Sobering up after a bout of drinking, however monumental, had never been much trouble. Narzhak’s immense girth alone made getting noticeably drunken a gargantuan task in its own right; adding to this the fact that no sort of impurity, no matter whether it had been anywhere else before, seemed able to remain inside his body for long without seeping out in some way or another, one could have sworn that his constitution had been designed especially for that sort of pastime. Thus, it was after no more than a brief walk to the nameless river of murk and blood that ran through the Steppes that his head was back to being as impervious to loud noises, apelike or otherwise, as it had ever been, hundreds (if not more) of drained wine barrels notwithstanding.
The god shook off the last of the needling fumes from his iron skull and tore his gaze away from the soothing if macabre patterns of the ichor-tainted flow. Flaming eyes swept over the plains, between the cliffs walling them off at either side and over wide flatlands, empty beyond the occasional rooting beast. Shengshi did have a point - even setting aside a space like dozens of mountain ridges, there would be room for more than one good harvest here. Worth keeping in mind. Amusing as it was when inferior beings ate each other, leaving them nothing else to subsist on was not going to help anyone given a couple of centuries.
A more pressing thought for now, however, was seeing whether he remembered the distilling part right, despite the wine and unexpected birth that had followed the explanation. The journey from the river to the Scar was spent trying to reconstruct the steps into something at least distantly resembling their proper sequence. Boil, seal, ferment... no, that could not be right; it went seal, ferment, then boil? He was sure he was missing something again, a suspicion which did not leave him even as he climbed into the fissure and let go of its edge, stepping onto the warm rock below. What he saw there, however, made him immediately forget the succession he had just so carefully assembled.
The kostral were not at work as he had left them. This alone was enough for his four eyes to dart each in a different direction, prying into every visible opening for signs of disorder. The situation was really not as dire as it looked at first glance, with only a comparatively small part lobbing stones out of their cavern mouths, but it was bad enough that something had disrupted the order of things at all. Even worse was that this something was brazen enough not to stop when he had walked in. Why were there birds in the Pit? They usually knew well enough to avoid the Scar altogether. Yet here they were, offensively glimmering, somehow weaving between the fiery clouds and grasping tentacles of the sky-dwellers and eluding the improvised projectiles that rained on them from the walls. And- speaking?
Narzhak rumbled and clapped his hands together with the force of thousands of enormous gongs struck all at once. In a blink, stones stopped flying as the kostral scrambled back to their usual haunts. The birds, wise enough not to follow them into narrow, cramped spaces, remained hovering about the openings. Some converged around the god, and their speech, now evidently repeated time and again, keenly reminded him of what it was like to have a still-hazy head. Did Azura really sound like that? For the little he knew of her, he had never considered her much of an annoyance, but she seemed determined to make him rethink that view.
The irate squint of his eyes only grew thinner as the opening words of the address played out. Souls, death, what did any of this have to do with him? What happened to things once they had served their purpose in the world had never been any of his business, and why she would say these things to mortals was simply beyond him.
The further the speech went, however, the wider he stared, until at the end he could no longer hold back a thunderous, ground-shaking laugh. ”Consent? Autonomy? She’s begging?! Damn to the void, she’s serious about this!” He slapped himself over his ironclad stomach, the rock under him buckling and cracking under the quakes of his mirth. The cackles did not stop even when a colossal hand shot out and closed around a few alma, reducing them to a smear of invisible dust, nor when great metallic spikes shot out like darts to crush and splinter the rest. His finger still quivered as he brought the last, most elusive one before the barren waste that was his visage, locked in place with hooked and pincered chains.
”Listen up,” he growled, suppressing the last traces of laughter. His eyes blazed up for a moment, and the creature’s crystalline parts were enkindled with a lurid glow to mirror them, ”I don’t know what score you’ve got with Katharsos, and I don’t care how you settle it -” his speech had by then firmly become a menacing snarl, ”- as long as you don’t stick your beak into my work. Come into my home uncalled to distract my servants, and crying over some burning soul’s going to be the least of your worries. Keep your squabbles over death out of here. You won’t find any will to freedom, only-”
The metal of his visor became a hungry mire, and the minuscule construct was dragged beneath it as the dark pearl had been before. Faint praise though it might have been, the taste was nowhere near as atrocious this time. ”I hope I’ve made myself clear.” It was uncertain that what remained of the alma could still relay his words, but Narzhak hated leaving something unfinished.
Clawed fingers pensively rubbed together with a strident creak. There could be no assurance that Azura would listen, or even, now that he thought of it, that she would be the only one to try and bring some useless inanity to his domain. If she had made an attempt of that sort at all, it meant she was expecting to find at least some sympathetic ears, and if they all flew like her and these odd glowing birds, the air over the Pit as it was now, perilous as it might have been to any other intruder, would not do. Nor would the kostral simply throwing whatever was at hand. Even without this, they would have to deal with foes outside their reach sooner or later, and weapons that would supply for that were still a long way beyond their grasp. At best, he could provide to both at once…
A loud rattle from his gauntlet drew thousands of quartets of eyes, with the occasional blind stain of metal, staring out of their tunnels. They died quickly, but more of them sprang up quicker yet, just as designed. Never a moment without a safe surplus for cases like these.
The Iron God snatched a nearby wandering ash-storm into his hand, tightened it into a bundle and spat some of the unrecognisable remains of the swallowed alma into it. As the roiling cloud in his palm began to pulsate and shimmer, he breathed rapacity into it, then snapped his fingers closed with a crack, sending uncountable specks flying in all directions. Each was certain to find its mark.
The watching thousands began to shudder and swell as the ash reached them, piercing their hide and warping their forms. Bones lengthened into serpentine spines and wide, sturdy ribcages, limbs stretching beyond their natural shape and snapping into angles they could never have supported. Skin was torn and rewoven into smooth membranes, even as it was dislodged by the sudden burst of sickly bulbous growths along the entire body. Arms were pushed close together like the legs of insects, and heads grew new sharp, smooth predatory countenances.
”Skestral,” the god spoke, and as one a legion of raucous hissing breaths sounded around him. One after another, the things that had been kostral spread their leathery wings and took flight, borne on tumorous protrusions filled with foul-smelling air. They sped from corner to corner, unhindered by their apparent bulk, as their grounded kin began to peer out in awe. Many did little but pass between cavern and cavern, stretching their new-formed muscles. Some vanished in the perpetual smoke overhead, probing the way for patrols and hunts. A few more yet dove towards the stretch of high ground where lay the path to the world above, and just so they were gone.
Narzhak had an eye for every path, following the flight of each for a few moments with an appreciative look, all while the fourth stayed over his open hand. Some ashen dregs were still restlessly crawling around the palm, the light, but not the motion entirely squeezed from them. This was not enough for another batch, but throwing it away would have been senseless. There must have been something it would be good for. It moved, stirred… What did that speech say about sleep?
It was strange, it occurred to him, that Azura, whose very creatures were so restless even when pulverised, would want to put things to sleep for who knew how long. A somewhat less amusing thought following in that one’s trail was that, if she did have her way, half the world would have been slumbering sooner or later. Absurd, but if it really happened? Things would get much harder for everyone for no good reason. The least he could do now was ensure that, if Galbar became too quiet, he would not be caught unprepared.
A sliver of molten rock from a nearby floating sphere, and the ash began to churn and harden into something solid. He breathed wrath into it, then more, and more still. The quivering mass of orange-veined grey bloated into something that was neither quite worm, nor quite boar, nor quite squid. Its many limbs thrashed and grasped along its elongated body, unable to release the fury that filled them in any meaningful way other than to tear into themselves. It gouged uneven gaps into itself, and teeth grew to make them mouths. As soon as it could, it howled, and Narzhak was barely fast enough to cut it off after its first tones; it was still enough for some kostral to leap upon each other in a murderous frenzy, and a few skestral to tangle with the drifters among the clouds. And still it grew in size and anger, until even the hand underneath it began to feel its weight. The chains around its limbs and edges became thicker, the muzzles around its mouths wider, until both maker and creation were out of breath.
The two contemplated each other as they recouped. The Iron God found himself forced to admit he had gone a little beyond the pale this once. Left unchecked, the thing would not only wake up a world of sleepers, but wreak havoc on anything it came across, the Pit included. At the same time, he doubted that keeping it bound would have been much of a solution. Chains would stop its excesses until needed, but without motion to stoke it, the anger that made it so useful would eventually die out, maybe before even there was a chance to see it at work even once. Besides, with how it still struggled, those chains might not hold long enough, either. Not on the body, at least.
He tapped his fingers together. If not chains on the body, whatever the thing had for a mind could not be much harder to tie together. Chains of the mind, clouds of the mind…
His eye fell on the cauldron still fastened to the edge of a thumb. Of course. If the head took the worst of the drinking, something that did not have one at all would get the blow all over. And a strong one as long as the liquor kept flowing, without need for a single link.
How did it go again? Ferment, boil, seal?
After going for a walk to sober up, Narzhak climbs back into the Pit. There, some alma are riling up the kostral, who, lacking any sort of initiative, react to them as they would to any other intruder, with predictably little success. He restores order with a quick and heavy hand and yells through the bird network to what he thinks is Azura to keep off his lawn. The alma with the dubious honour of serving as transmitter for that message is then chewed up, and its remains are used in turning some kostral into a flight-capable subspecies, the skestral (or gargoyles for simplicity) to prevent more incidents of the sort. Some skestral start spilling over to Galbar’s surface.
Narzhak then suspects that preserving souls might end up plunging much of the world into stasis, and doesn’t like the idea. He thus decides to create a monster he can send out to shake things up if they get too quiet for his liking, but overdoes it and ends up with a huge, nasty, uncontrollable beastie whose voice drives all who hear it into a bloodthirsty rage. At a loss as to how to keep it from indiscriminately wrecking everything while it’s not in the field, he remembers that he was going to try and distill alcohol again after going over it with Shengshi, and concludes that the best course of action is to make the monster his drinking pal.
Starting: 3 MP, 4 FP
2 FP spent on transforming some kostral into skestral, granting them flight.
2 FP, enhanced with War portfolio, spent on the Howling Scourge, a creature of tremendous power.
The first thing Split noticed was that there was light all around.
The second was that the ground she was lying on was not cold stone.
The third was that her axe was still firmly gripped in two of her hands. Thanks for that.
The kostral propped herself up on her forelimbs and looked around. The sky shone over a flat yellow expanse speckled with green, stretching as far as she could see. Sand, she thought. She moved a hand to lift herself better, and felt something scrape against her skin in a way sand did not. A handful of it came off the ground with less ease than she expected, clinging to it like an uprooted bush. It was much like a bush, she realised, or moss, with much longer, thinner straight strands. Smelled much like moss or a bush, too. Tasted- she bit off half a strand, gave it a brief chewing, swallowed. It was the faintest bit similar to the lichens she had once grown so sick of, though not different in a way that made it an appetising alternative. She tossed away the clump of plants and looked around again.
