influence the situation. We have no chance of dissuading our 'superiors': the countess will hang us; the Arterians will execute you." Renold paused for a moment and continued: "I don't think that such righteous servants as you would lie. But our fate has long been predetermined. Let's set aside ideals, loyalty, and honor, the hostages of loved ones and friends: the situation will not change. You, Sir Tyros, will never become the ruler of Myrkoria. My lady, you will never return to your native Regnleyv. Grunts 1-5, you will fall first as cannon fodder. And what about us?" He looked at his companions. "We, like you, are standing with one foot in the grave. The one who started this game has already won, so I don't see the point in wasting time on empty talk. Alas, I am not a god and do not control fate. All I have is my rapier and my loved ones behind me. And all that remains for us is to see whose faith will prove stronger."
Whatever