The horses pawed the ground beneath them, nostrils flaring, elemental auras simmering around their forms—winds whirling around hooves, flames leaking from manes, mist coiling like living breath from their flanks. Each horse was a piece of the old world, ancient and unnatural.
Cainan gripped the reins of his Stormsteed, a deep charcoal beast, its hooves crackling with arcs of lightning.
Zaara swung easily atop her Flamecourser, its mane a writhing inferno that left scorched hoofprints behind.
Foxxen's Stonebringer was massive, chunks of earth grinding off its shoulders as it moved.
Raijin's mount was a solemn Mistmare, ethereal and ghostly, galloping with hooves that barely touched the ground.
Aris rode a quiet Moonshade, a shimmering silver creature that glowed softly even in the fading light.
Tojin, clinging onto a jittery Sunstripe, nearly fell off twice before they even set off.
Lynzelle, to everyone's surprise, had ended up with a Darkbloom, a sleek, shadowy horse whose hooves dripped oily black petals onto the road. She absolutely adored it.
Zaara leaned forward with a mischievous grin.
"Bet five gold I'll smoke you all," she called out.
Foxxen snorted. "Ten gold—and loser's gotta polish my sword after the next witch hunt. She's been getting rusty."
"A-And has to carry my study books for a week!" Tojin chirped, desperate to fit in.
Cainan rolled his neck lazily. "Whoever loses has to call Lady Selvaria an old hoot to her face."
Aris responded to Cainan, "So..you're basically telling us to die? Got it. That's equivalent to jumping off a cliff."
At that, Zaara slammed her boot gently into the Flamecourser's flank, igniting a burst of speed. "Yeah not happening! I don't like losing."
The horses exploded forward in a chaos of elements—fire, lightning, mist, earth—and the dirt road behind them was instantly torn into a raging blur.
The scenery whipped by:
Vast, sloping fields of sun-drenched wheat.
Travelers on merchant carts shouting in alarm as a storm of mythic beasts thundered past them.
Children at roadside inns dropping their bread in awe.
Lanterns swung from crooked wooden posts, scattering motes of dust like fireflies in the dusk.
Lynzelle whooped loudly, hair snapping wildly behind her.
"Where the hell did you find these monsters!? They're so fast!" she cackled, practically standing up in the stirrups.
Aris, seated still and composed despite the chaos, spoke over the wind.
"There are only seventeen of these left. Long ago, witches cursed most of them into madness. They trampled the kingdom of Thalgrimir into ruin. Most had to be slain. The ones remaining are bonded only to Bloodhunters—or the brave enough to tame them."
Lynzelle's eyes gleamed, her manic joy rising. "This place keeps getting better!"
Cainan pulled ahead slightly, his Stormsteed crackling and snapping with lightning surges.
Lynzelle narrowed her eyes competitively.
"You're not beating me..."
She swung her scythe subtly, manifesting a hellish glyph beneath Cainan's horse, trying to trip him—but Cainan yanked the reins, his Stormsteed jumping midair, flipping through the magic with a crack of thunder.
"Huh?! Cheating bastard!" he barked.
Lynzelle grinned, tongue sticking out playfully, and leaned in, urging her Darkbloom into a slithering burst of speed, almost slipping between the cracks of the world itself. "No one set any rules!"
"S-So?!"
Foxxen bellowed ahead, tossing dirt clods at Raijin's Mistmare to slow him down. Zaara yanked a bit of Foxxen's reins to throw him off. Tojin almost flew clean off his horse, screaming.
It was pure chaos.
The world blurred around them—golden farmlands giving way to twisted forests painted with thick autumn fire, and finally to a misty valley tucked away like a secret. They skidded to a halt in a laughing, heaving mass, smoke rising from hooves, laughter echoing through the mists—right before an enormous, looming gate of warped, painted wood and iron.
It was beautiful and eerie.
The wood was stitched with dried paint in spiraling patterns, moving ever so slightly under the torchlight. Giant hinges groaned, and the beams seemed too smooth, as if they were brushstrokes themselves.
Upon the top of the gate, standing vigil like grotesque sentries, were mannequins.