Yellow and green, up to where the ground touched the sky. Nothing broke the flatness of the land, except the mild sloping of some low hills not too far away. Split rose to her hind limbs, towering above the rustling grass, and looked further. Just a small dark spot off in the distance. No sign of Arya - she remembered to look directly above herself, but that did not help - or the ‘lope, nor of the way she could have come here from the tunnels. In her sleep, it struck her. How could that have gone again? She had kept going towards that light for what must have been days without getting any closer, sometimes being led down bends that should have made spotting it in the first place impossible. Nothing to eat except for the occasional patch of mould on the walls and the worms around it, though even the worms were a lucky find, and short naps where she found a side passage or opening in the rock. That was as it had gone last time; she had laid down after another day or two of walking, and then here she was.
The open sky and cool breeze made it hard to smell as she was used to, but by now she was sure Arya was not anywhere nearby. From how those tunnels worked, it was likely she was not anywhere not too far either. Maybe the other end of the world, for all she knew. Troubling as that thought was, Split did not think that staying underground would have made finding her any easier. All there was to do was hope that the girl had picked up enough to handle herself wherever she might have ended up, unless it was in- No, no use thinking that. Lurker or no lurker, it wasn’t likely anyway.
A pang in the stomach threw her sniffing off-course. How long had it been since she had even found mould? No one had kept track, but she was sure enough the answer was “way too long” anyway. She picked at the grass and snorted. That wouldn’t work. Having the jackalope around would have helped, but she was nowhere to be seen either. Hopefully she would not run into something else large and hungry.
Her head twitched as a vaguely familiar smell drifted by her. Earthy, warm scales. Her jaws tightened at the thought. It had to be just there, some way towards the dark blot in the distance. If she was quiet enough in getting closer… Yes, there. A short, slender body, like a large worm, edged its way through the stalks. Its brown-ringed yellow scales made it almost invisible among the grass and its smell was faint at best even close up, but she saw it perfectly, and her axe had no trouble finding it either.
Only after the creature’s bones had been picked clean did Split realise that a small meal would only dig the hole in her stomach deeper rather than filling it. An only slightly dulled pang was quick to confirm it. With a grunt, she lifted herself up and smelled the air again. No more moving things nearby, except some insects. There was, however, a new smell coming from where the spot of blackness winked over a gentle slope. The smell of a bush, though somehow warmer and richer. She was not sure what to make of that, but bushes usually meant things like rats and other small animals, and that would have been welcome. Dropping to four again, she was about to toss away the scaly thing’s emptied skin, but stopped mid-motion, running her eyes over it up close. Flexible, robust. Who knew, it could come in handy sometime. She wrapped and tied it around a wrist.
The black spot was a bit further than it seemed, but five legs went quickly. At a closer look, it was indeed made up of shrubs, or something very much like them. The resemblance would have been even closer if shrubs had been almost nothing but trunk, with branches unfolding high up like mushrooms, but that was close enough. There were actual shrubs, too, short and dry, though their yellow was more widely stained with the upper canopies’ almost bluish green. All of this was, however, forgotten as soon as a furry shape darted between one branch and another, and a black cloud rose from deep in Split’s belly to cover her eyes from the flurry of chopping, snatching and gnawing that followed.
It was not until her axe met something large, dense and snarling that she blinked her predatory instincts away and took a glance at what she was running into. Staring at her from the other end of the haft was an imposing bulk of dark fur, claws and teeth. Judging by its lean though towering body, the beast must have had gone hungry for some time as well, and her crashing through the undergrowth had been as clear a track for it as its smell had been for her. The kostral’s front eyes locked gazes with its animalistic leer. Whatever it might have been, it was clear that only one of them would eat their fill that day.
With surprising speed, the beast was first to act. Split narrowly dodged its swimping arms, diving under their crushing embrace, and jolted out of the way as it dropped its weight onto her. Balancing on three limbs, she grasped at its thick, matted fur for leverage and drove her axe into its flank as it turned about to face her, drawing out a pained roar. The claws came for her again, as the blade was still lodged into the shaggy hide, and she let go her grip of it to strike back against the paw with two hands. She did not expect the resistance to be so easily yielding, and almost fell forward into the slavering jaws, righting herself with a kick to its exposed nose. The creature’s maw still reeling backwards from the blow, Split fell back onto her rear limbs, only to gather up and vault over her opponent’s broad back, tearing her axe out with a tug and landing into a ready pose on its far side. When the beast’s jaws came for her in a frenzy of pain and fury, they were met with a blow that cleaved the skull behind them from side to side. The animal let out a final groan, briefly spasmed in the legs and collapsed.
Split sat for a moment catching her breath before leaning over the massive carcass. The beast might not have eaten well in a while, but it was still a good deal larger than her. Hungry though she was, it would take her a long time to eat it all, longer than it would stay fresh. Besides, she was not going to sit around here until she finished it, not while people back home kept eating lichen and falling down wells in search of metal, and she did not even know where she was. Maybe she could take out the best bits on the spot, then carry some more along somehow- Take out, that sounded right.
A push with three arms was enough to turn the hefty body over. Cutting it from the back would not work, she knew well enough. The belly was the way in. Her axe was not ideal for the job, long and unwieldy as it was, but it would do. She pulled the cut wider open, baring her teeth in what might have been a smirk at the familiar experience of clawing through something’s entrails. What were her last hatchlings up to now? It had been some years already, so they must have been… Her jaws snapped closed and her gaze darkened. At work, digging up stones with little better than other stones or hunting obsidian stalkers in the wastes. Maybe she gnashed her teeth and tightened her hands already dead. With a grim look, she hunched back over the gutted corpse.
Not long afterwards, her stomach was much better, glutted as it was on the most appetizing bits she had dug up in her summary dismemberment of her prey, and, though the mood was not as easily mended, slicing up the beast had been an oddly calming exercise, far from the euphoria of mating that she remembered. Split finished wrapping a bundle of strips of meat in a piece of hide and fastened it with a sharpened snapped bone. She sniffed and craned her head satisfiedly. To say that her trove was perfectly clean was too much, but she had done a good job in separating those morsels from the innards. Before, she had never stopped to consider if one piece would taste better than another, and she had taken Chops’ cutting up the rabbits as an oddity. But, as it turned out, sorting things helped a lot.
She would have to try this more often.
The kostral glanced up with an eye. The sky still shone brightly through the foliage overhead. No point in sitting around. Lost as she and almost everyone else she knew might have been, the only way to fix that was to go look around harder. She would figure out where she was, maybe find Arya somewhere sooner or later. And, someday, come back home with a way out.
Split slung the axe over her shoulder, gripped the meat bundle with her free forearm, and crept off into the shrubs. The world would not wait for her.
This post takes place before the Alma broadcast, though by how much is up to interpretation.
After a long time spent walking through underground tunnels, Split wakes up in a yellow grassland with no sign of how she got there. Unbeknownst to her, she’s somewhere in central Atokhekwoi. She looks around, discovering grass, trees and snakes, eats one of the latter and makes an armband with its skin.
After some more wandering, she reaches a wood, where, between the influence of her axe and not having eaten properly in the aforementioned long time, she goes on a feeding frenzy at the expense of the local small animals. She’s only stopped by meeting a bear, whom she wrestles, kills and slices up. Since it’s too big to eat in one go, Split cuts out the best pieces. She finds that she enjoys the activity and it makes the result taste a little better, and decides she should do it more often. Having stocked up on bear bits, she sets out to discover where she ended up.
22 starting.
+2 as participant and protagonist of the post.
-2 spent on the title the Butcher. She likes cutting up things, in and out of combat, and is getting good at it too.
Hey palls, not sure if anyone'll still be reading this, but since nothing had been OOCly said for literally half a year I figured i'll break the ice. I'm gonna wrap the RP up. There'll be 2 more posts and then.... I think we'll leave it discontinued.
Is there anyone still here?
Additionally, would it be an idea for me to give at least a summary of the possible endings I envisioned for the story? If the RP is over, spoilers don't matter anymore. Yea, I know, after prolonged periods without progress people quickly lose interest, that's how it always goes.
You know I haven't gone anywhere. I wouldn't mind if we somehow gave this at least some closure, even with just a couple of posts.
Vrog gnawed the splintered bone in his mouth, cracking through it with a sound that would have delighted him at any other time, but now simply brought frustration. The best part, the marrow, was open right there, and just needed to suck in to…
He retched and spat the chewed splinters, held together in a globe of noxious sludge. Useless. The things inside him were as dead as they could get, but somehow they continued to make him feel full. Nothing had helped with that. Not digging around inside himself (trying to tell their remains apart from the rest was useless at this point), not diluting them with drink, not burying them in other tastes. It seemed that the only thing left to do was wait, and he’d be burned if he did not hate waiting.
Growling “Gut that dream” to himself for the thousandth time that day, he kicked aside the tattered remains of the gigantic bird and speared his tongue into the air, turning towards the edge of the mountain cliff. Broad views were of little use to him, but the cleanness of the air up there had one advantage. What few smell trails reached there were easy to pick apart, like - that one. His toothed tongue wove through the breeze, following a curiously familiar scent. Something like the inner rot of those four-eyed creatures. One of them there? It was far from the lair he had found, but that might not have been the only one.
The rot had tasted good, Vrog remembered. Nothing had helped with the nauseating feeling inside him so far, but if anything would at all, it could well be that. Trying would not hurt, at any rate.
Not him, anyway.
Leaving behind the mangled carcass and a nest of wantonly smashed eggs, he began to leap his way down the mountainside. The source of smell was somewhere there ahead, growing stronger by the step. Whatever it was that had exuded it could not escape him now.
At the base of the mountain, Laurien washed herself in a large creek, or rather took a swim, letting the water cool her off. It had been several days since she left the Shengshi’s ship, and oh how she longed to return, but the excitement of the journey was overwhelming. She had traveled further north-east since starting out, feeling that it was the best course of action. She had no idea where to start looking anyways.
Dislodged stones rattled down from above, followed by the screech of metal on rock and the heavy thump of something landing near the shore. A massive shape covered in filthy armour hobbled closer to the water, moving with sharp, decisive gestures despite its unnaturally asymmetrical features. Its visor-covered head sluggishly turned from side to side before fixating on her. The hideously long, slender fingers on its right hand, all the more ghastly in comparison with the thick, stunted left, scraped the ground, then the water, before abruptly withdrawing.
Something flew through the air and landed near Laurien’s head with a plop.
“It’s just you?” the being gurgled from under its helmet, “Gut it. Just thought I’d found something good.”
Laurien had turned her head when the thing landed on the shore near her. Her eyes went wide, trying to discern what exactly the creature was, or what it was supposed to be. It looked sickly, no… right down disgusting and that stench. She tried not to gag. So fixated on the creature, she barely noticed the plop next to her, but after it came, she blinked. Her head began to work overtime as she realized how far away from her weapon she was.
Then it spoke, and it’s voice sent shivers up her spine. Slowly she stood up, the water coming to her chest. She squinted her eyes as she spoke. ”Uh, who are you supposed to be?” she said cautiously.
