William, standing at a full six-foot-three, his bones protesting slightly in spite of the healing potion's effects, rose to his full height and ignited his palms in the familiar telltale sign of the Firebolt cantrip.
Around him, the battle raged with a ferocity that was almost unbelievable.
Druids, those who were supposed to be protectors and keepers of the forest, were now engaged in a brutal, desperate fight, using the very roots, limbs of nearby trees, and even the nearby water as weapons to attack and destroy each other.
A squirrel, seemingly gliding effortlessly through the air, suddenly stopped its movement and brought its body against the face of a shadow druid, interrupting him mid-action.
The druid was in the midst of launching his dagger, aiming it directly at the neck of the medical specialist druid Nettie.
"SKREEEE... SKREEEE!"
With a cry that blended both fear and fury, the flying squirrel let out a sound of distress, its fur standing on end as the shadow druid, in a frenzied attempt to dislodge it, thrashed wildly.
After regaining his composure, he reached out a hand and grabbed the squirrel by its body. His intention was to squeeze and crush the now completely defenseless animal in his grasp.
Just as the Shadow Druid, his face grim and his eyes gleaming with malevolent intent, was about to unleash the full force of his Shadow Hand, a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted.
The firebolt, a streak of red against the darkening air, whipped past his shoulder with terrifying speed, leaving a faint singed mark on his hair and sending a sharp jolt of pain shooting through him.
The experience momentarily disoriented him, causing him to lose sight of the squirrel long enough for the creature to wriggle free.
As a consequence of his lapse in focus, the squirrel bit him, delivering a nasty, painful bite before vanishing back into the darkness.
Gripping the nasty bite wound on his finger, the Shadow Druid turned his head, only to find William standing across from him, hands raised in the air.
Each hand was radiating a powerful, concentrated, and intensely hot flame.
The Shadow Druid, his face hidden in the shadows of his hood, drew two clubs from the belt at his waist, their surfaces glowing faintly with magical energy.
He then began to channel the spell known as Shillelagh, a powerful and primal magic focused on wielding clubs.
As he chanted the incantation, a strange energy pulsed through the clubs, causing them to crackle and vibrate visibly.
Their wooden surfaces seemed to writhe, as if they were attempting to contain the raw, barely contained magical power that coursed through them.
"Are you prepared to meet your demise, Drow?" He spat out the word "Drow" as if it were poison, his voice laced with a disdain so potent it seeped into his very bones.
"Well, it doesn't really matter, does it..?" He launched himself forward with a surge of predatory energy, his boots striking the ground with a resounding thud, the clubs held firmly in his grasp as if his very human body were channeling some primal, beastly power.
The Shadow Druid, with a powerful thrust of his hands, launched himself forward, gaining momentum with each step.
In the blink of an eye, the physical distance separating them seemed to evaporate.
For a creature of his small stature, he moved with a terrifyingly quick speed, his leap seemingly consuming the ground around him as if the very forest floor itself was hurling him forward with the force of a projectile.
Two enchanted clubs rose up overhead from his back, his powerful muscles coiled tight, and his intent was unmistakable.
It is important to understand that the strike was not meant to be fatal to William in the traditional sense of intending his immediate and complete demise.
The intention behind it all was to completely ruin him.
His shoulders were to be shattered, his sinews torn, and he was to be left broken but upright for just the necessary amount of time to make him fully comprehend what was about to happen next.
It's a space for processing the often slow, painful, and deeply personal fury that can build up inside.
Despite the pressure he faced, William did not choose to retreat.
He drove forward with a surge, determined to meet him.
Fire erupted along his forearms as he instinctively crossed them in front of his face, the intense heat spreading outward and engulfing him in a blinding flash of light.
The sudden forward motion, the sheer audacity of the attack, flashed across the Shadow Druid's eyes for only a fraction of a second before he was able to fully react.
The clubs came down, but unfortunately they missed.