They were dressed in cloaks stitched from broken paintings. Their porcelain faces—blank save for wide, hollow eyes—gazed down at them. Splotches of bleeding color marred their bodies like bruises. They were like mannequins.
One leaned forward, its voice like a rasp of a dry paintbrush:
"Who sent you?"
Cainan, calm as ever, raised the parchment-map the Painter had given him. There was a long silence.
Then Lynzelle crossed her arms, tapping her foot exaggeratedly.
"So… you gonna open or what?" she said, grin tugging at her lips.
The mannequins tilted their heads—an unnatural, creaking motion.
And with a groan of wet hinges, the massive gates slowly began to peel open, revealing a glimpse of the painted, living village beyond.
Lynzelle waved, "Thank you!"
The massive gates of Vesvalis groaned open, and a misty, surreal world spilled out before them.
The squad stepped through, their boots tapping the cobblestone path—if it could even be called stone. The street shimmered like thick, dried paint, every step causing faint ripples of color beneath their feet.
Above them, the mannequins perched on the battlements called out with eerie cheer:
"Such fine garments for humans!"
"The banquet will be dazzling soon! You must hurry—colors are wilting!"
The village buzzed with a haunting, vivid life.
Waiting just beyond the threshold stood a taller mannequin, dressed in swirling robes of burnt sienna and twilight purple. His face was cracked down the center but elegantly mended with golden paint.
He bowed deeply.
"I am Master Veyric, First Stroke of Vesvalis. I will speak plainly: our Colors fade by the moment. We must act fast."
Cainan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulder.
"Wouldn't mind staying here all night to avoid all that hugging and kissing bullshit…" he muttered under his breath.
He straightened up, sighing. "But screw it. Let's get it done."
They moved into the village proper—and immediately, the strange beauty of Vesvalis hit them like a wall.
Buildings shimmered and breathed like sleeping creatures, windows weeping slow trails of honey-colored light. The sky overhead was a rich oil painting, swirling clouds daubed with impossible oranges and greens.
Mannequins bustled around, each more bizarre than the last:
—An elderly painter with a crooked hat muttered to himself, painting a full-sized wooden door midair during conversation. Without missing a beat, he wandered through the fresh door and vanished, leaving behind a confused cat made entirely of brushstrokes.
—A tiny, stern-looking mannequin stood on a box, meticulously touching up faded villagers. His brushstrokes were surgical—he dabbed crimson back into a cheek, or repainted a fractured porcelain arm with alarming precision.
"You must maintain the vibrancy!" he barked at no one in particular.
—A manic painter zipped above the rooftops on swirling puddles of oil paint, laughing madly as he created massive murals that bloomed into the sky itself.
—And there, strumming a lute, was a mannequin bard.
But instead of notes, when he sang, colors spilled from his mouth—liquid verses that shaped into floating sculptures of song, glittering and dissolving in the mist.
—Lurking near a workshop was a bloated figure called the Color Eater, gnawing gleefully on captured Colors, refining the magic into sharper, purer hues. Thick, syrupy light dripped from his wide, toothy grin.
Lynzelle darted between it all, her eyes wild and sparkling like a child let loose at a festival.
"Look at this! Look at that! This place is insane!" she laughed, poking a swirling wall that responded by painting a smiley face back at her.
Master Veyric walked calmly at the front, speaking with a distant sorrow:
"Vesvalis is not simply a village. It is a painting stretched over a dying world. A while ago, desperate mages tried to heal a cursed wasteland… and so they painted life atop death. Through forbidden Rituals, the Painters, us, were born. We are not truly alive. We are echoes—shadows of humanity stitched into pigment and canvas. Our Color Magic binds us to this land. Without it, we wither, and Vesvalis crumbles into dust."
The squad listened intently, even Cainan casting a sideways glance at the vivid tragedy surrounding them.
Master Veyric continued, voice dropping to a serious note:
"Our Colors are alive, you see. Living sprites—fragments of pure hue given mind and motion. They feed the land's heartbeat. But they are wild, evasive, and stubborn. They must be captured before they fade into oblivion."
Lynzelle cocked her head, grinning wide. "Howwwww does a color come to life?"
Master Veyric placed a porcelain finger to his cracked mask.