“If I got a scrap every time some slaghead asked that, I’d be making myself another skin soon,” the thing growled, “I’m Vrog. Bet that doesn’t mean much to you, so I better say I’m-” the long-fingered hand reached up to the visor, “-this.”
The faceguard was torn open, baring a chaos of teeth, jaws, welts and sores floating in an unholy mire of festering scum. Surrounded by bone and filth, a monstrously wide mouth spluttered through its mesh of skin and fangs. “And what’re you?”
For the first time in her life, Laurien was frozen with horror. The kind of which if only felt when having seen something so repulsive, and vile, you couldn’t think of it in your wildest dreams. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sounds came out. She needed to think fast, but the girl could only stare at Vrog’s monstrous visage. Her mind was screaming to do something, anything, but her body wouldn’t budge. She needed her weapons, get the weapons. That was the key, just breath. Breath deeply. You are better than this. she told herself, Say something! Think of your duty.
And Laurien blinked, and a great breath escaped her lips. With a shaky voice, she said, ”I-I’m… Laurien.”
Vrog’s teeth gritted against each other as his jaws edged from side to side with a sickening fluidity. It was as though under what passed for his face there were no solid flesh, but more liquid rot that flowed smoothly with a will of its own. “Guess it’s too much to hope that everything that talks can do it good,” he scratched the recurve tips of two clawed fingers against each other, “but you’re just being spitting stupid. Think ‘I’m Laurien’ tells me a lot?”
His maw opened wide, and, more hideous yet than the parody of Laurien’s voice that had preceded it, a length of black tongue burst out, more similar to a thick tentacle studded with tooth-like spikes than to what it was supposed to be. Darting like that of an overgrown toad, it unfolded into something that could by no means have fit into Vrog’s mouth and swung for her neck, trying to wrap itself into a noose around it.
”Wha-” she began before being cut off by the tongue. In an instant, Vrog’s tongue shot over her head, grazing he top of her hair and cutting a few strands as she fell into the water. In an instant, she was half swimming, half running for her weapons. They leaned against the a nearby tree, and she cursed herself for being unprepared and having them so out of reach. She turned to gaze upon Vrog, weary of another attack. She could feel it in her bones, something was not quite right about this one and he seemed powerful, far too powerful for her. The only chance she had was the dagger, sword, and if he had a soul, she could use her abilities on him. But there was no time to check, not now.
The tongue coiled back upon itself and disappeared into the maw, impossible though that might have appeared. Vrog’s jaws moved as though chewing something, and another whistle pierced the air close to Laurien’s head, followed by a small splash. The entire bulk began to shuffle along the bank, following her movement with little haste.
“Let’s try this again,” again a whistle and a plop in the water, this time close enough for her to feel the shearing of the thing’s flight, “what are you really?”
Once again Laurien froze in her path, having felt whatever the projectile was flying past her. She knew he could hit her, and she knew if he did the damage would would be severe. She turned to face Vrog, but began to walk sideways to the shore. She was nearly there.
”I already told you, I am Laurien. What more is there to know, beast!” she said defiantly.
The collection of fragmented mouths shook and scrunched together in a nauseating display. Though it was difficult to say for certain, it was a fair guess that it might have been a grimace of distaste. “Dumb as slag, are ya?” the mouth’s motions were almost perfunctory, in spite of the tone. Its words rolled out between the rows of teeth without much care for matching the lips’ mimicry. “There’d be a deal more to say anyways, but the part I care for is-” the tip of his tongue flicked out, “why’d you smell almost the same as something I’ve eaten a far spit from here?”
One of her feet touched the sandy shores of the shallower water, as she stared down Vrog, now almost directly across from him. She squinted her eyes as her face flashed with anger at the name calling. At least she thought it was intended as insult, the creatures speech pattern was strange after all. Another step and both her feet found footing on soft grass, as she continued to back up towards the tree. She began to shake her head at his question. ”I have no idea what you’re talking about, I smell fine.” she said sarcastically.
“Figures,” Vrog spat a large split grey seed to his feet. “Bet you wouldn’t even’ve felt it, not with that lump on your face. Doesn’t matter.” With the crack of several somethings snapping at once inside his body, he abruptly jolted upright from his half-crouch. His arms flexed outwards, flicking their fingers in sequence. Their tips, hooked on one, straight and pointed on the other, glistened in the high daylight. “Hope you taste better than you talk. Maybe I’ll be done quicker.” He paused mid-step, ruminating on something, then spat another seed and resumed his shambling advance. “Hah, who am I kidding?”
Her eyes grew fierce as she turned around, and with a burst of speed kicked off to the tree where her sword leaned. Vrog twirled his right hand, and suddenly it was holding a dagger with a short, broad blade. Snarling, he pounced forward with unsuspected agility. Unaware of her divine adversary, Laurien was almost at the tree when something sharp and pointed cut into her right calf like a knife carving butter. She let out muffled scream as she fell forward into the dirt, reaching out for her sword. An iron grip closed around her leg, as the blade rose again and stabbed towards her arm. Before the blade could land, Laurien used her free leg to kick at Vrog, in a desperate attempt to shake her attacker off. It struck coarse, hard metal. The density of the mass she felt behind it betrayed the creature’s immense weight. He grunted, but did not bulge.
Then the blade came down, pinning her arm into the dirt. Laurien screamed in pain, desperately trying to kick Vrog regardless of his weight. With her free hand, she tried to pull the sword out of her arm. The hand holding the weapon released its grip, leaving the blade embedded in her flesh, and reached past the crossguard with its abnormally long fingers, searching for a grip on the arm. At the same time, both claws heaved upwards with tremendous strength, moving to hurl her whole body sideways against the ground. She barely had time to grab the blade before she was lifted and then slammed against the ground, knocking the wind out of her. She tried to breath, but she could only inhale as the shock hit her. Loose fingers grasped the hilt of the cruel dagger still, but her grip was unsteady and she was dazed.
A cold hand reached for her throat, scratching and cutting in its careless slide. The grasp on her leg was released, only for the now free claw to rise over her with yet another almost identical dagger and arc downwards, aimed for her shoulder. As the blade entered her shoulder, she exhaled and screamed out in pain again. She tried to kick Vrog off of her again but it did little, then her grip hardened on the dagger, and with her free hand she went to stab Vrog in his face, or what she thought was his face.
There was an eerie silence as the blade sank smoothly into the putrid sludge, punctuated only by a single surprised grunt. Then, in a spray of rot and fetid spittle, the flesh around the dagger burst open, swallowing the blade in a pulsating fissure that suddenly gaped between two ragged edges. Rows of mismatched teeth tore through their surfaces, and the newly-formed mouth snapped closed around Laurien’s wrist. She let out a blood curdling scream, as she desperately tried to rip her hand free from the creature’s maw. She couldn’t win against this thing, not even her abilities were working, it was if this creature before her would divine in itself. She was going to die and be eaten by the putrid thing. And Laurien began to panic as she struggled, bleeding and in pain.
”F-Father! Oh gods, please help me!” she began to cry.
Vrog’s free mouth twisted into a dubiously expressive snarl. While it was clear that it betrayed some feeling, what exactly that was remained as opaque as his armour. “What’re you wailing for now? I haven’t even gotten started!” he cackled. “Ya know, maybe the thing with my guts is all in the mood. Eating straight away mayn’t help, but cutting you up first? Could cheer me right up.” He dangled his knife dangerously close to her eyes. “Worth a try anyway.”
Laurien’s eyes grew wide, and her voice died in an instant as a cold realization came over her. She had so much to do, and promises that would never be kept, because she was going to die. Something told her to keep fighting, that this was not the end, but her blood loss was making her weak, and both of her arms were useless. But try she did, because she at least wanted to die fighting. And then, like the sound of thunder, something slammed into the water next to them, sending a great wave washing over the two, scattering her things.
Almost thrown off-balance by the impact, Vrog staggered sideways. Both his mouths momentarily gaped in surprise, releasing Laurien’s deeply gouged hand. Moving with uncanny speed, he vaulted aside, aiming a swift kick at her flank to sweep her away while his right hand flicked down his visor. The left readied its weapon in a rough, but stable battle-stance.
She rolled into a tree with a grunt from Vrog’s kick. Now clutching her gouged hand, her eyes fell upon the creek, or what was left of it. She held her breath, fearing another foe, but her eye grew misty as two eyes that remembled her own peered forth. Her father had come, and he did not look impassive, or blank, but expressed a profound anger as he stared daggers into Vrog.
”You dare attack a child of mine?” came his cruel words as he walked towards Vrog with open hands. There was a whooshing sounds, like a blade being swung and her greatsword flew into his right hand. From his left, another sword materialized, identical to her own.
”Foolish.”
Vrog’s head leaned sideways as far as his stump of a neck would allow. His frame drew backwards for a moment, but defiantly slumped ahead again. He pointed an accusatory finger at the advancing god. “You’re interrupting, you know,” he growled, “Don’t want to sound like an uneatable scraphead, but that’s spitting rude. Who even the gut are you?”
”I am Orvus, the God of Desolation.” he spat, before in a split second he was before Vrog, raising both blades high before bringing them down upon him. The monster barely had the time to lift his dagger, narrowly catching one of the swords. The weaker iron blade shattered under the blow, leaving a notch in the now useless grip. Meanwhile, the second sword found no other resistance than a hastily swiping vambrace. It grazed the arm and bit into the creature’s shoulder, filth spraying from the dent in the yielding armour.
With an audible snap of his teeth, Vrog leapt backwards in almost froglike fashion, raising his right palm as he went. “God? Hey, alright, wait. Don’t rush into this.” He craned his wounded shoulder aside and tapped a finger on the now clearly visible symbol of a closed fist etched on his armour. “You really don’t want to.”
Orvus did not hesitate as he slapped both blades together and pointed them at Vrog. They began to glow and crackle with scarlet energy. ”But I do.” he said, before unleashing the beams in Vrog’s direction.
The massive body shuddered as the blast struck it, the almost thundering reverb of the impact fading into a loud, fiery fizzle as acrid black smoke billowed up to obscure it entirely. The stench, even from a distance, was eye-watering. Something waved inside the writhing cloud, dispersing it into wisps that, perhaps mercifully obscuring most of Vrog’s form from sight. The half-melted, half-charred parts where the beam had struck that emerged when the fumes briefly cleared around his midsection were worse yet to the eye than the smell was to the nose.
“Don’t get it?” the gnashing sounded more angry than anything, “If that’s your daughter, ‘s clear where she got her spit-brains from. I got higher-ups. I’m useful. You kill me, and you’ll be in for a bad time.”
Orvus slammed both ends of the blades into the ground before him and opened his arms wide. ”Your threats are meaningless, spouted about to save yourself like anyone would care if you died. You are nothing but a blight of flesh and teeth, gnawing at anything weaker than you. At the first sign of a challenge, you cower like some mongrel pup. Unbefitting of an avatar. I do not think Narzhak would think that very highly but who am I to punish another’s pet? But as you wish, since you did not kill Laurien, I shall allow you to leave my presence. But know this, ‘spit-brain’, harm another child of mine and you will not be so lucky next we meet.”
