The end was in sight now. She could see the black figure standing and everyone before her beginning to run. She narrowed her eyes and scrambled forward, trying to catch up, but she knew that, at this point, it was futile. She was too far behind and her broken leg was holding her back. There was a growl deep in her throat as she realized how slow her run was compared to before, but at least she wasn't far behind in the back. Yeah, at least she'd made it. If she didn't get rewarded for this, though, if she didn't at least get powerful magic that she could use against the Seven, then someone was going to get hurt.

The familiar sensation of running was almost welcoming to Labradorite Five-Four-Six, even if each stride shot another bolt of pain up his wounded shoulder. In some cruel way, he liked to feel the heat bearing down on his back, the sand uneven and collapsing under his paws and the tightness in his chest as he gasped for air.

He was wary, however, of the sand spiders and scorpions lurking.

Labradorite Five-Four-Six had no real interest in winning first or second or third-- he only had the interest of survival --and he had quickly decided at this point that in order to keep surviving, he had to speed up.

Magicka swarmed the gemstone in the roof of his mouth as a cooling, almost pleasant wind surrounded his legs, taking him further forward at a quicker pace. He bounded, fox-like through the sand, heading closer to the silhouette of Tunnel P in the distance.

Quartz Five-Two-Four was battered, bleeding, and tired beyond belief. Asimona suddenly lauched forward, and Ru raised their head as best they could. Slowly focusing on Asimona. It took a while for Ru to decipher what she meant with her gesturing, longer than it would have liked. Its gaze shifted to the horizon, and relief flowed through it. The end. They could see it-- the merchant waiting there for them. They were so close.


They could rest, then, free from the baking heat and noxious mud, and prepare for the next trial. It was all they desired. A short rest. It would live, atleast. It had survived the Overseers. At least, for now. There was always the next test. It did not know what the next trials would have in store for it, but it would atleast protect its group. It adjusted the talon in its teeth. Then it drew upon the last of its fading strength and broke into a run for the end.

Imp half-flapped, half-walked along the squishy salt-pan, grateful for the faint rain. But ahead, now, he could see the Merchant--the cave mouth--and the spike of realization, of hope, joy, rushed through him. We're gonna make it! Not that he'd ever doubted that, or anything.

"THERE IT IS!"

His wings spread, and he waddle-ran a few feet before taking clumsy, heavy flight. Mostly it was a bare glide over the ground, his feet sometimes skidding into the salt--but they'd made it! They were gonna make it!

The heat and his weariness struck him a moment later, overriding any excitement, and he was forced back down to the ground--waddling, wing-walking, for the cave exit.

Ahead, the cave mouth loomed--distant, but dark. Shango paused, for a moment, peering and squinting through his faint haze and drizzle. His hind leg still hung twisted. But they faced it, at last--they could, all of them, see their nightmare's end.

Not that it had been a nightmare, for Shango--he held the in-the-moment mentality of a wild thing, and would not lose much sleep over Hydra. Triumph, however, ran through him. He felt somehow responsible for their shared success, as a group--not entirely, of course, but somehow, to him, the rain and storm had been a determining factor. It hadn't, of course, but in his mind, the storm had been a necessity.

Sparks flickered out along his wingtips, and a single bolt of lightning cracked down--blinding, its following CRACK and rumble of thunder that rattled away over the desert just as deafening. The bolt itself struck quite close to Shango, searing him along one side, sending him flying back in a blast of light and smoke and blackening a streak along his coat. It left a charred black patch on the salt pan, too, where it struck--and left a tingling in the air.

He was left behind the rest, pulling himself up with a stunned expression. That had... hurt. He wasn't dead, but--ow.

...It had looked impressive, though.

BLACK OPAL
honestly i thought that i would be dead by now

His eyestalk watched ruefully as the group he abandoned relished in a drizzle of rain. He knew he should have stayed with them. No matter, the trial was almost done.

In the hazy distance, the Black Opal could see The Reaper at the foot of the cave's mouth. Normally, he was an omen, one worse than Vargas himself. This time however, the omnious overseer was a welcome sight.

He noticed everyone picking up the pace, and despite his condition, he tried to as as well. He dug deep and found his second wind. The Opal broke out into trot, then a canter, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind on the last patches of white salt as the spell faded. He raced across the sand after the others, showing no signs of his previous exhaustion.

The Opal was filled with new found energy. He was glad to be alive.

He'd done it.

They were all nearing the end. Quartz Eight-Six-Zero had survived the trials not once but twice. Or, at least, he would soon. He looked down as Amazon looked up at him and noted that her eyes were practically glowing before she sprinted the rest of the way. He was quick to follow, though his strides were much larger than hers. Still, he kept pace with her as best he could.

He was exhausted, and almost certain he'd collapse at any moment. But he'd made it. The majority of the group had made it, even. Which was honestly rather miraculous. But he was glad for it. And Amazon had made it. Though he'd only known her for some hours, he was glad to have met Amazon, and hoped they had formed a bond that would last a long time.

He'd done it.

He'd survived.

He'd left his skull behind. Hurt his leg, hurt his back. Was in pain, was still splattering blood everywhere.

He'd have horrific scars as his own trophy for this gruesome task.

But he had a mouthful of feathers as his trophy, and Gatto was at his heels.

One of which buckled, sending him to the ground. The Fossa moaned, lights flashing in his eyes, but drew himself up, and staggered along.

How had he done it?

The dog stumbled along, head low and hanging, tail between his legs. His trophy dangled from his mouth, tongue lolling out beside it.

He was tired, and he hurt, but he had made it. Only a little bit further, and he could sleep. Could curl into a ball somewhere safe and sleep until the world stopped spinning, and then make his way back home, to his safe little den, where no one could hurt him again.

The Will o' the Wisps danced in front of his eyes, and he stumbled, startled by the lights. But it was a straight shot, and so he kept on.

Styx hurt.

The world was a mess around him, lights too, too bright, sounds making his head throb more than it already was.

He reeled, each step a stumble, and he whined with each breath. Styx tossed his head to try to see, but it was too bright, and so he had to follow the sounds of the others, desperately clinging to the trophy in his mouth. A little bit further, only a little bit further.