England, West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
Dyowl's Hollow - Woods of Dartmoor
5 November 1898, 10:46 pm

Where a moment ago the features of this thing had been proclaimed, the mouth and nasal cavities, there was now only a torn hole of mangled flesh and bone. If the monster still had a mouth, it could have screamed. But a gurgling, disgusting gurgling sound came out of it. Then its form dissolved into black smoke, and Benjamin's heart foolishly dared to hope it had made it.

But the billowing haze reformed not far from him. Bones cracked and crunched as the figure rose again in jerky, stiff movements, and the elongated silhouette returned. At first, the man staggered, his form seeming to take longer in several places, and Ben saw him retch, cough, and blood spurt from his mouth onto the floor. Long fingers shot to where his face had been and groped over flesh lying in shreds. They clawed at the remains of his face. The creature seemed irritated by his resistance. If the monster was really as old as it had claimed, perhaps it was not yet familiar with the effects of firearms.

A single rapid click and crack sounded as if from billions of insects at once. Benjamin turned paler as he watched the chaos of movement surge through the body. A shimmer and shine of shells, countless curved legs, and the sickening sound of insects climbing over what had once been the creature's face. To Ben's horror, they spilled out between his fingers, disappearing into the sticky blackness and reshaping the torn flesh.

Then, with a jerk, the monster's head turned 90 degrees. Skin and muscle formed thick strands like twisted roots where the neck and spine should sit. Ben's legs went weak when the creature turned back to him in such a way, without wiping away the black-oily blood that covered his form like a blur of tar across the torso. The monster's body did not follow his head until a few heartbeats later, and the piercing eyes now fixed on Ben with a completely different expression.

"How dare you...!" rang out in several voices at once like a sickeningly discordant chorus from the creature's throat. The chorus rolled over and broke like black glass. The angular, grotesque features had returned, more horrible than before. The eyes were no more than black caverns, only a luminous dot forming their center, and a sense of bottomless misery gripped Ben. His eyes widened in disbelieving horror. The thing there seemed to have sprung from hell, the incarnate embodiment of human nightmares.

"By God..." Ben pressed out. That was all he could get out; his hands were cold and numb, as was his mind.

"You can pray all you want, but no one will hear you." rattled a voice as rough as if it were made of chains drawn across the stone.

Ben knew he had no mercy to expect now. The gleeful enjoyment had been completely wiped from the monster's features. If before he had toyed with it, delaying the fight to take pleasure in it, now that sadistic patience seemed to have ended. Ben's heart faltered; he jerked the pistol in front of him, his finger twitching on the trigger. It was the second before the bang.

WHAM!

A strange sound suddenly penetrated the scene, like a knife in a tightly woven curtain. It was the palpable tension before a roll of thunder. Deep and oppressive before a loud bang drove into the darkness. Something pulled at every fiber and texture of reality for a split second, settling on the bodies present for an instant and squeezing the air from their lungs. An out-of-place blast suddenly swept leaves aside. A few branches flew jerkily away and hit a tree trunk with a wooden clack or scattered in the foliage.

The skull of the grotesque beast turned and fixed the figure kneeling there on the ground in the circle, wiped free by pressure and wind on the bare earth of the muddy forest floor.

Leaves had risen into the air from the pull of the crack, in reality, whirled up on formless threads and now sank back down in shapeless circles around the figure in the center. Heavy fabric hung soaked from the slender body, and the water rippled at its feet. Raven-black hair, curled into thick strands by the water, stuck to the pale features of the wizard, whose chest heaved and heaved. He inhaled with a gasp, retched with convulsions, and spat water and bile onto the floor. After each inhalation, he choked again, coughed, and poured more water.
"Impossible!" it rumbled from the smoldering throat, and slitted eyes clung to the young man.
Then finally, the rattling stopped, and Kyle took a deep breath. Once, twice. His body trembled. The cold of the water, the shock still in his limbs. Fingers splayed, and he pressed his hand to his chest over the sticky black fabric of leathery mass.

Ben thought for a moment. He saw a sinister, angry flash beneath the black strands in the shadow that fell across Kyle's otherwise clear eyes. Dark clouds of a gathering storm eclipse the blue.

"Kyle?" stammered Benjamin, unsure it couldn't be a sensory illusion. What the hell had happened? Where had Crowford suddenly come from?

"You should be dead!" rumbled the monster's croaking voice, spattering drops of saliva in the wizard's direction from its rage-tinged roar.

The latter raised his hand; one finger extended as if to command the thing to wait. Then he turned his wrist and extended his index and middle fingers upwards. The gesture was apparent: 'Up your ass.'

"Fuck you, asshole!" the mage hissed out raspily, his voice still a little raspy and irritated from the water he had swallowed. Then a clanking sound rang out as dozens of shards burst, and the dark spell over his cloak shattered like glass. 