“I got more than flesh and teeth, you know,” Vrog seemed to vibrate in place for a moment, scattering the remaining smoke, before opening his helm-guard. His tongue darted down to feel about his wounds with its tip, clicked and withdrew. Oddly, it did not stop him from speaking as it moved about. “No brain, though, so joke’s on you.” He paused, scratching his head. “I think.”
With a few more leaps, more limping than even his asymmetry would have accounted for, he was back on the slope he had descended from. He struck a hand into the rock, preparing to pull himself upwards, but stopped in his tracks and turned his head back. His lack of eyes made it difficult to say whom he was addressing. “Don’t take it personally, I’d’ve loved a rematch. Just when things’re less, how’d say it, loaded.” He began to clamber up the cliff at an insectile scurrying pace. “I’ll let you know.” And off he went.
But before he could climb any further, a whistle sounded in the air, before the new desolate blade embedded itself into Vrog’s back, pinning him to the cliff face momentarily. Another second went by, and Orvus’ voice could be heard next to him. ”Yes… You did not kill her, but you did maim her...and now, you will have more then teeth and flesh.” and then the blade shattered, releasing Vrog from it’s grip as the pieces turned to dust and began to sink into the avatar.
Orvus was high above him now looming like a vulture. ”Dust for blood.” came his hallowed words. He then began to fly off in the direction of Laurien, but his voice lingered around Vrog, ”Remember, harm another child of mine and your punishment will be far worse.” before vanishing.
Grunting, the brute pulled himself higher still and over the upper ledge, with nary a sign that being impaled, however shortly, had inconvenienced him. Something, however, felt off. He licked the tips of his teeth, scraped his stomach and hummed in bemusement. His tongue reached for the bird carcass he had left behind, scattering the flies that had flocked to it in the interval, and tore a piece from it. He drew it in like an angler would reel a catch, preparing to bite down into the still fresh meat - but his teeth closed on nothing but dust.
He vaulted over to the body and ripped out another chunk. As soon as it touched the interior of his mouth, he was spitting dust again. The next attempt fared no better. Nor the next. Nor the next.
“Well spit.”
Laurien awoke with the sun rise, groggily and her head pounding. She blinked her eyes, coming to the realization that she was propped up against a tree, still next to water. A great pool had formed where her father had landed. Her Father! She looked about again, seeing that her items lay next to her and she wore the cloak, but no sign of Orvus. She tried to get up but felt exhausted. Both her arms hurt, and her hand… She rose it with a grunt to meet her face. The wound had stopped pleading, in fact it looked like it had been cauterized, then cleaned. It was highly ugly at the moment, but perhaps it would scar into a eery beauty. She began to check her other wounds, finding much the same had happened, cauterized and cleaned and more scars.
”I was wondering when you would wake again, Laurien.” his voice broke through the silence of the woods, and came closer as he floated down from the trees. Orvus looked much the same, if not sad. ”I am glad to see you. You did the right thing, praying to me, child.” he said, touching down in front of her.
She opened her mouth to speak, her throat still felt raw, but speak still she did. ”He was so strong… so vile and I… felt so powerless. What was he?” she asked as Orvus sat down.
”An avatar, a piece of a God left to its own devices. Autonomous, they embody an aspect of ourselves. He came from Narzhak, God of War, but his purpose was something else.” Orvus said softly.
Laurien nodded, ”His name was Vrog. Did… Did you kill him?”
Orvus shook his head, ”No. I would have liked too, more than you know but I stayed my hand.”
Laurien squinted her eyes, in confusion at first but quickly turning to anger. ”What do you mean you stayed your hand? He lives? That means… What if comes back? What if he tries to eat me again.” she shivered, unwelcome memories flashing before her eyes.
”He will not, otherwise I will kill him. I told him to never lay a hand upon any of my children. If he breaks such a thing, simply pray and I will come. Regardless, what happened? Why did he attack you?”
”I don’t know why.” she shrugged, ”He kept spewing about a foul taste and how I reminded him of it, or something. He didn’t have a reason, he simply found me and I was caught unaware and away from my weapons. You know the rest.” she said ashamed.
Orvus said nothing for a moment, looking upon Laurien’s face with a soft expression. ”You would have died even if you had your weapons with you, and ready to fight. His class of enemy is second only to Gods, Laurien. Do not be ashamed in asking for help if it means you get to live.” he let out a sigh. ”I was unaware such threats existed in the world, your normal gear can only help you so much. You need… something more. Sharper and deadly, even to divine flesh. I will think upon this and when I have a solution, you will be the first to know.” he said thoughtfully.
Laurien sighed, defeated by his words. Her shame was lessened somewhat, but she still felt like a failure. ”Okay.” she said bowing her head.
”I… Know where Arya might be found.” he said suddenly.
She snapped her head up at Orvus, her eyes twinkling. ”Where? How did you find out?” she said excitedly.
”She is on Tendlepog, the land created by K’nell. He told me…” his voice abruptly cut off and he stood up, turning away from her. This left Laurien highly confused, and, using the tree as support, she stood up as well.
”K’nell told you? How? When?” she asked. Her father said nothing and did not turn around. She tried to float herself over, but it was no use. ”Father!” she said again.
Orvus turned around slowly, his gaze full of sorrow. ”Silver is dead.” he said. Laurien blinked, the weight of his words crushing her, and throwing her off balance. She couldn’t believe what she just heard, but as she looked at Orvus, she knew it to be true. Tears began to pool in her eyes. ”How could you let that happen?” she said shakely.
”K’nell came with the other Li’Kalla shards. He was going to put her back together, and Silver was willing.” he said emotionlessly.
”So K’nell killed her?” she gritted, her fingers tearing into the bark of the tree as she used it for balance.
But Orvus shook his head. ”Then who did!” Laurien shouted.
”I did.” came his weak reply.
Laurien froze, her body beginning to shake as the gravity of his words took hold. She felt betrayed, and angry and at a loss for words. Her knees buckled and she fell on her knees, crying now. She let out a terrible wail, a loss and pain and when it was done she looked at Orvus with fiery eyes.
”Go away.” she said, ”Go away and don’t come back!” she screamed at him through tears. She couldn’t hardly look at him, she was disgusted, far more than she had been at the sight of Vrog. Somehow, through all her physical injuries, this hurt so much more.
Orvus looked down at her, one small tear falling down his face and shattering before her knees, as he took off in a burst of speed into the sky.
Somewhere in the Qiangshan Mountains, Vrog is annoyed at being unable to get pleasure from eating. He smells something that resembles a reaper and tracks it, but instead finds Laurien taking a swim. She is incredibly afraid of Vrog at first, and they talk back and forth. Slowly but surely she tries to get out of the river and to the tree where her sword is leaning. She almost makes it, but Vrog attacks and a fight ensues - a rather one-sided one, with Laurien wounded in several places and almost getting her hand eaten. Realizing her situation is dire, she screams for her father.
And Orvus answers, as he was in the same general area as them. He lands and starts beating on Vrog until the latter chickens out and pulls the “I got connections, yo” card. Orvus, having killed a shit ton of dragons earlier, decides to let him go because he didn’t kill Laurien. He does threaten him to never touch any of his children ever again and then curses Laurien’s blood inside Vrog. Anything he eats not turns to dust as punishment for his offense.
Pan to Laurien, who wakes up several days later. Orvus and her talk about things, and to make her feel better, Orvus tells her where to find Arya. Oops, cause then she asks how he found out and so Orvus tells her that Silver is dead, and that he did it. She screams at him to leave and so he does.
-1MP to create another Desolate Sword, discounted to 0MP.
-1MP to curse Laurien’s blood inside Vrog. Using the desolate sword as a catalyst, Orvus used the blood inside Vrog to corrupt him. Every time he tries to eat something, it will turn to dust.
Walking was slow, excruciatingly slow. There always seemed to be a branch in the way, or a rock to stub a toe on, and whenever the weather was perfect for a hike, Diana seemed to shrink away and decide it was time to stop. Weather aside, even something as simple as it being just past noon with plenty of sunlight for a safe walk seemed to force her under the sanctuary of a shady tree, especially those with uncomfortable bulbous roots that seemed to snake in the worst places. Even now, with Heliopolis high in the sky, Diana sat under the shadow of a dying oak, her umbrella hiding every bit above her waist.
”I need a spear,” Karamir suddenly muttered, standing under an oak adjacent to Diana’s. He had chosen to neither sit nor lean against it, knowing that she would likely find a way to cause him discomfort - if it was even her who was causing it. Perhaps all the trees in this area were uncomfortable.
“Oh?” Diana said from behind her umbrella, Karamir could just hear her smile, “Whatever for?”
”I’m in an unknown land with at least one species of hostile creature. And I’ve been blessed to be good at using spears or other similar weapons. Why wouldn’t I need one?” Karamir countered.
“Oh foo,” He heard her cackle softly, “You’re in no danger, besides a little stick wouldn’t help you much of any. Don’t be so silly, now.” She pulled the umbrella away so their eyes could meet, a smile hidden in the depths of her sore looking gaze, “Perhaps you should consider a more respectable occupation.”
”Such as?” Karamir raised an eyebrow.
“Hmm,” Diana tapped her chin as she thought out loud. She eventually shrugged her hand back down to her lap and shook her head, “Well you certainly ask enough questions to be a philosopher, but you’re not too bright -- so that’s not a good path for you.”
Karamir’s expression did not change, nor did he respond. Aside from an annoyed sound within his head that vaguely resembled a sigh, there was no sign he had even heard her. A nagging hum seemed to itch his ear and finally Diana asked, “What’s on your mind?” As if she didn’t already know.
”I just told you. I need a weapon,” he answered.
“Oh that’s no fun,” Diana seemed disappointed, “I mean to say, what’s really on your mind? You escaped your birthplace with a certain vigor as ignorant as it may be and devised an insurmountable plan. To your luck you ran into me, and now we are simply walking in --and I mean this quite literally-- a really large circle. As much fun as I am having, I can’t imagine you didn’t think of some sort of next step?” She cackled to herself, “Oh who am I kidding, surely not.”
”I need to learn more about the world if I am to think of a next step. I wasn’t taught anything beyond how to survive.”
“Well I’m hurt!” Diana’s smile betrayed her words, “You didn’t even bother to ask me, after all I’ve done for you?”
”There would be no way to prove what you’re saying, and you seem to enjoy making my life difficult,” Karamir shrugged.
“And yet here you are,” She winked, “Still here.”
He sighed. ”If you’re just going to lead me around in circles, why should I stay?”
“Why should you?” She stared at him.
He shrugged, said nothing, then frowned and wrinkled his nose. ”Are you creating that stench?” he asked her.
“Well I never!” Diana slanted her brow.
