The Shepherd unleashed a bolt of celestial fire, a searing spear aimed straight for Bogran’s chest. Bogran, fuelled by a potent mix of starlight potion and sheer desperation (plus a rapidly multiplying number of nasal obstructions), sidestepped with an agility that defied his normally ungainly physique. The blast scorched the spot he'd occupied mere seconds before, leaving smoking scorch marks on the pristine marble floor.
"Pathetic deflection for someone claiming to be a master mage," the Shepherd sneered, his voice crackling with cosmic energy. He gestured dismissively, unleashing another volley of searing beams that forced Bogran into a frantic dance of evasion. Each dodge was punctuated by an unfortunate *snort* as Bogran desperately tried to keep his overloaded nasal passages from interfering with his movements.
This was it. No more time for theatrics, no more reliance on lucky dodges. Bogran had to end this, and fast. He knew brute force wouldn't work against the Shepherd's celestial might. Instead, he drew upon a wellspring of chaotic energy, a raw, untamed power simmering beneath his usual brand of flamboyant but controlled magic. A vortex of swirling colors erupted from his outstretched hands, warping the very air around them, twisting reality itself in a kaleidoscope of dissonant hues.
The Shepherd recoiled, momentarily stunned by the unexpected assault on his meticulously ordered cosmos. This was Bogran's opening. He launched himself at the Shepherd, a whirlwind of limbs and flailing robes, aiming for a desperate grapple. The celestial being recovered quickly, summoning a shimmering barrier of energy to protect himself, but Bogran, fueled by adrenaline and a snot-induced delusion of invincibility, slammed his shoulder against it with the force of a runaway meteor. The barrier shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface.
"You dare defile my order!" the Shepherd roared, unleashing a wave of raw power that sent Bogran sprawling back against the wall. Blood trickled from a split lip, and the wind was knocked clean out of him. But he had bought precious seconds. Anya Molotova, seizing her chance, unleashed a surge of ancient blood magic, ensnaring the Shepherd in a cage of crimson runes.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
"Bogran!" she shouted over the din, "Now!"
He scrambled to his feet, racing towards her, weaving through panicked nobles and scattering enforcers. Just as he reached Anya's side, the Shepherd, with a thunderous bellow, shattered Molotova’s runes, his celestial fire burning brighter than ever. He lunged at Bogran, intent on obliterating him where he stood.
In that instant, everything went white. A searing pain exploded in Bogran’s head, the world dissolving into a kaleidoscope of fractured light and sound. He hit the ground hard, tasting blood and the coppery tang of his own fear. When consciousness returned, he was sprawled on cobblestones, staring up at the familiar, imposing gates of New Firenze. The air hummed with the usual bustling energy, oblivious to the celestial cataclysm that had just unfolded within its walls.
He sat up, his head throbbing, and gingerly prodded his nose. It felt...fuller. Heavier. An unwelcome warmth spread through his nasal passages. This wasn't a mere annoyance anymore; it was a full-blown crisis. Another loop. And judging by the feeling, a particularly booger-heavy one.
"Right," he muttered to himself, pulling out a crumpled handkerchief and using it as both facewipe and snot receptacle. "Time for round three." He straightened his robes, gave a theatrical sigh, and strode towards the city gates, each step accompanied by an audible *squelch* that mingled with the city’s din. This time, he had to win. Not just for himself, but for the sake of his rapidly deteriorating nasal health.
The loop was on, and Bogran was determined to make it count, even if it meant navigating a minefield of existential dread and increasingly copious boogers. But as he passed through the gates, a figure detached itself from the bustling crowd, approaching him with an unnervingly calm demeanor. It was Elglin, a rogue mage known for his shadowy dealings and unsettlingly accurate prophecies.
"Bogran," Elglin said, his voice a low rasp, "The Shepherd is merely a pawn. A distraction." He paused, his eyes boring into Bogran’s. "The true threat lurks in the shadows, waiting to claim its prize when the celestial order is disrupted."
Bogran frowned, wiping at his nose with renewed urgency. "What prize?" he asked, already feeling another loop headache brewing.
Elglin’s lips curled into a knowing smile. "The heart of New Firenze itself." He vanished back into the throng, leaving Bogran staring after him, a strange premonition chilling him to the bone. This wasn't just about stopping the Shepherd anymore. Something far bigger, and far more sinister, was at play. And his overflowing nasal passages suddenly seemed a trivial concern in the face of this looming cosmic horror.