"When humanity loved, feared, raged—those emotions etched themselves into the world. The ritual fed upon these primal feelings, blending them with pigment and spellcraft. The strongest emotions bled out as living Colors—beings that are not merely seen but felt. The Canvas is our source of power, where the mages left it for us as the foundation to create beauty. Knowing the witches spread darkness. They wanted us to be the light of the world, to allow those to come in and experience the beauty of colors in a world so evil. To get away…that's why we're everywhere, painting and showing the beauty of the Canvas with our Color magic."
Even Lynzelle, manic as she was, fell into a stunned silence.
"…That's crazy," she muttered, grinning.
Raijin raised his hand slightly, his deep voice steady.
"How do you survive out here? Surely something this strange and powerful would attract witches… or worse."
Master Veyric nodded slowly.
"The map given to you—the parchment stitched from color and memory—allowed you to see Vesvalis. To those without it, our village is nothing but fog and empty ruins. We hide between the brushstrokes of reality."
Lynzelle clapped her hands, delighted.
"I like that."
Meanwhile, Cainan, arms crossed, gave a tiny smirk and thought to himself:
'Keep asking questions. Stretch this out. Perfect excuse to stay away longer.'
Zaara caught the look, elbowed him hard.
"Don't think I don't see your scheming, you chain freak," she teased.
Foxxen snorted and slung an arm around Cainan's neck, pulling him into a headlock.
"What're you scared of, Cainan? Someone hugging you into submission back at the castle?" he laughed, shaking him.
"Damn right."
Tojin, watching wide-eyed, piped up. "If you guys can't run fast when you're low on magic… how do you catch the Colors in the first place?"
Master Veyric answered kindly:
"We can chase and tackle Colors normally, yes. But when our magic runs dry—when our bodies begin to lose pigment and strength—we slow. We fade."
He shook his head solemnly.
"That is why we needed you. Tonight's hunt will determine if Vesvalis survives… or crumbles into memory. And worse..if the banquet will be a success! A beauty! A work of art!"
He turned, gesturing toward a cluster of color-infused nets, sealed jars, and strange gleaming tools.
Master Veyric gave a final nod.
"Capture the Colors, bring them back, before the Grand Banquet ends."
Cainan cracked his knuckles, stepping forward, his chains whispering around his shoulders like hungry snakes.
"Alright. Let's hunt."
The squad split up, laughter and competitive shouting echoing through Vesvalis's painted streets.
Cainan, with a reluctant grunt, chose to stick with Lynzelle — mostly because, as he muttered, "If I let her off alone, the entire damn village would be upside down or in flames."
Challenge 1: The Endless Staircase – Chasing Rogue Blue
Cainan and Lynzelle found themselves standing at the foot of an absurd, spiraling staircase — floating midair, stretching impossibly in every direction like a madman's sketch.
The rogue Blue darted ahead of them, a squealing, shifting blob of pure azure light with little wings.
"This looks cursed," Cainan muttered.
"It's amazing!" Lynzelle shrieked with joy, already sprinting up the steps two at a time.
They chased after the Blue, only to find that after five minutes of hard running — gasping, dodging slippery paint patches — they were somehow exactly where they started.
"Didn't we just pass that melting clock?" Cainan pointed at a bizarre drippy timepiece nailed to a stair rail.
Blue squeaked mischievously, sticking out what vaguely resembled a tongue.
"Get back here, you slippery bastard!" Lynzelle roared, diving for it — and promptly falling through a spiral that somehow wrapped upside down and dumped her back at Cainan's feet.
Flat on her back, she laughed hysterically.
"This place defies physics! I LOVE IT!"
Growling, Cainan wrapped his chains around a stair, slingshotted himself upward, and with a crack! snared the Blue midair like a spider catching a moth.
"All that running…"
Panting, he dangled it by a chain as it pouted.
"One down," he muttered grimly.
"Best first date ever," Lynzelle said with a smirk, dusting herself off.
Challenge 2: The Color Waltz on Green Glass Lake
Meanwhile, Raijin and Foxxen were stuck standing stiffly at the edge of a massive, glistening lake made of what looked like… liquid green glass.
The mannequins nearby giggled and pushed them forward.
"To summon Yellow, you must dance! DANCE FOR THE COLOR!"