Heavy, deliberate steps rustled through the undergrowth nearby, accompanied by a periodic wet clicking sound. The putrescent wafts Karamir had felt grew heavy, then oppressive, then nearly intolerable as a large shadow flitted in and out of sight between the trees. Finally, a young, slim-trunked growth gave way under a forceful push, and a mass of metal, rust and layers of clotted grime thundered into their sight.
“Found ya!” the horror’s abnormally large mouth spluttered, black tentacle of a tongue flicking back and forth with a nauseous whipping noise. Folds of grey skin briefly gathered to cover its forest of teeth, and something small and sharp whistled straight past Karamir’s ear, embedding itself into the bark by Diana’s head with an audible snap. “Warm, alive, not rotting, nothing special. I’ll save you for later.” The tongue shifted to point at the former, then the latter. “But you. I taste the cold and bitter from here. The godly, too. Can’t wait to find out why it’s that the closer, the better.” Malodorous spittle flew through the air as the monstrous jaws snapped together with anticipation.
“Oh my!” Diana perked up, “Why aren't you just delightful!” She shoved her billowy umbrella into the smacking maw, “Just don't forget to mind your manners.”
”What are you?” Karamir asked, having taken a step back. He looked around for something that might be used as a weapon, but there was nothing.
The creature’s mouth strained, and with a crack its teeth closed through the umbrella’s haft. It chewed over the pieces with some more crunching and tearing, lightly pushing the decapitated part still in Diana’s hand away from its face before loudly swallowing. “So eager? I’d rather fight it out first, but if you really can’t resist...” The jaws twisted into a stomach-twisting imitation of a smug sneer.
Thunk!
A fresh umbrella swatted the beasts ‘nose area’ and Diana stood up with a curling smiling, “Now now, this sort of talk is most unbecoming.”
“That’s more like it.” The tongue darted out to point at Karamir again. “I’m Vrog, if you really need to know. Not that it’ll matter much, that or what’s becoming. See, I’m here to eat you.”
Karamir composed himself. ”No you’re not,” he stated flatly.
“Oh how primitive,’ Diana's face melted into boredom, “An overgrown shrew.” She tapped her chin in thought, “Perhaps…” She mumbled to herself, pulling her umbrella open and flicking it over herself as she pondered.
“I’m sure I know what I’m doing better that you,” Vrog retorted, “Anyway, that’s enough talk. I haven’t had a real meal since I started walking. In you go!” His mouth opened, as wide as it could, then wider, and wider still.
“Hup!” Diana suddenly retracted her umbrella and tossed a fruit from her palm into the wide mouth, a devilish smile on her face as she tapped Vrog's chin with her umbrella, edging it to close, “There you are deary, a proper meal you'll find. Next time just ask.”
“Very funny,” somehow, despite the mouth only continuing to open, the words came out with perfect clarity, “Ever told you I hate fruit? Now I just got to chase it.” A dozen black tongues burst out of the now impossibly wide jaws, lashing to grasp her from all sides, before convulsing and curling on themselves. “Bghlah! Sweet!”
“Tut tut,” Diana stepped away from the tendrils, “There is no need to lie.” She put her knuckles on her sides, “Saying you don't like fruit and then showing such affinity for the taste, really you are a terrible liar.”
Vrog’s teeth gnashed and ground together in irritation as something groaned ominously from inside his stomach. “Alright, you’ve had your joke. Now knock it off.” Without warning, the massive brute became a blur of dim metal, his hand shooting forward with impossible speed to reach for Diana’s throat and, it seemed from the vigour of the motion, the tree behind it.
His hand dug into the tree, Diana having tilted off to the side in some divine reflex. She frowned, “Oh, I see. Can't even say ‘please’ can we?” She shook her head, “Let's all just slow down and try this again, shall we?”
As if it had been there the entire time she suddenly held up a metal triangle and a tiny rod, her umbrella in the crook of her arm. She gave the instrument a tiny tap and the rod made a musical clang. Vrog’s claw, emerging from the shattered bark to grasp at her again, stiffened, twitched its fingers, then fell lazily to his side. His snarl broke into a creaking yawn, opening a hellscape of gnarled yellow fangs and unmentionable slimy residue for the world to see.
“You really don’t want to try it in here?” he droned in a heavy voice with a poor imitation of friendliness. Another yawn, and the leaves on the closest branch wilted from the stench. “Come on. You’re going to like it.”
Diana made a face and inspected one of her nails, nibbling on its jagged edge, “I like rain, splinters--” she paused as she discreetly spit a shard of nail from her mouth, “and lice. While I admit the latter could be present about you, I have no idea of what you're talking about much less on.”
“Easiest way to find out is to get in,” a corner of his mouth twisted upwards as though he were winking a nonexistent eye. “I’m sure I’ve got some splinters there,” he drowsily tapped his protruding belly, “Specially after that stick of yours, and rain - it’s of a kind you only have to feel once.”
Karamir, in truth, had little idea what was happening. Over the course of the exchange he had been slowly backing away to a safer distance; deliberately moving slowly to avoid drawing attention to himself. He had expected a fight, and while that had yet to happen, he suspected it might change at any moment. Should he send a prayer? Would Kalmar even make it in time? He doubted it.
“You've had your say, now I'll have mine: you're boring,” Diana gave a curt nod, “You're mind is in your stomach and your fun is somewhere I can't find. I admit while intriguing at first glance, I have grown tired of you.”
She wiggled her nose and suddenly little plops of rain began to fall. She held out her hand, “Well would you look at that? The weather is turning. Karamir, dear, I believe that's our cue to get back to it as the working man would say.”
Karamir wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘working man’, but he nodded regardless. ”Let’s go, then,” he said, turning a wary gaze toward the reeking monstrocity.
“Ah,” Diana turned real quick to face Vrog, “Forgive my manners, a parting gift.” Her smile returned and she flicked her wrist. Nothing seemed to happen and she uncomfortably dug her nails into Karamor's shoulder, ushering him forward like a child. As the two began their first steps the air began to sparkle between the pair and the pile of metal and maw. Suddenly a swirling rift seemed to cut the velvet of reality and without much warning a torrent of swarming pods exploded outwards and directly into the unsuspecting maw. They were quite tasteless if not somehow exactly what Vrog didn't want, and each fleshpod left him slightly hungrier. Little eyes seemed to stare at him in horror as the pressure forced them to their wet grave.
The monster’s mouth, which had just been opening into a “Not so fa-”, found itself clogged with the infuriatingly bland flood. He tried to chew and swallow, then just swallow, then even shut his jaws - a reaction that made him pause in horror as he realised what he was doing - but the steam of wretched things did not leave a single opening.
“The spit’s this?! What the- glurgll-” his curses, all lethargy swept away from his voice, were cut short in a choking gurgling. He snapped his maw close and open, time and again, all semblance of instinct have gone haywire. With a mighty shove, he stood up in all his height, towering over the pair, and clawed into the encroaching fleshy storm, swatting enough aside for a moment of reprieve. “The gut have you done? Eating’s no fun!” The clear contradiction in his words made his panic almost audible. And from panic came anger.
A muffled roar came from the swarm of reluctant bodies that had taken the place of Vrog’s head, and he lunged forward, recklessly plowing through the living hail. That was, perhaps, a mistake. Instead of parting before his charge, the flow seemed to intensify. From the inarticulate garglings in its midst, the maw could not resist its urges. What was visible of the creature’s body began to swell beyond its already bloated proportions, inflating like a drowned corpse - no, more than one, more than skin could have held, more that should have held -
Blam!
A wave of eye-stinging foulness swept for yards across, followed by a thick, rancid yellow mist. The flailing noises had fallen still.
”What just happened?” Karamir asked, bewildered by what he had just seen.
Diana seemed to cackle as she floated just above the viscous mess, “He’s just enjoying his gift.”
The pestilential fog stirred, thinning at the edges of the cloud, and a large shadow broke through the vapours. Smooth bladed armour glistened in the sparse spots not caked with filth, scattered, yet larger and more numerous than before. The asymmetries were still there, but most were so subdued one could barely notice a handful at first glance. Perhaps it was that the only slight remaining hunch left fewer incongruities for the eye to settle on; perhaps the fact that the figure was slimmer made them less glaring, if not less abundant. Those that did remain plain, though, had only aggravated, and drew the eye with the pull of morbidity. It was impossible not to stare at those lopsided shoulders, those disproportionately long fingers on one hand, those etched crinkles on a flank that seemed to perfectly follow the contours of gangrenous pustules underneath. The thicker, flatter bands of the lowered visor concealed the spot where the maw had been from sight.
“Alright, you’ve made your point.” Vrog’s voice, at least, had not changed much, aside from being laden with weariness and annoyance. He nodded forward in a short fit of wet coughs, bringing a fist before his helmet despite its faceguard obviating the need for the gesture. Up close, he was clearly shorter than earlier. “Spit, never thought it’s possible to eat too much. First who mentions food gets ripped to handkerchiefs.” He jabbed a hook-tipped finger at Diana. “You can just not bother, I’ve got a special treatment for you anyway.”
“Well, I dare say this is awkward,” Diana's jagged nail prodded Karamir again, “You see I've already said my goodbyes.” She slowly tugged out her orb from its secret bed and placed it before her eyes, “And look! There goes my attention.” Her voice flourished the point and she began to walk away, other hand clamped around Karamir's shoulder. Karamir followed, casting another uncertain glance back at the beast.
“I said-” the pointing finger darted forward. It only then became clear how freakishly long the arm behind it was. “-not so fast!” The recurve claw angled to catch Diana by her collar. “You got some nerve. Blow me up, and you think you can just walk it off?”
His finger hooked and a numbing shiver ran up his arm. Diana snapped around in surprise, but it was too late. A blooming emptiness seemed to shock through Vrog, as if he had sipped at the well of misery itself. Images flashed in his head, memories. A feather haired man stared at him in all but a fraction of a second, and he felt dreadful pangs of anxiety. His fingers went fuzzy, giving him a deep desire to cut them off and throw them away, as if they had somehow betrayed him. A second ticked, it was all gone.
Diana slapped his hand off her collar, causing her to drop her orb into the mud below and for her face to turn to a sickly blush of fury, “How dare you?”
For an instant, Vrog remained still, his fingers slowly flexing as though pursuing an unusual feeling and his head leaning from side to side on its stump of a neck. But that was soon over, and in a step he was looming close over her. The warm, putrid breath would have turned any weaker stomach inside out at that distance.
“How?” A chortling damp cackle came from somewhere much too deep inside the armour. He raised a hand to his head, deliberately, though hastily, sweeping the jagged claws inches from Diana’s face. “Guess I just do.” He tried to push up his visor, but it resisted as though stuck to something beneath it. A stronger tug, and it came loose with a sickening tearing sound.
