Facing forward, he was face-to-face with the root-covered metal door. His curiosity was piqued as he could see a glimpse of the engravings etched into the door; pushing the overgrowth aside, the symbol etched into the mighty dore was that of a bull's face, with horns protruding from its head.
"Sorta creepy," he muttered.
The horns sticking out from the bull's head acted as the handles for the sturdy door, allowing him to grip onto the cold, rough steel.
Here goes, he thought, please don't blow up right in my face as I open you!
"Open Sesame…!" He exuded through his gritting teeth.
It was heavy, but he began to push open the dense, broad doors slowly as a wave of stagnant dust fell against his face. The doors roared from their interrupted slumber as they were parted; he pushed as the bottoms of his boots slid across the flooring below.
With one final push of strength through his arms, he fully parted the grand doorway as the room behind it was revealed to him.
Or, more accurately, the deadly trap awaiting him was revealed.
Pointed directly between his eyes as a barrel of sorts, inhabiting a magenta glow that spiraled within the umber cylinder with a malicious hiss.
It was a gun-like object, held in the hand of the enigmatic person stationed within that room.
As he focused on the mystical barrel pointed right at his precious face, all he could see from the one holding it was the metallic mask they wore that completely shrouded their head-and-face; only a crimson glow emitted from the slit running down the middle of the silver helm.
"Urr...nice weapon you have here," he said nervously.
"State your name, species, age, and reason for being here," the masked-man asked in a monotone, but stern voice.
Though his first instinct was to reject the request for such hefty information, he could tell there was utmost sincerity in the threat presented by the unknown, masked man.
Holding his hands up, he answered fervently, "Ren Nakamura, human, urr...twenty-years-old, and I came here looking for shelter from the snow!"
After finishing his flurry of an introduction, he remained silent and still for a moment, feeling his heart thump wildly in his chest.
--To his surprise, the long-barreled weapon was lowered by the unknown man as he set the mystical tool onto the table to his side.
"You're not one of them," the man muttered beneath his breath.
"Urr…" He muttered, confused by the inexplicable change in situation.
Not one of them? One of who? He thought.
Before he could figure out what the mysterious man meant, he was interrupted by a request from him.
"Close the door behind you," the man told him.
"Can do!" He happily obliged.
After shutting the large doors that acted like immutable gates, he gazed at the man's unorthodox garments.
He wore a long, baggy coat similar to those aristocrats wore, made of dark-brown fabric and accented with beige designs. What made it weird was the seemingly comfortable, high-end coat being worn over a silver chestplate in tandem with his hefty gauntlets and knight-like helm.
Each movement the mysterious man made caused the necklace around his neck to jingle, bouncing as he fiddled with his assortment of tools.
Seriously, is it laundry day for him? He thought.
Finally having the opportunity to actually take a look at the room, it wasn't any different in it being flooded by verdant overgrowth, but it seemed the man had taken his abode there.
Tables were stationed, covered with a plethora of tools that made it quite obvious as to who set the traps that nearly took his life.
"...So…" He lingered his word.
"Donovan. That's my name. That's all you need to know about me. What's more important is what's coming," the man told him without turning around to face him.
The mysterious figure, without a shred of his appearance to be seen beneath his armor or helm, fiddled with the barreled-weapon, tightening screws and embedding tiny gems into the sides of its engraved, beige side.
"Huh? "What's coming," what're you talking about? And who am I 'not'? You said I wasn't "one of them", didn't you?" He asked, stepping beside the helmed man.
Donovan continued to tinker with his weapon, taking his name before finally stopping to reply, "You sought refuge here, but I regret to inform you none shall be found here. Most likely, you'll die here."
From the lack of nuance to his monotone words, their seriousness couldn't be questioned as he felt a wave of cold air brush over his body as they met his ears.
Narrowing his eyes on the helmet-wearing man that stood half a head taller than him, he pushed for more information, "Stop beating around the bush and just tell me what's coming!"
Donovan looked at him with the absence of expression that his sleek mask created, holding his violet-luminescent, barreled tool up as if presenting it to him.
"...At the moment, I am being pursued by a group of three; all of which are vampires," Donovan finally told him.
"Vampires? Like 'bite-your-neck-and-suck-your-blood'? Those vampires?" He asked with a slight look of disbelief, but more so horror.
Donovan nodded, "Fiendish ones, at that. They already have my scent--once they have that, even attempting to mask it won't work. Any minute now, I imagine they'll arrive here."