Foxxen stared blankly at Raijin.
"I'm built for combat, not dancing."
"Well..it can't be that bad. Let's give it a try, Foxxen" Raijin nodded.
"Well since you put it that way, YOU can dance for them since you're the super positive one in the group. I'll just watch."
"Is it that..you cannot dance?"
"I know how to dance my sword around a witch's face."
"Haha, that's obvious. You must venture out more."
"No way you're actually challenging me, right? You know I'm not backing down from it."
"Who knows?"
With Foxxen sighing, they awkwardly shuffled onto the lake's surface, which rippled like jello with every step.
The second they tried to waltz properly, the surface slipped out from under them — Foxxen faceplanted with a loud splack! and Raijin stumbled like a drunk elephant.
Above them, the Yellow sprite zipped in zigzags, giggling like a gremlin.
"You're embarrassing yourselves," Zaara heckled from the shore, tossing coins between her fingers.
Growling, Foxxen pulled Raijin into a proper waltz grip.
"Fine. Let's dance for real. We're not gonna be mocked."
With exaggerated grace, they spun, slipped, dipped, and somehow — somehow — managed to flow into a clumsy, ridiculous, but genuine waltz.
The Yellow squealed in delight, diving into Foxxen's waiting net.
Panting, Foxxen flipped Zaara the bird.
"PAY UP!"
"Nope!"
Challenge 3: The Indigo Debate – "Describe Despair"
Back with Cainan and Lynzelle, they encountered an Indigo-colored being, perched on a crumbling archway like a moody philosopher.
"I shall not be caught until you properly describe despair," it announced loftily.
Cainan said, "How about I force you?"
Lynzelle leaned in, curious. "Ooh, are you gonna psychoanalyze me? Bold of you."
Cainan rubbed his face. "Can't we just beat him into a bottle or something?"
"No! Speak!" Indigo demanded.
Cainan growled.
"Despair is knowing fate will always ruin whatever you love. That no matter what you do… it's not enough."
Even Lynzelle blinked at him, briefly serious.
"…Damn," she said, whistling low. "That's gotta be the answer! Or somewhat the answer…"
Satisfied, the Indigo fluttered down, letting them catch it without a fight — almost respectfully. "I guess that's a..depressing and broody answer, but not the wrong answer."
Challenge 4: The Fountain of the Orange Lion
Meanwhile, Zaara and Tojin stood nervously in front of a brilliant fountain made entirely of molten sunlight.
At its center roared a massive golden lion, pure Orange magic rippling off its mane.
"Man he's big as hell. I wonder if Foxxen came around they would instantly start fighting," Zaara muttered, drawing her daggers.
The lion growled, muscles rippling under liquid light.
"We're supposed to wrestle it?" Tojin squeaked, eyes wide.
Before they could second-guess, Zaara grinned wide and charged, vaulting onto the lion's back.
"COME GET SOME, FLUFFY!"
Tojin, panicking, launched himself too — and was immediately launched across the courtyard by one swat of a golden paw. As he groaned on the ground, Zaara wrestled with the beast, laughing madly the whole time.
Somehow, after an epic, ridiculous struggle involving daggers, lots of cussing, and a pie thrown randomly by a helpful mannequin, Zaara managed to hogtie the lion's tail, letting it dissolve into an orange puff and into their net.
"See? Easy." Zaara grinned.
Tojin replied, "If I had went into my steel form, I wouldn't have gotten swatted away. What if Cainan saw that?!"
"Relax. We're not here to destroy things. So using your magic would've been a bad idea."
"Oh, phew, okay."
Challenge 5: Baking Pies for Sleepy Violets
Lastly, Aris and Foxxen teamed up with a sleepy mannequin baker who handed them glittery paint dough.
"You must bake grape flavored PIES… to lure the Violets!"
The kitchen was chaos — Foxxen accidentally baked someone's hat into one pie, Aris almost set the oven on fire, and somehow the batter started singing.
"These tools of the Painters…they're not like the ones I'm used to. I cannot use them properly unless I take the time to learn how it operates.." Aris spoke.
"What the hell is happening," Foxxen gasped, wrestling with sentient dough.
Still, eventually they baked a pile of glowing, steaming pies, placing them along a painted bridge.