If Vrog’s features, or lack thereof, had been ungainly before, what had become of them now was nothing short of nightmarish. His grin was contorted almost beyond recognition. Tattered sheets of skin were draped halfway over it, letting loose drops of murky ichor with each quiver. Around it, what had been merely grey and uneven was a shapeless mass of torn grey flesh, pulsing and oozing from a myriad of sores and diseased gashes. Teeth that did not belong to anything haphazardly jutted out from it, while a third jaw seemed to be sprouting from the side, stretching the living wasteland around itself in its vain attempts to snap closed on something.
The mouth cracked open, tearing apart some of its lip, which had merged into a single stretch in places, and a familiar tongue, bar some teeth that had grown along it in odd places, slithered out. It prodded towards her as the monster leaned forward, almost following the contours of her face from a minimally safe distance, before he snapped back up. “And looks I was right to. You smell-” the tongue clicked with sheer sensory pleasure, “-right wonderful when you’re angry.”
At this point Karamir was more impatient than afraid. The beast would not leave them alone. Of course it would be stupid to say anything, since in no way would he be able to fend off the beast’s assault as easily as Diana could, but at this point the creature was just wasting their time. He grit his teeth and looked to Diana, hoping that she would in some way be able to move this along.
Diana peeked over at Karamir and then back at the monstrosity, “I'm sure you'll find that pretty faces and flattering words have little room in conversations that have dragged on for far too long.” She suddenly gave a smile, one a little too similar to another, “So perhaps a little bit of a deal, then?”
The twisted maw scrunched together in surprise, but soon widened to mirror her grin with its own loathsome sneer. “I like deals. The kind that works out, anyway.” He brought up a questioningly gesturing claw. “What’s the hook?”
“You bring one substantial or even minuscule modem of value to this drawn out interaction and I'll give you the speck of attention you seem to desire; otherwise, I think it might be best we part ways,” Diana hissed through an unbreaking smile.
“Attention? The gut I’d do with that? Tell you what,” a lip of molten skin flowed upwards to perplexedly bare the root of a row of slanted fangs, “You said your deal, and I’ll give you mine. You got something I want, I got something you need.” Vrog’s stunted left hand pointed at the woods around them. “Your trail’s a circle you’ve been making loops over long as I tracked it, which tells me you don’t know spit about where you’re going. Me, I know the good places around here. You follow, and I’ll show you things you didn’t dream of.”
There was a fit of cackles from Diana and just as it was ending, she erupted into more. A single tear formed in her right eye as she laughed and finally she leaned forward, propping her hands on her knees for support. Her cackle began to die as she swiped her orb from the mud and stood up straight. She brushed it off and shook her head, “You've had your say--” She interrupted herself with a cackle and cleared her throat, “And now I'll have mine: I am dreams themselves, and I know exactly where I am going.” She waved her fingers at him, “Shall I say goodbye, now?”
Vrog clicked his teeth together and ponderously shrugged, an incongruous sight with his slanted frame. “Suit yourself. Least I’ll be getting my appetite back.” He spat a chewed seed husk from the corner of his mouth. A large metallic flask was suddenly in his hand, though one could have sworn he had held it before now and again. “I’d offer a drink, but I feel you’re in a rush.” He curtly gestured towards Karamir with the container. “Just tell me this. What’s with the ugly slave you got?”
Karamir glared at the mass of filthy metal. ”I am nobody’s slave,” he retorted. ”I was created by Kalmar, God of the Hunt, and my purpose is my own.”
“Huff huff huff,” Diana tapped a finger off of Karamir's head. She looked back at Vrog, “A drink you say? Perhaps you know where a lake of sulfur might be?”
A patch of flesh on Vrog’s simulacrum of a face tore open, revealing a gap lined with teeth where a solid surface had been moments before. The nascent jaws mouthed “you don’t sa-” in Karamir’s direction, before the monster slapped them shut. When he withdrew his claw, no trace was left of the mouth. “I do,” he grinned at Diana, yellowish filaments dripping from between his teeth as a stench of rotten eggs wafted from him, “But I’m sure you do even better, if you’ve dreamed it.”
“Tsk tsk,” Diana shook her head, “And just as you had me, you lost me once again.” She gave him a consoling smile, “Maybe next time then?”
With one hand still on the orb, she hooked the other around Karamir's arm. Chills rippled down his spine and his stomach feel uneasy. Diana began to escort him away from the scene once again, “Perhaps next time.” She echoed as she forced Karamir into a very uncomfortable walking pattern that seemed to speed up when he slowed and slow when he tried to catch up.
“Perhaps.” The voice was eerily close behind them, despite Vrog not having bulged from his crouch. “Watch out for the boss, he’s in a killing mood lately. You don’t want to miss the war down south, though. Just saying.” The words were followed by the creak of an iron lid coming open and a loud gulping of what seemed to be too many throats.
”What boss? What war?” Karamir asked, turning back around. Diana's grip tightened.
“Karamir, dear,” She scolded with a smile, “The conversations already over, mind your manners.”
The foot of the great tree behind them was empty, with nothing beyond sparse claw marks in the wood to show that anything had been there. The gulping intermittently sounded from behind the trunk, then far to the left, then from somewhere ahead of them altogether, before fading in the distance.
“Hmm hmm,” Diana put her hands on her hips, “See?”
”Fine then,” Karamir said. ”Let’s go. Will we actually be heading somewhere this time?”
“Unfortunately,” Diana huffed, “That bloke downright stole the fun out of our little game.”
”A war to the south, and that creature’s… ‘boss’... wants to kill things,” Karamir observed. ”Maybe we should find a different land.”
“Mm… killing is a little too final, this is true,” Diana pondered, “Let's make our way west and see what comes up. I'm sure we can find many delightful things to do on the way.”
”Let’s go, then.” Karamir sighed.
In the forests of northwestern Dragon’s Foot, Diana makes Karamir walk in uncomfortable ways as they travel on foot, leading him in aimless loops to prolong the exercise. This comes to a head when Vrog, who was relatively close by, finds their trail, and approaches them with the intention of breaking new ground in the field of avatar cannibalism. Diana disagrees, and conjures a breed of creatures that induce despair in those who consume them; myriads of them force-feed themselves to Vrog, causing him to overeat and explode. This ruins his day a little.
After pulling himself together, he tries to persuade the two travellers into following him somewhere, with little success. Failing that, he spooks them with some only partially fake news about current events on the continent and retreats to drink himself back into shape. Since, between the encounter and the ominous warnings, the mood has been soured, Diana agrees to break the loop, and she and Karamir head westwards.
Diana:
Starting: 2 MP, 2 FP
1 MP, discounted to 0 MP, to make Vrog sleepy 1 FP spent on fleshpods, a tittering little fist sized species that brings misery to all who eat it.
Vrog bit off half of the large femur bone, sucked the marrow from the piece still in his hand and crunched on the mouthful, clicking his tongue as he savoured the thing’s vaguely ashen taste. The traces of dust were, strangely, not as pronounced as in the smell. Maybe because they were not quite physical. The bitter, bilious flavour more than made up for it, but even it was getting old.
The horned creature lying at his feet, now reduced to a mostly dismembered skeleton, but still clearly and jarringly alien to its surroundings, was not the first of its kind he had tasted. It might as well have been, though, with how each was perfectly identical to the previous one. The third might have been a little larger than the rest, but the difference was barely noticeable. While this took away from the surprise of every meal, it made following the trail connecting the beasts much easier.
Happening over the first of them had been mostly a matter of chance. Had he not decided to leave the Omen, ghouls and all, to its own devices for a few days to see if he could catch things that would otherwise have seen him coming, Vrog doubted he would have caught its smell, extraordinarily strong though it was. The reek of a putrid soul carried far, but even that had its limits, and someone with a less discerning tongue would not have noticed it at all. Better - he did not want competition over such a meal.
He swallowed the last crumbles of horn, tossed in a seed to follow them and probed the air again. The trail had led him further north from a point already past the Foot-splitting river, up the foot of what he was fairly sure must have been the land’s northernmost mountains. It was hard to tell from how the forest did not thin around him, but from the ups and downs of the ground under his feet he could tell he had wandered well up and into the range. Well, from that, and how the things jumped out at him more and more often. Wherever it was they came from, he was getting close.
Then as quickly as the attacks had come, over and over again, they suddenly ceased. Giving way to a uneasy reprieve, if one could call it that. The chorus of the jungle began to grow distant as Vrog continued on his trek, tongue darting and seeds littering his path, quieting down until the only thing that remained was the sound of a calm breeze gently brushing the tops of the trees. Now in the shadow of the mountain, there came the distinctive sound of water running and beyond that, the rumbling beginnings of a waterfall. Shortly, that rumbling grew louder and louder, till it came into view. There, seeming to split the rock in half, was a stream of water falling down the mouth of a cave. The stream that flowed here was corrupted with the stench of death, rotting decay and the white of broken bones. A grisly sight by any others standards.
He licked the tips of his teeth, taking in the flavours of the scene. This was the first time he felt such a mass of putrescence outside of himself, and for a moment it made him forget his appetite. Something like this could comfortably be just left pooling and stagnating, seasoning the air. A whole land, no, a whole world like this, that would have been a grand thing. Maybe Narzhak was not so far off after all; a little effort now and then was well worth it if it could have fruits like these.
The black tendril stretched out from his mouth to dip into the rank water. Like with the beasts, the taste was not fully as good as the smell. It did not feel like much over his own mouth. Fresh things were better, ones he could sense being rotted and ruined by his breath like their bones broke under his teeth. It was the same with the air, Vrog considered. The stench from the uncleanness tainted the dull chaos of woodland smells. Every lick of wind that passed over it took some of the reek with itself, and who knew where they would go. Maybe to places where someone was expecting fresh wafts, that would have been fun. All because of some beast’s careless eating.
Right, the beasts. Not that they let themselves be forgotten so easily. Just beyond the smell of the corrupted stream, their bitter track was almost overwhelming. The curiosity of finding where they made their lair was joined by that of how he would find it. If the entrance was already so filthy, the den itself was sure to be loathsome. And, he could hope, there might even be some fresh prey left. Sniffing the air ahead, he trudged through the waterfall and into the cave.
The cave was surprisingly devoid of the carnage outside, only the overwhelming smell of something vile lingered in the air, growing stronger as the descent was made. Long claw marks could be seen on the walls, the roof and the floor of the caves, fresh to the world and deep. Slowly the pitch blackness gave way to the glowing of red, numerous heartbeats and a quiet humming. Almost inaudible to mortal ears, but he was not mortal. Upon closer inspection the red glow gave way to rows and upon rows of strange looking pods, each containing an animal or other beast in various states of change.
Vrog snapped his teeth, smelling his discovery in wonderment. Each of the creatures in the sacs, no matter what it was, was clearly becoming one of those things. Some were almost complete. If that was how they were made, he doubted they had just sprung up with the woods when someone planted them. Nothing else he had come across around them, or anywhere for that matter, worked anything like this. Making things bigger and stronger. Like with the ghouls, but he could not taste any godly trails nearby.