He stood there for a moment to process the information as Donovan casually strolled over to one of the tables, fiddling with enchanted tools that looked honed for murder.
"Wait, why're they hunting you?" He asked after staying silent.
Donovan froze for a moment with his back turned to the young man before answering, "...There isn't much of a reason needed to hunt another within this floor. There is enough incentive in reducing your time needed to survive here if you kill another. But more than that, they're simply hungry--or perhaps ravenous is how to best describe them. I imagine it is quite difficult to find a stable supply of humans within Purgatory."
He found himself quiet after this answer, realizing it was the hard truth of a place like Purgatory: a realm that embodied the very concept of 'only the strong survive.'
"...So what're you're saying is...I have no choice now but to help you fight off these vampires," he huffed.
"Precisely," Donovan answered.
Figures, he thought.
Slumping his shoulders for a moment, he folded his arms over his chest as he kicked a pebble across the moss-laden floor while trying to find some further answers.
"So...do you have garlic? Some wooden stakes, maybe?...Holy water?" He asked, looking around the plethora of contraptions stationed around the room.
Donovan stopped for a moment, "What're you talking about, I wonder? Perplexing. Anyway, you have silver at your side, don't you? That'll suffice, if you have the strength to back it up."
After further silence inhabited the chamber while Donovan made his various preparations: stationing spear-cannons to face the door and attaching strings to them, the armor-wearing man was the first one to speak for a change.
"Ren, was it?" Donovan called his name, "you managed to bypass the traps I set, didn't you? I only noticed two by the stairs be triggered, but nothing further was disturbed."
He held a bit of a confident smile as he tapped his own chest, "Yeah, that was me. I went through them with a 'Shadow Step.'"
"I see. If you can maneuver through those, you're unquestionably more fit for combat than me. I'll leave the close-quarters battling to you, then," Donovan said with his voice that slightly echoed against his metallic mask.
After receiving a single pat on the shoulder as the masked, coat-wearing man passed by him to tinker with another item, his expression shifted to surprise as he swiftly turned around.
"Wait, wait, wait!"
"Yes, what is it? I'd be focused on preparing for battle, if I were you," Donovan replied.
"You're leaving the vampires to me?! I've never fought one before! This is your mess, not mine, you know!" He exuded from his lips in contention.
Without replying, only a brief sigh left from Donovan's unseen lips before he turned to face the eye-patched young man, holding the brown-barreled weapon in his secured, gray gauntlets.
"We're in this together now by virtue of your choice to come down here," Donovan assured him, "I am unfit for physical combat. However, don't mistake that as me simply leaving you to fight them alone. I will give you support from the backline; that's optimal for our victory in the coming battle."
No further words needed to be said--at least that's what Donovan seemed to believe as he moved on, approaching the closed, tall-standing doors.
He stood there silently as he watched Donovan reach into a lifted compartment attached to his meticulously-crafted gauntlet on his right hand, opened by a simple tap to the square of black steel, retrieving a set of threads that extended from his metallic gloves.
Like a spider weaving a web from its abdomen, the man stretched the thin threads from the hardly noticeable compartment of his gauntlet, flicking it around seamlessly as he attached an array of lines in front of the door. Only just enough space was left for them to be fully parted to allow for whoever may step through that door to find the sharp embrace of the threads.
"What do those do? The threads, I mean," he asked.
Donovan remained silent as he meticulously laced the door with a web of the glistening strings before he stopped, cutting the end of the strings from his gauntlets to cement their placement.
He found himself curious because it initially seemed the strings were meant to work as a trigger for a contraption, but here the man was simply using them as a defense of sorts.
"..."Moon Anchors," that's what they're called in the land they come from: Derjun. In a land that sparsely births mages, they had to adapt in order to survive against the all-powerful armies of mages that seemed to exist at every corner," Donovan told, "one such tool they developed were the 'Moon Anchors', special threads borrowed from the spider deity of Derjun, Arachnaroane."
With context given to the significance of the strings, he saw them in a new light, enamored by the glistening, mystical shine they gave off.
"Hold on...spider deity? Tell me you're joking," he asked worriedly.
"They're quite powerful; even steel is unable to withstand their immaculate sharpness," Donovan continued on his own, presenting the threads.
"Wait! Don't just ignore this spider-god-thing!" He huffed, "...wait, you're telling me those threads are straight out of some godly spider?"
As he asked this, he inspected the threads closer, unable to even get a clear look at the shining material as the subtle brightness made it impossible to see its thin form.
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