The blow came down upon William's head, striking him with such force that his body went flying inside the arc of the blow, slipping out the other side just as he was about to make contact with it.
The timing was completely wrong, impossibly off.
SNAP.
The sound itself was sharp and final, much like the distinct, crisp sound you'd get from hitting a piece of dry wood directly against your knee.
The Shadow Druid's arms were folded in the wrong way, and the elbows seemed to be twisting out of place, the bones sticking through the skin with a wet, finality.
The force of his own momentum was betrayed, revealing the unnatural bend in the joints.
His scream, a high and sharp sound, tore free from his throat, but it was cut short almost immediately after it began.
William's hands were already coming down on him.
They clamped around the druid's face, fingers digging into jaw and skull, palms blazing white-hot as the Firebolt energy surged inward instead of outward.
There was no explosion, no spectacle.
Just heat and fire pressed onto the Shadow Druids eyes.
Relentless in its pursuit, intimate and deeply personal, and ultimately absolute in its impact.
The Shadow Druid's world collapsed into fire and agony as it flooded through bone and brain alike, cooking thought and memory inside the confines of his own skull.
His body went slack almost instantly, the scream dying into a wet, choking hush.
William released him.
The corpse crumpled to the ground at his feet, smoke curling faintly from scorched flesh, the stench of burned hair and charred meat hanging heavy in the air.
William stood there, his chest heaving violently, the fire that was just moments before in his hands now rapidly fading, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
For a fleeting moment, his eyes fixed on the results of his actions.
The corpse, whose eyes still radiated a slow and fading internal heat, lay there with its jaw slack and its gaze fixed forward, as if staring directly into the distance.
The battlefield then came into sharp focus, and he lifted his head, his eyes hardening as he knew another threat was undoubtedly about to call his name.
Before William had even a chance to catch his breath, the sound crashed down upon him.
A roar.
It wasn't the feral, bloodcurdling cry of a maddened druid, nor was it the guttural war cry of a beast that had just been summoned.
This was something different, something far more primal and ancient.
It moved through the grove with the force and fury of a thunderhead, ripping open the sky as it passed.
The sky above was dark, thick with rain, and a sense of pain and fury seemed to hang heavy in the air.
The air itself seemed to recoil as if it were trying to distance itself.
He immediately turned his head, his eyes snapping in the direction of the source of the noise.
On that elevated platform where the dais was located, there he stood, Halsin.
With a roar that echoed across the valley, the archdruid revealed the full extent of his power, his massive bear form suspended several feet off the ground, limbs contorting as dark, unnaturally thick roots snaked and coiled around his body, straining against his massive form.
Not only did they bind, but they did so in a very specific way.
With a deliberate intent, they constricted around him, the veins of shadow visible beneath their bark-like surfaces, pulsing as they tightened and raised him higher.
Kagha, his arms outstretched and fingers spread wide, stood beneath him, his expression a grotesque parody of conducting an orchestra, but one filled with an unnerving aura of cruelty.
Her face was etched with a grim determination, and her lips were drawn back in a way that suggested both intense fury and a deep, almost reverential focus.
Halsin thrashed.
His claws, sharp and deadly, sliced through the first wave of roots as easily as one would cut through tall grass.
Each swipe sent a cascade of shredded roots flying in his wake, tearing them apart in great, violent arcs.
It was a sound that cut straight through you, a visceral, wood-splitting, fiber-screaming kind of thing. For a brief, terrifying moment, it made you think that brute strength might be all it took to break this thing apart.
Kagha snarled, her voice laced with fury as she concentrated all her remaining magical energy directly into the ground.
From the soil, new roots began to emerge, growing significantly thicker and significantly darker in color, and even featuring sharp, jagged thorns that seemed to gleam wetly.
Sadly, they were unable to wrap around properly.
They stabbed.
Several of the spears pierced directly through Halsin's massive torso, making their way through thick fur and flesh.