He brought his fingers on one hand together in a line, letting the metal flow around them into a wide, thin blade. With a quick, natural motion he plunged it through the fleshy shell of a pod, slicing the grotesquely stretched and deformed ape-frog inside it across the throat. Maybe they did not wake up until they were ready, but he was not about to listen to more croaking screams after days in the woods. The inside of the sac felt like grasping around living entrails. Veins, layers of skin folded over each other. Elaborate. No, someone was sure to have set this up on purpose.
The warped ape-frog tasted strange. The rot was not total like in the completely transformed ones, but he could feel it spreading almost as he chewed. Maybe they grew more in the body as they hollowed out. No waste. The boss would have liked this. And if he found out, Vrog considered, licking the pod’s ichor from his hand, he would like it enough to stay off his back for a while. Thinking this made his steps a little faster as he advanced further into the cavern. Whatever was in there was worth a lot.
As Vrog continued on, the cave began to widen even further with each hurried step. The only signs of life were the vacant eyes of creatures changing and the only noise was the humming, now growing in volume. Then at last, the stretch of tunnel opened up into a large cavern. Here there was but pitch blackness, and four burning eyes glowing in the deep. The air was still here, and surprisingly clean. A malevolent presence could be felt in the direction of the eyes however, unwavering and defiant. Soon it was joined by smaller eyes, on the walls and the ceiling- hundreds of eyes all pointing at Vrog.
His tongue darted around, soaking in the miasma of decay that floated about the chamber. It was everywhere, as though every wall had been smeared with rot, but most of it could barely be felt over the foulness of the thing in the darkness. Large and hungry, like a huge living hole, or a mouth that did not need a body. Vrog grated his teeth bemusedly. Between that sense and its four-eyed fiery gaze, the entity looked uncannily familiar. Had it not been for the lack of that tell-tale metallic tinge, he could have thought it might have crawled out of the same pit as himself. Perhaps it was still close enough to understand a sound argument, though the reek of malice seeping from it made him suspect it was unlikely.
It was worth a try, at any rate.
”Bad day to die, isn’t it?” he hailed the shadows, ”Like they all are. Lucky for you, I’m being generous today, so I’ve got a deal. You call off your walking carrion and come out here to talk, and I’ll let you see if tomorrow’s better. If you’re good, I’ll keep the deals coming, too. You get me?” He spat, keeping the trajectory safely close to his feet, and prepared another seed.
If it all the creature understood, it made no move to respond. The air became palpable with tension, thick with anticipation. Then the humming stopped, for a short time, but renewed with intensity, a dark and violent rhythm. Slowly the eyes began to advance upon Vrog and then, from behind something lunged into him! He lurched forward with a snarl, more out of surprise than from the weight of the assailant, great though it was. Though abrupt at first, his motion transitioned into a smooth forward swing as he reached back with his claws to grasp the creature, seeking to hurl it over his head. There was a deep howl as the creature was thrown forward into the advancing eyes, and when it hit, the room exploded into fury. From all sides they came, the creatures in the dark and unmoving in the distance, were the first set of eyes.
In a moment, Vrog found himself in the midst of chaos. Massive claws scraped and struck at him, grazing off his armour but buckling his swollen form inward under the weight of the hulking bodies. With a gnarled sneer, he shoved away a beast pressing down on his right arm and lashed out with claw and foot, tearing into the rough hide of his foes wherever he found an opening. He began to gather up for a charge against the looming eyes ahead, but stopped when a renewed assault gave him a moment to consider it. If he struck at the creature behind this, there was a hefty risk he would kill or maim it beyond usefulness, especially in this darkness and cacophony of rotted smells, which would wipe out any merit from the discovery. Reluctant though he was to do it, it seemed he would have to pass on the best part of this fight. Grumbling in disappointment, he spun about-face, clawing away at the fiery-eyed mass that blocked his way out of the chamber, and began to inch back towards the mouth. He would at least make it last as long as he could.
Step by step, foot after foot. He had to recognise these beasts had hard heads. The ground under his feet was slick with their blood, and they still kept coming, with broken limbs and shredded skin. Even outside the last chamber, past the fleshy sacs that lined the tunnel leading to it, up to the very mouth of the cavern. The passage was soon too narrow for more than one of the pursuers to fit, and the first in line felt the full brunt of his claws. Held back by what was soon a ragged corpse, the rest growled and pushed in furious bursts, but, behind the new obstacle, they could not keep up. The last few paces to the exit passed without trading blows.
After the choking stench of the lair, the fresh air, even mitigated by the rotting stream, was almost nauseating. Vrog spat the husk he had been holding in his mouth all the while in disgust and turned to face the opening. Whatever the thing in there was, it now knew it had been found. Maybe it was confident enough that it would stay put there regardless, but he knew that was a gamble. If it fled before Narzhak came by or sent someone else to collect it, he might as well have only found a week-old track in the dirt, and there was little glory in that. The best he could do now was make sure it did not go anywhere, and if it still did regardless, at least he would have tried.
With a few movements of almost surreal agility in spite of his bulk, he clambered over the sheer mountainside near the cavern, fingers digging into the stone like soft wood. Cracks ran through the rock, and he pushed them apart. Dust and pebbles began to fall to the ground as the surface gave way with a grinding rumble, before a large part of the natural wall collapsed, with Vrog on top, in front of the fissure. Water splashed and bones crunched as he pulled himself to his feet, surveying his handiwork through the tapping of fingertips. The remaining opening should have been large enough for the smaller creatures to crawl through, but, if the height of those eyes had been any indication of their leader’s size, it was as good as trapped.
Snapping through a seed satisfiedly, he trudged back into the foliage. With this, another few months without control were assured, maybe even a year. There were some places he thought he’d go smell in that time. Where had he left the Omen now?
Since his run-in with the dragons, Vrog has taken to exploring the Foot on, well, foot. In the woods around the Xishan mountains, he meets Ansara’s reaper spawn, who keep jumping him despite a poor rate of survival. Following their trail, he finds the cave the Reaper Mother has taken as a lair, and pokes around in it. Fascinated by what he finds inside, he decides to report it to Narzhak, so he can show he’s being useful and keep the boss off his back. When he comes to face Ansara herself, he tries to threaten her into surrendering, which goes as well as can be imagined. Vrog fights the reaper brood, but doesn’t want to risk ruining the most valuable part of his discovery and retreats without engaging the matriarch. Instead, he collapses part of the cave’s entrance in an attempt to keep her from leaving, and heads off about his business.
Streams of ichor and flakes of rust drifted over the ocean's surface as Narzhak stepped into the water from the sheer cliffside, raising waves that crashed against the sides of the peaks behind him. While the image he had of the course to hold was vague at best, this first step was clearly inevitable, faintly disagreeable as he had come to find wading through the expanse of saltwater. The layers of corrosion that spread over his skin after a while of trudging across the ocean floor irked him, and he could almost feel himself grow brittle. Drawing fresh iron from beneath his feet gave only a momentary respite from the nuisance.
It was all the worse this time, now that he lacked even the broadest notion of a tangible goal. He had little faith remaining in the risen lands offering anything worthwhile, which left finding Ashalla as the most promising plan; and, vast as he recalled her being, she was still only one being. After pacing around the best part of Galbar, he had not come over anything resembling her, or for that matter any other god, even once. The world was certainly greater than he had expected, and right then he was far from certain this was for the best. More room to cover, more work to do.
Then a stern voice like rolling waves spoke to Narzhak, originating from the ocean all around him. “You are leaking in my ocean.”
The god raised an arm and looked at it. The water flowing from it was thick with dark blood. “It's not any better than that finger, is it?” He remembered the one time he had heard that voice before, and the words he had given it in turn. “I can't do much about it, but it might help if you draw some of it yourself. It's an entirely different feeling from just being bled on.”
The ocean around Narzhak huffed as a mountain of water rose in front of the mountain of iron and flesh. It drew up to be level with Narzhak, and Ashalla formed a face to speak to Narzhak with. “It won’t make it taste any better,” she said in a voice like a waterfall. “This is not the first time your trail has polluted my waters. Katharsos was able to cleanse the soul ash he was dropping into the ocean near here, so are you sure you cannot do anything about your mess?”
The four fiery eyes narrowed in thought. Provoking the goddess of the ocean would have been certain to deliver a satisfying struggle, but he was not there for that alone. Talks called for concessions, and this was a small one. “I can’t stop it at a whim, but there might be something we can do if you’ll indulge me for a moment.” The edges of his iron plates stretched and widened, sliding to cover the gaps in his armour. Although streaks of black fluid still filtered between their loose rims, the bulk of the flow was staunched. “Do you have anything with a healthy taste for blood on hand?”
There was a brief rumble from all around Narzhak. “I can provide something.” From every direction around Narzhak came sharks, called by Ashalla and drawn to the Iron God’s blood. Made ravenous by the scent of blood, they began to drink the little streams of dark ichor, and would have likely attempted to consume Narzhak’s outer flesh if he had not covered it with armour. “Are these adequate?”
“They will do.” The god nodded with a heavy grinding sound. He glanced at one of the sharks, whose hide seemed to have slightly hardened where the clouds of ichor had brushed against it, but an oddity in what Ashalla had said soon distracted him from it. “You said Katharsos cleared his ash away from here? I haven't kept a close eye on him, but I found his waste scattered everywhere,” his hand swept broadly through air and water, “and though my senses aren't as keen as yours, I doubt it can bother anyone who's not already smelling for it.”
“It was not so much the soul ash, but the impurities in the ash, which was the problem,” Ashalla explained, “North-east of here is where Katharsos’ Sphere deposits the most soul ash, beneath his ethereal Vortex. The burning that happens up in the stars to recycle souls into ash leaves a bitter deathly taint in the ash. We created a reef with oysters which purify the soul ash and convert the impurities into an insoluble form.”
“Bitterly tainted oysters,” Narzhak mused, scraping the point where the pearl had sank into his mask, “This would explain why that one tasted so offensive. A constant rain of it would’ve killed my appetite for the rest of this world’s life.” If Ashalla had endured that, he had to admit her grievance with blood in the water was that much more understandable than he had given it credit for. “I’ll do what I can to keep more filth away from the seas. There are other hungers, though, that ash can't dampen as easily.” Which was, perhaps, unfortunate. He stretched his arms and restlessly flicked his clawed fingers. “Have you ever felt that there’s too much strength in you to contain, and nothing to release it on? That a need to move, grasp and break is tearing you from within and you can’t be rid of it?”
Ashalla gave Narzhak a curious look and a thoughtful rumble. “Yes, I have, in my own way. I know the desire to unleash my power upon the world, to use my strength rather than keep it hidden. I sate it by creating.”
“Creation is one way,” the Iron God assented, his right hand still rhythmically contracting into a fist before loosening again, “The greatest one. Still, not the only one. Look at us.” The fist rose over the waves, bladed edges jutting out from it. “We can split continents with one hand. If we wanted, we could tear the sky down into the ocean. We’ve been given a power to destroy besides creating, and we have no target to release it on. I feel it being wasted every moment, but there’s not a thing in the world that’d warrant using the least part of it.” His fiery eyes gazed pensively into Ashalla’s features. “Unless we turned it against itself.”
