Acrylic Waves (Bk 1)

XVII. Pressure

My communicator buzzed with the achievement [The End?]. I mute the metal band. Knowing Xisuma, once he notices that I can still send and receive messages, he's probably going to spam me.

I glanced around, searching for clues on which way Liadhak had taken Grian. I find a mess of feathers, mostly golden, although some are purple, scattered around the portal as if Lid had trouble landing. I pick up one of the golden feathers, twirling it between my thumb and forefinger. An enderman comes along and picks up one of the other feathers. I watch him out of the corner of my eye until he teleports away, gurgling.

Sighing, I search my memory for the tracking spell. I run through what I'll need to ensure the highest success rate: a piece of something that belonged to the target and something to put the tracking light on. I have a primary feather, and I pull out my staff as the second article.

Intoning the words, I focus a small beam of magic onto the feather. The golden feather shrinks into a tiny orb of light, roughly the size of a bouncy ball. I attach it to my staff, and it begins to pulse, tugging lightly in the direction of my quarry.

I look back at the portal. Something tells me that the hermits will somehow get through it if I don't take protective measures, so I seal the portal shut. Only Watchers will be able to get through. Satisfied, I beat my wings, rising above the chorus fruit trees and endermen.

I brush the tops of the chorus flower stalks with my feet as I soar through the air. The spark on the tip of my outstretched staff pulses as I draw closer to my target. The tugging grows stronger until I see the endstone shack perched on a small hill. I deactivate the spell, feeling the energy cease flowing to maintain the orb. It stops tugging and pops out of existence, burned up.

I glide on silent wings to land on top of the shack, touching down lightly. The purpur roof clashes horribly with the endstone bricks, but there's little I can do about the block palette in the End. We're limited, I'm afraid. Sometimes we get blocks that endermen bring back from the overworld, but most of the time, players kill the ones stealing blocks for us. Building courses at the Watcher Academy are limited to color theory and a little bit of texture.

I reach out with my mind, checking for Grian and Lid. Lid isn't nearby, but Grian is inside of the shack. I drop off of the roof, landing lightly in front of the door. A pressure plate sits right in front of the door, and I move it out of the way, disconnecting it. I push open the birch door, on constant alert for more plates. Another one rests on the other side of the door, and I remove it, too.

A furnace, crafting table, and double chest line the walls of the tiny hut. The back wall is undecorated with a simple staircase leading to the top floor and another directly under it leading to a basement area. I ascend to the top floor, making sure no nasties are liable to drop on my head at any given moment. Strangely, there is an obsidian box up there with a small staircase leading up to it. The box is uninhabited, but past experience tells me it's probably been used several times.

I go back down to the main floor. I look through the chest after making sure it isn't trapped. As an afterthought, I replaced the pressure plates at the door to mask my presence as long as possible. When I've wired them back up to whatever they were connected to before, I go downstairs to the basement.

The light level drops dramatically. I grab my staff and summon a spark of light to the tip so that I can see. A small dungeon area begins, with various weapons hung up on the walls. I scan the dungeon, searching for Xelqua. I spot him, chained to the opposite wall. The chain links shimmer in the light of my impromptu torch with a sinister air.

I walk over to him silently. He is slumped against the wall, facedown. Both hands are fastened behind his back and attached to the wall on hooks. I brush the dirty blond hair out of his face, causing him to stir. His dirty, golden wings are tattered and torn. One of them is bent at an uncomfortable-looking angle.