Just some Moments before...

West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
Well - Woods of Dartmoor
5 November 1898, 10:42 p.m.

Through brown-green water, Kyle saw the bright circle of the well. The air was so close. So damn close and yet so far away that - had he been able to - he wanted to roar. Instead, the pressure around his chest became painful, increasing with each passing second.

Kyle retched. Spots danced in the ever-shrinking field of vision before his eyes. The tunnel narrowed, and it felt like his chest was about to tear from the inside.

Let go, and I'll save us.

It was tempting to give in to that. Or just really let go. Drowning was supposed to be a peaceful death, they claimed. He felt nothing of that so far, however. He could welcome the water and give up. Open his mouth and let it end. Then all he had to do was stop fighting, stop suffering this pain, and he would be redeemed.

Sometimes people come to this point. Give up or keep fighting. The moments when it was indeed in their hands were rare. This offer was made to him at the perfect moment. His mind was already melting, like himself, unable to find a foothold anywhere, and the fear of death further paralyzed clear thinking. Some would have gone under or acquiesced.... but he knew the devastating price of this help.

No.

He would not die. He had been through too much, too many plans. He was not weak. This would not kill him. He would not breathe his last here and now - especially not like this. In Kyle, under the downpour, the flame of an indomitable will flared, one that had already survived other dark hours. How had many blows from cane and fists struck him down? How many times had he had to taste his blood and wished he could die without having that longing fulfilled? Until another thought became his purpose in life?

I am not weak.

I will survive you and everything you do to me.

I will be stronger than all of you.

And then you will eat the dirt at my feet.

Whoever thought Kyle Crowford would be so easy to defeat with a damn spell and a well full of dirty water was wrong. He would show that cursed creature what it meant to mess with a mage like him.

Traveling spells. He was far beyond his abilities. Except... EXCEPT...!

Kyle opened his eyes. He jerked his arm up and drew the thumb of his left hand across the corner of his incisor. He bit down without hesitation. Water washed into his mouth, and if he failed now, he had gambled. But he did not think of that at all. Failure was not an option. The tip of his tooth tore open his flesh, and immediately he felt the burning pain of the dirty water in the wound. Then he gathered all the loose threads of his remaining control and wits and ran the fingers of his right hand to the injury.

He opened his mind and reached into the threads of reality. His harsh fingers drove into the fabric, feeling every tautness drawn around him. The cloak, the well, all the dark magic like tar-smeared sinews of dark sorcery. He felt the spell weighing him down. For a second, his fingers twitched, tempted in the distress of his fading spirit to break the cloak's spell.

NO. He could deal with that later! 

Kyle pulled himself together and fumbled for the loose ends of the travel spell that still clung to him in faint residue. But Kyle knew exactly what to look for. He knew the period, even if he hadn't mastered it. And then he got hold of it and fed it his blood.

The veil parted and revealed a path to him.

West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
Dyowl's Hollow - Woods of Dartmoor
5 November 1898, 10:46 pm

It swept Kyle away and hurled him through the rift. The black spell that had held him in the distant place collapsed, and Kyle left it behind. Admittedly, he stumbled somewhat clumsily through the gap between the veils, landing harder than planned back on the solid ground of this world - but he was alive!

His body arched, choking, and he immediately pressed the water out of his insides out of reflex. His throat burned, his eyes were red, and his vision blurred. He vomited water and bile in convulsive retching—a gush, then another. The water splashed to the earthy floor, and Kyle greedily drew the air into his lungs. Breathe! He spat out dirt and dark water as the spots before his eyes finally diminished.

The veil of deathly silence beneath the water and the roaring of his ears collapsed, and the sounds came over him again.

A buzzing voice full of disbelief and anger barked at him that he should be dead. He heard Dr. Archer's incredulous voice, and the mage's chin straightened to get a quick view. Then he let out a hoarse laugh before pressing his hand to his chest and spreading his fingers. Finally, he shattered the spell on the cursed cloak, and its blood smeared across his lapels. He was free again. He was back. And if there was one thing he understood, it was that false restraint was misplaced.

When Kyle raised his head, shadows from the treetops and dappled moonlight marked his features with unfamiliar harshness. The pale countenance, where cuts disfigured the otherwise meticulously groomed skin, was now far from the brash arrogance the young man usually displayed.

He had just narrowly escaped death. This fact broke his façade and gave a glimpse of what might lie beneath as he slowly stood up. He swayed a little, visibly unsteady on his feet, yet he was alive.

He was usually meticulous about his camouflage, appearance, and the image he wanted to project to the outside world. But this was no duel in the depths of the Seekers' halls, no little clash of two gifted minds testing their skills for fun. It was time to get serious and show this bastard that he had made the same mistake as many before him: 

He had fucking underestimated Kyle Crowford!