So, a new servant has been revealed: Rasputin. Yeah, that guy is the enemy. Don’t mess with the witchdoctor of the Czar.
As Archer prepared her rifle, the atmosphere became cold. It was the middle of April and yet, she could see her breath, rising up into the sky; a sky that had become dark and cloudy. Archer took off her uniform and placed it around her master’s shoulders. She shivered as the temperatures plummeted. Archer looked around, a seal, a mage-art – anything that could provide relief for her master. It was all for naught, though the perpetrator soon appeared as tiny snowflakes began to fall upon Abigail’s jet-black curls and her shoulders.
A being covered in a robe, a staff made out of steel with Russian inscriptions on its side; there was only one man who could make the living fear him. Archer fired at the servant, only to have her shot deflected by a speedy swing from the servant’s cane. The shot zipped from its position, zig-zagging across the air till it found its place through the servant’s chest. The image of the hooded being disintegrated into snow as a snowstorm fell upon Abigail’s existence – she felt cold, a strong unyielding cold that would not stop without consuming her soul. Loneliness and sadness: an emotion that brewed an icy after-taste deep within the structure of every snowflake.
Ice started bursting from the ground, surrounding them as Archer reloaded her rifle. Shot by shot, she tore the towers down as the bullets zig-zagged through the air, striking newer structures as they popped out. Archer fired and fired, destroying anything that would dare threaten them. All to no avail, the icy structures were doing what they were created to do: distraction. Abigail was slowly coming down with hypothermia. Being born in Louisiana, she was a master of the darkest of magecrafts: voodoo. Her powers saved her whole family from the disaster that was Hurricane Katrina, but now, she was trying to maintain her life with a thin veil of magecraft around her body, all the while controlling the trajectory of each bullet and providing her servant with enough prana to use that rifle of hers. Things were looking grim.
As a last ditch effort, Archer propelled herself into the air using a shot she fired directly at the ground beneath her feet. Using the icy towers as a base for her leaps, she jumped from tower to tower till she was high enough to see it. There it was; the servant that was causing all the commotion. Archers had very little magical abilities and senses but their keen sight was more than enough to find even the sneakiest of bastards hiding amongst the urban jungle of the city. She steadied her aim, finger close to the trigger, rifle on her shoulder, eyes on the target; as she was about to fire, her head impacted with something cold and solid – a wall. There really was a wall above their heads. She fell to the ground; the shot missed its target, zig-zagging through the dome, in an attempt to shatter it.
Large shards from the glass-like dome material ricocheted inside the container, falling close to where Abigail lay. As the dome regenerated, something jumped through a wide-enough opening. They couldn’t believe their eyes, it was Lancer! Pietro jumped off, holding a golden cross in his hand, he said the following words, “May the God, Creator of Heaven and Earth, shine thine light upon this icy hell: Rex Deus!”
A bright golden light shone from the tip of his spear. The ice around them melted away, just as the dome collapsed, falling atop their bodies. Pietro walked to where Abigail lay, holding out a jacket, he covered her body with it; smiling he replied, almost in a whisper, “It’s time to go back.”
Those words echoed inside Abigail’s mind. The same exact words her father said before he was killed. How in the world did Pietro copy that phrase? Was that part of his magical abilities or was it sheer luck? Baffled, she gazed into his blue eyes, unable to respond but slowly taking his hand. Archer sat on Lancer’s horse. Lancer gazed into the horizon, probably wishing he had had a chance to battle the servant that had caused them so much trouble.
“He’ll be back, I know he will,” Abigail commented. “He might be looking for something from his past.”
“The old witchdoctor of the Czar… Rasputin.” Pietro pulled her up, “A man who was said to be immortal.”
The tiny stumps of the flowers that dotted the plaza were covered in icy petal-like constructs. Ice-flowers, created when water from within the plant is extracted and frozen on atmospheric contact, now adorned the park. Abigail smiled. This was the only time that Abigail was pleased at something very important: her life.