Tiny, yawning Violet sprites floated toward the smell, dozing midair.
Foxxen wiped sweat off his brow.
"Next time, I'm wrestling the lion."
"Dogs hate cats don't they?"
"I'm a fox, not a dog."
"Same shit. Leave the heavy lifting to me, puppy."
"No. And I'm not a puppy."
Later, back in Vesvalis's main square, the squad regrouped.
They stumbled toward Master Veyric, covered head to toe in vibrant smears of paint.
Gold, blue, violet — even Raijin had bright yellow handprints on his armor.
They didn't even care about their ruined nice clothes — one of the mannequins snapped their fingers, and the stains floated off into mist with a pop.
The Colors, wriggling excitedly, leapt into the waiting Painters.
With every Color absorbed, the mannequins shivered with joy, glowing brilliantly.
The square burst into lively chaos — Painters spinning, laughing, painting new streets midair.
One Painter with a smeared clown mask yelled, "I'M A DRAGON NOW!" and painted wings onto himself before crash-landing into a barrel.
Master Veyric huffed.
"Control yourselves, you fools. Don't waste it all at once!"
Nearby, the old door-painting Painter wandered through a new door he painted midair, calling back, "WHERE DID I GO?"
Another tiny surgeon mannequin shouted, "SOMEONE'S KNEE IS UPSIDE DOWN AGAIN!"
Despite the madness, Master Veyric turned to Cainan and his squad with a deep, graceful bow.
"You have Vesvalis's eternal thanks. Should you ever need sanctuary… you are welcome here." He smiled warmly, cracked mask gleaming in the painted light. "And fear not. When King Idrathar's banquet begins under the moon… it will not be dull. You have saved it."
Cainan nodded once, feeling Lynzelle practically vibrating beside him with excitement.
The village square shimmered with unrestrained joy.
Painters whirled and spun, their movements scattering bursts of color like shooting stars across the painted ground. Every time they cheered, their color magic flared — rivers of light weaving in the air, golden vines curling up buildings, murals blooming like living flowers across cobbled streets.
Master Veyric — the Head Painter — climbed a dais built from rippling paint, his voice rising clear and proud above the ruckus.
"My dear Painters! My dear friends! Tonight, Vesvalis breathes bright because of the life you have brought back!"
Another wave of colorful magic exploded around him like fireworks, making even Lynzelle whistle in amazement.
But then — the Head Painter's voice… shifted.
It softened. Sharpened. Became unmistakably female.
"And..I want to paint a world beautiful enough to call him back to me," the voice said, almost whispering into the stunned silence. "I want a world stitched together in color… sealed in blood… burned into the bones of the land itself."
A hush swept through Vesvalis.
The Painters froze mid-celebration, color spells dripping into inert puddles around their feet. Some looked at each other in confusion, their porcelain mask faces tilting.
Then — the Head Painter cracked.
A long split ran down his chest like broken pottery. From within the shell, flesh glistened.
The figure shoved outward, snapping the mannequin skin apart.
Out stepped a woman.
She was bare, utterly nude, her body a patchwork of paint splotches, like she had been doused in color and left to dry. Her hair blazed in wild, tangled orange, burning against her deathly pale skin, where black veins pulsed visibly under the surface. Her eyes were pits of endless black, and darkness swirled around her hand — a dense orb of shadow pulsing like a heartbeat.
Fear rippled through the crowd of Painters. Some stumbled back. Others clutched their painted instruments like weapons.
"W-What's going on?!"
"That's not the master!"
Cainan's hand was already flexing around his chains.
Lynzelle, however, grinned wide, practically bouncing in place.
"Finally," she whispered excitedly. "A real witch. This was lacking violence."
The woman — no, the witch — laughed lightly, a sound like a brushstroke across a grave.
"How simple it was to corrupt your precious leader," she cooed, stepping onto the dais, black veins pulsing brighter. "A little loneliness… a little whisper of forgotten memories… and a boring mannequin became the perfect door." She lifted the dark orb higher, and Vesvalis's colors seemed to shudder. "I needed access to the Great Canvas," she continued, voice growing sharper. "Today, all your hard work gathering the Colors made it possible. Now, all that magic will fuel a single, perfect Ritual."
