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[img]https://i.postimg.cc/L5r26P82/Star-Fox-Final.png[/img]

[color=5edaf6]Level:[/color] 6 (51 -> 54/60)
[color=5edaf6]Location:[/color] Sandswept Sky - Inner-Mountain -> Graveyard of the Peaks
[color=5edaf6]Word Count:[/color] 1319 (+3 EXP)
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The silence settled upon by Yellow Team as they waited for physics to finish out the remainder of their legwork reaching the summit made for either an expectantly tense or needfully calm and peaceful one, depending on how each member of the party directed their thoughts, and the primitive means by which their ascent was made possible assured them nothing but time to think and focus accordingly; however they so chose to. For Fox, his mind went forward, as always. Rather than review freshly thwarted foes as some had, he spared his thoughts for enemies that still lay ahead of them, for there would surely be more on the way to their main target. He tried to imagine what they might be; what enthralled or incidental minions this region had left to throw at them, that might try to offer them resistance before they pushed through to reach the boss. He imagined what form or shape that boss might take; what it would be capable of; what it could and would do to try and defeat them, all in the name of protecting and serving their omnipresent master that lay dormant in the heavens above them, even at the lofty heights [i]this one[/i] awaited them at…

[b]He imagined how it would eventually fall…[/b]

The biting chill of the air crept back into the atmosphere the closer they came to the top as the mountain gradually opened up to the outside once more, serving as its own uncomfortable sign of progress, as did the number they had among them still making the trek compared to how many they began the climb with. While their collective number remained at a healthy margin, comparable to that of their last boss raid, and just as many waiting for a beacon’s call to rejoin them at the end, the thought and feeling of more potential drop-offs before then couldn’t be helped. The issue for the entire trip had been something of a question of how many they could risk propping up versus how many they could afford to leave behind for later. A new question arose at this late leg in their journey of if any of them could feasibly turn back at that point, should any more find themselves unable to continue, and every subtraction made their destination seem just a little bit farther, the closer they came to it.

Their luck would have it that no surprise obstacles presented themselves that just happened to require a greater number of attendants. That was the only merciful consolation they would receive, made up for by the frigid, buffeting winds that answered them when the two powerhouses among them forced the doors open. Fox buried his snout in his elbow and clamped the white parka that Band had supplied him earlier shut by the collar with his other hand as he tried to hold firm against the initial hit of the elements until they relieved enough to push on through. In daunting fashion, they received a prelude of what was to come further on, and a bitter reminder that no help or relief would come to those who dared press onward.

Another stone keep, what could only be the remnant of old civilization, lay on the safer side of the wall at the end of the bridge, bordering the hellish plateau just beyond it. Another distraction at worst, a sheltering checkpoint at best, and home to a nebulous solution of questionable likelihood. Whatever purpose this place served—in the ancient past or the present day—it was a definitive last chance for anyone else to stop that wanted or needed to. They were now almost certainly at a point of no return.

Beyond the passageway stretched a seemingly endless tundra wasteland littered with scattered, inscrutable monuments, eroded by indiscernible parts weather and time, which could only have been graves in a time before ceaseless winter fell upon the land. What gravekeeper could otherwise brave it? The blizzard-veil that erased the horizon from view parted just enough at the clouds to grant them a beckoning glimpse of the illuminated finish line at the truer summit, the apparent distance to which resembling that of the one they now stood on from where they first set eyes upon it in the desert landing whence they arrived days before. Truly, it seemed, their journey would go on forever; without end. Yet, it was to be made still, for an end had to be.

As if to taunt them further with the otherwise redundant elucidation of their woefully unpromising odds, the Master Hand, all but camouflaged by the blistering ever-white that had claimed so many an unfortunate traveler before them, waited to meet them, mere steps beyond the gates. Could only glare through this long-acquainted adversary as he half listened—more tolerating him than anything—as he prattled poetically in his practiced, accustomed manner about their efforts and progress made, those [i]yet[/i] to be made, and what was left for them to face. Even the off-hand mention of progress by their allies from Blue Team on the opposite end of the World didn’t go unheard, nor was it missed that he said only enough to prevent from framing it as good news. Of course, from him they could expect none; only empty praises and vain portends supposedly intended to deter them.

There came a peculiar exception to his visit this time in that he came with no surprises; no additional threats to face them with; nothing extra, for even he himself deemed, in his own words, for them to be unnecessary. He believed the natural obstacle before them to suffice. After everything the adventurers had accomplished, and how much of it the Hand had borne firsthand witness to, it was almost insulting of him to profess, as if he truly believed in it, the idea that weather and terrain would be enough to defeat them. Even more so was the ever so patronizing manner in which he made his parting declaration of certainty in their stubborn will to advance in supposed futility, even to their certain deaths; to [b]never give up[/b] in spite of it all…

[i]He was right.[/i]

Fox and his like had risen to answer every challenge this entity had ever presented them with, without fail, and everytime, they came out ahead. This time would be no different, for however boundless his creativity appeared to be, he had nothing left to scare the Veterans with. He could succeed only in spurring them onward anymore, and if he truly wanted that of them, whyever he would, then so be it. It wouldn’t end well for him. He will have chosen the wrong side for the last time.

As if he had been patiently waiting simply for the Master Hand to say his piece (and make his peace, as he saw it), he let one more brief moment of silence pass in the wake of his disappearance, and, in more defiance of than compliance with the Hand’s prediction, began quietly marching forward, the gentle flattening of powder beneath his feet in steady, even steps being the only sound issued from him. The presented motion of a potential suicide march gave him no pause, nor did his pace break for even a second as a better idea failed to meet his ears, try as his comrades understandably might. If they happened to find a better way, they were welcomed to meet him along the way with it, or leave him where he lay if they should pass him by on the road ahead—whichever it came to. In any case, his mind was set, and no amount of fear or doubt would dissuade him from it. Should he fall or fail, his resolve would no sooner falter, and he would regret nothing.

He would go alone if he had to, but he would go all the same…

[i][b]...for it was the only way he would know.[/b][/i]