Blood, dark and steaming, sprayed across the ground in a chaotic, dark stream.
The roar that followed was a sound of pure agony, rendered audible by the sheer intensity of the sound.
It tore across the battlefield, so raw and overwhelming that every nearby clash faltered.
Steel hesitated mid-swing. Spells fizzled out unfinished.
Even Karlach's infernal rage seemed to momentarily falter for a fleeting moment as that particular sound echoed and resonated through every single ear and nerve present.
Then smoke swallowed the bear.
Thick, roiling vapor exploded outward, obscuring Halsin's form completely.
The roots recoiled, losing purchase as the shape within shrank and shifted.
A heartbeat passed.
The smoke tore apart.
Halsin emerged in his hulking Half wood elf form, boots slamming into the earth with controlled force, unbound and unbroken despite the blood streaking his skin.
In his hands was his staff, ancient and living, its surface thrumming with a low, resonant hum that set the surrounding leaves trembling in response.
Nature answered its call instinctively, eagerly.
He did not shout.
He did not curse.
He pointed the staff downward, directly at Kagha's chest.
The ground detonated.
Kagha's instincts saved her life.
She reacted with surprising speed, twisting and rolling to the side as the staff connected with her.
The impact was so forceful that the ground beneath her disintegrated, sending a shockwave rippling outwards in all directions.
Her body was violently hurled backward, her boots making a loud screech as they skidded violently across the ground.
She plunged her scimitars deep into the grove floor, the blades shrieking with each stroke as they carved twin trenches.
Sparks erupted where the steel clashed with the stone and the roots beneath.
She barely managed to come to a stop after covering several agonizing yards, her body crouched low and her breath ragged.
Her eyes were filled with a fierce, burning intensity as she looked at Halsin.
They rose together.
Halsin's gaze was so intense and unbearable, it was almost painful.
It was not just the raw, intense anger that burned within him; it was the profound disappointment, a feeling that seemed far heavier and more crushing than any physical weapon.
The pain remained, a constant companion, old and deep within, etched not by claws or thorns, but rather by betrayal.
Kagha met it with a profound and visceral revulsion that made her feel like she was being physically sick.
Her lips curled into a tight, defiant curve, and her eyes burned with a mixture of righteous anger and disgust.
It was as if the very act of him standing before her violated her core sense of self.
They lunged.
What transpired next was not a simple skirmish; it was a genuine duel, a clash worthy only of the most skilled and powerful archdruids.
The very forces of nature appeared to react and fluctuate dramatically as they collided with one another.
Roots that had just begun pushing their way upwards from the ground were instantly shattered into pieces by the force of Halsin's staff.
The blades flashed, deflecting both the conjured stone and snapping vines with equal ease.
The wind howled with a ferocity unlike anything she had ever experienced, while the earth seemed to crack and split open beneath their feet, accompanied by a surge of magic that manifested in ever-changing, violent patterns, bending the very grove around them into strange and unpredictable shapes.
The minutes seemed to drag on, stretched thin by the mounting pressure.
And then, Kagha ended up overcommitting herself.
Halsin sprinted into her guard with an astonishingly fast pace, his movements filled with a chilling intensity.
With a bone-jarring impact, his knee connected squarely with her gut.
The air erupted from her lungs as she folded her arms across her chest, and before she had a chance to fully recover, Halsin brought his staff down upon her in a brutal, decisive arc.
The impact struck her in the back as he slammed her into the ground.
CRACK.
The sound was unmistakable.
Her scream, raw and piercing, tore itself free from her throat as her body convulsed against the shattered earth beneath her feet.
Pain, a relentless torrent, crashed down upon her with such intensity that it spread outwards, rippling through the grove and causing the rebellious druids to stumble and falter back.
Their magic seemed to be fading, noticeably wavering.
Their resolve began to crumble.
William watched intently, his expression remaining completely unmoved, as the balance of the battlefield began to shift once more.