She spread her arms wide, naked and terrible.
"I am Callistra. And I will harness this village's Color Magic — not for your banquet, but to trap Vesvalis inside a painted dreamworld." Color began bleeding upward into the sky like rising smoke. "In my dream, my beloved will walk again," Callistra said, her smile trembling at the edges. "A mythic beast long forgotten by the cruelty of kingdoms — slain, erased… but not to me. Never to me."
The Painters were paralyzed with horror.
Lynzelle clapped mockingly, tilting her head.
"Damn, she's even crazier than me."
Before Callistra could lift the orb higher — before her ritual could reach its fever pitch — a snap of destruction filled the air.
Cainan was already moving.
Eyes wide and focused, his chains coiled around his arm and fist, glowing with a harsh, red destructive flame.
Callistra's delighted smile had barely formed before Cainan's fist met her jaw with a brutal CRACK.
The witch's body snapped sideways through the air, paint and blood flinging from her in a violent arc. She landed hard, tumbling over herself in a smear of color across the dais stones.
The crowd gasped. Some Painters actually cheered.
Lynzelle whooped loudly, clapping with wild approval.
"GET HER, CAINAN! KNOCK THE COLORS OUT OF HER!"
But even as he advanced, chains rattling, Callistra rose to her knees, blood painting one side of her face.
She laughed — a dark, rattling sound.
"I knew you'd be perfect," she purred.
With a scream, she crushed the orb in her palm. Darkness exploded outward, wrapping the square in spiraling colors twisted with shadows.
A dome of dark, swirling color trapped Cainan and Callistra inside a nightmarish arena.
It was gothic and beautiful — murals of bleeding roses, weeping suns, and monstrous creatures spun around them on shifting walls of painted mist. The ground was a living swirl of inky shadow and rainbow oil.
Inside the arena, Callistra floated slightly above the ground, darkness crackling around her.
"They killed him," she snarled. "The kingdoms of this world. They ripped him apart. And for that… I will tear their memory from the bones of history! And bring back my beloved!"
Cainan cracked his neck.
'Every witch has a story. They all become witches because of how they got screwed over by a kingdom or just this world in general. So they use that to fuel their goals of a free land without the shitty politics and law. Most people would die for the chance to have the power to get rid of law, some people in this world can't live without it due to fear. The annual events made by laws keep people alive, The Night of Burning Faces: When false witches are burned as an annual cleansing. Deadwake: Festival where candles are floated down blood-rivers to remember those whose bodies were never found. Hollowmonth: 31 days when speaking aloud in a graveyard is forbidden.'
"Yeah, well," he said, chains whirling lazily around him, "sounds like he probably deserved it, seeing how crazy you turned out. Damn witch. None of you deserve mercy. You try hard for us to feel sorry for you witches of Tharnum, but I see no pity."
"Tch..the Witch Queen warned me about you. Said I shouldn't take you on by myself. The boy with the red branch tattoo….But I'm close to achieving my goal. Maybe she's testing me…right?! Wanting to see how far I'd go for her!"
Callistra's smile twisted in fury as she unleashed her power.
Outside the Arena
Meanwhile, Raijin, ever calm, was already corralling Painters to safety, his voice low but commanding.
"Move — quickly, behind the color wells. Stay together. It's gonna be okay, we're professionals. You can count on us."
All around them, dark mannequins emerged from swirling puddles — twisted versions of the Painters, painted in bruised blacks and sickly greens.
They hopped like spiders, twitching and leaping, their joints cracking.
Foxxen flexed his fists, unimpressed.
"Ugly sons of bitches."
Zaara spun her daggers with a grin.
"I was just getting bored."
Aris, brushing a smear of paint from her sleeve, frowned thoughtfully.
"Sad, really. All that magic… wasted on a lunatic."
Lynzelle, bouncing on her heels, looked toward the trapped arena and laughed.
"Oi, Cainan! Don't die in there or I'll end you!"
Foxxen says to Lynzelle, "He'll be fine. That witch is gonna come out screaming any second now."
The squad tightened their formation as the dark mannequins closed in, and beyond them, in the center of the swirling dome, Cainan and Callistra circled each other — the final battle beginning.