Ashalla rumbled again. “What are you suggesting?”
“We lock it in a prison of attrition, the two of us, with combat in the flesh.” Narzhak opened the fist and extended his hand towards Ashalla’s form. “And water. No one I’ve seen is as mighty as us. We can wear out this strength against each other without risking to topple the spheres, and it would be well spent.” He reclined his head to one side and added after a moment’s thought, “If you so will.”
“A fight, without malicious intent, but to test each other’s strength against the other?” Ashalla said, then rumbled long and hard. The rumbling stopped, and all the fish nearby, including the sharks, turned and swam away at some silent command. “There is nothing of value nearby to be senselessly destroyed by such a fight. I accept your offer.” Then the mountain of water which was Ashalla’s form collapsed into the ocean with a colossal ripple.
Narzhak’s eyes flared up in surprise as he raised his right arm to bear over the now shapeless waves. She had certainly wasted no time settling into the situation, and, with a solid visage to look at, he had almost forgotten where they were and what that meant. Maybe riling her temper or not did not make such a difference after all. The field was hers in either case, and for him that meant an uphill struggle. It was not unwelcome. This was what he had come for.
The hand held over the surface tightened into a great metallic sphere, spikes rising from it at all angles. The plates on its wrist lengthened into immense blades protruding from both sides of the limb. Those on the left forearm did not stop there, molding themselves into a great bulwark lined with wave-breaking edges and angles. Water was a fickle thing to strike and parry, but as long as he could feel something under his hand, it would be subject to the same laws as all that could be broken and crushed.
The water around Narzhak’s feet began to flow, a torrential current which scoured the sea floor and threatened to destabilise Narzhak’s stance. Behind Narzhak, where the water was flowing to, the water rose up into a mountainous tower. As the water continued to flow, the tower struck forwards and slammed into Narzhak’s head, stupendous amounts of water trying to push the Iron God over.
The giant buckled under the immense blow, almost toppling forward as his feet, already loosened by the draft, dug through the ocean floor. His shoulders, and then head disappeared under the surface as he fell to one knee. However, he had not yet touched down when his shield-bearing arm rose against the watery mass, cutting through it to block its center. With a roar, the god shoved himself up to his feet, pushing upwards into the great wave.
The water shattered against the bulwark and Narzhak, and for a brief moment the watery assault abated. Then all around Narzhak rose massive pseudopods which slammed into the Iron God. He staggered, too slow to respond immediately, and the plates of his armour bent under the blows. Soon, though, his shield slammed down to cover some of the liquid arms, while his maul swept against the others in a wide arc, felling the pseudopods.
The water between Narzhak and his shield then rose up. The growing mountain of water swelled and applied pressure to Narzhak and the shield, trying to pry them apart. He tugged back and forth against it for some moments, then abruptly shifted the shield sideways, leaving the water open to erupt into the remaining tendrils. Those pseudopods collapsed too as the mass of water wavered to regain its balance, then leaned back into Narzhak with all her weight. The god was forced a step backward under the pressure, his feet being pushed over the submerged sand even as he tried to hold in place. His right arm, whose maul was stretching and flattening itself into a broad blade as it moved, swung about, aiming to sever the bulk of water from its base. The blade cut into that water which was Ashalla, but the water pushed back, and with so much water to cut through the blade slowed down as the ‘wound’ sealed itself behind the strike.
Narzhak rumbled as he tried to pry his hand from the fluid trap, to little avail. Gathering his weight on his back leg, he pushed forward shoulder-first into the towering ocean. His right hand, though still sealed, tightened into a clump of spikes and locked fingers which struggled to puncture through its prison. The spikes did nothing to deter Ashalla, and Ashalla flowed with Narzhak as he pushed forwards while maintaining her grip on his arm. More pseudopods blossomed out from her and flailed against the Iron God. Forced ahead by his momentum, Narzhak raised his left arm to fend off the blows while maintaining his balance. That was, until he careened downward and plunged into the waves underneath him, sliding under the surface to bring himself entirely below Ashalla’s form.
Or so he thought. However, as Narzhak felt the pressure of the water grow around him, he realised that he had actually dove straight into Ashalla. Armour plates buckled and tore as the water which was engulfing Narzhak turned against him. Shaking his head in anger, he tried to propel himself upwards, but found his way blocked by the immense pressure. His iron skin, now cracked in places, frantically flowed to mould itself into slender, sharp dynamic ridges, as his hands joined together in a wedge. He raised the tip overhead and pushed towards the surface, meeting the crushing weight of the sea with focused strength. The iron mountain breached through the waves, ichor-tainted water cascading down his sides as he returned to his feet.
From the rippling tsunamis radiating away from Narzhak came a voice. “I can’t say that blood spilled myself tastes any sweeter, but this has been satisfying nonetheless.” A mound of water rose up to face Narzhak, although Ashalla was not as large as she had been before their fight.
“It has, hasn’t it?” The Iron God ran his hands along his arms and body, smoothing over the ridges and sealing the gaps and breaches once more. Several plates were left visibly thinner in places where the metal had been drawn from them to mend the damage. “This is what I would call force well spent. I already feel lighter for it.” He inclined his head forward in an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”
Around him, the spilled ichor hung in the water as a dark cloud. “I’m sure something will appreciate the spoils, too.”
“Indeed,” Ashalla said. Already, sharks were returning, their hardened hides marking them as those who had drank of Narzhak’s ichor before.
The god looked pensively at the flocking beasts, scratching the side of his head in thought. “You know, with how rambunctious some of us are, they may need to make a habit of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was not the last to spill and shred in here. Not that I am even the first.” His mind went back to the tide of crimson blood he had found on the Foot, and he winced as he remembered that the river he had carved from there to the sea was tainted with more than one colour. “And I doubt all of them will be as considerate. If you’ll allow, I can give them a hand with it.”
“Yes, that would be helpful,” Ashalla replied.
Narzhak’s hand swept over the gathered sharks, and the blackened water became an opaque grey, swallowing them in a metallic fog. When it faded moments later, the fish were all but unrecognisable. While their bodies had not been stiff before, they now twisted with wormlike flexibility, sliding through the water more similarly to serpents than fish. Their thick skin was replaced with a slender metallic shell which stretched to follow their movements flawlessly, yet whose strength was manifest in the layered, spiked ridges that interlocked at sparse points over their bodies. The fins were almost entirely gone, with only vestigial protrusions left to mark where they once had been. For all this, though, the most startling change had come over their eyes - the four blood-red slits, mirroring those of the Iron God, pierced the sea with a gaze of cold, ravenous purpose.
“Those should do for now,” he nodded as he surveyed his handiwork, “Though they’ll need to grow in numbers eventually. I did what I could for their noses, but they won’t smell a spill on the other side of the world.”
Ashalla lifted one of the creatures into a raised globule of water as she inspected it. “Yes, these will function nicely,” Ashalla commented, “Although their aesthetics are dull.” The water rippled around the creature, and it adopted subtle changes in hue. The metallic shell gleamed with iridescence, and the exposed flesh took on tones of crimson. The creature was lowered back into the ocean and at Ashalla’s touch the other creatures adopted similar colours. “There, that’s better.”
Narzhak scraped his head perplexedly, but said nothing as part of the beasts slithered away to the northwest. The rest remained circling him, content with draining the last traces of the struggle.
“They’re a ready response,” he mused, “Though it’s not enough on its own. Gods aren’t the only things that can make water filthy. A good preventive strike is enough to deal with most of the smaller nuisances, but I haven’t seen much around the ocean that could be good for that.” From what he remembered of their first moments, Ashalla’s water was something Sartr disliked over all else. He had already turned ice against his heat; now, if the ocean had something in store that could be aimed against it, he would have been remiss to not at least ask. “Is there anything in your domain that can keep pests away?”
“I’ve recently made a few sea beasts to reinforce my dominion over the ocean,” Ashalla said.
“Good defenses start at home,” Narzhak assented, “But, as I said, striking first can save you trouble. Most of the dirtiest things live on dry land, and sea beasts wouldn’t reach them until it’s too late. You need something to remind them of your power, no matter where they are.”
Ashalla rumbled thoughtfully for a few moments. “I have a few patterns which would work well for that.” A tendril of water stretched up next to Narzhak and brushed against some of his armour plates. “Some of your patterns would probably be beneficial for such a creature, too. Perhaps we could make this creature together?”
“We could.” His gaze flickered as he looked down over where droplets flowed down his body from the touch. He ran a finger along the locked edges of a gap in the metallic skin. “We should, I’d even say. A battle-worthy shell would weigh down something much larger than these sharks, but if it needs to be able to get out of the water...” He nodded and glanced at Ashalla. “A challenge of creation isn’t any worse than one of destruction. Let us to it.”
“Excellent. Follow me, I know a good place to make this creature,” Ashalla said.
The Abyssal Rift was a hole in the bottom of the ocean which dwarfed even Narzhak. The descent through the rift plunged the gods into darkness and subjected them to enormous water pressure. While the pressure was no obstacle to the gods, it was deadly to creatures used to the surface. Ashalla adapted some of the blood-drinking sharks to handle the Abyssal pressures so they could clean up after Narzhak.
The bottom of the rift opened into the vast expanse which was the Abyss, lit gently from below by incandescent magma. Turbulent currents buffeted around them. Magma bubbled beneath them. Spires of dark igneous rock dotted the dark submarine landscape.
Narzhak reached the bottom, and his feet slowly sunk into the magma which made the floor of the Abyss. The ocean around him spoke with the sound of swirling currents, “Welcome to the Abyss.”
The god’s eyes coursed over his surroundings, glimmering appreciatively at the vistas of gnarled stone and distant fiery reverbs. “Nice place,” underwater, his voice sounded out deeper yet than usual and surrounded with a faint churning noise, but, oddly, did not spread any worse than through air, “if a little quiet. A good retreat if you ever need one. Though I can’t but notice,” he looked around, unquenched flames piercing the abyssal penumbra, “there’s not much life for us to work with.”
There was a moment of thoughtful rumblings. “Perhaps I could correct that some time…” Ashalla mused. The currents of the Abyss then shifted, and stray plankton and fragments of fish carcasses were gathered near the two deities, the gathered detritus of ocean life. “But we have enough biomass to work with for now. This creature will draw its power from the magma of my Sphere, hence why we are here. Now, let us begin.”
The gathered biomatter coalesced and morphed under Ashalla’s influence, taking the form of a colossal crocodilian with six legs. Narzhak reached forward with a hand, chiselling knots and ropes of flesh into the bulk. His fingertips punctured its skinless surface, injecting rivulets of rapidly solidifying metal into its bones. The outer layers of the body were flattened and etched with shallow grooves for armoured skin to cling to.
As the body came into shape, Ashalla drew up magma from beneath them. Tiny threads of red incandescence snaked around the creature and injected into the creature’s veins, infusing the being with enough heat to cause the water around it to boil, although the flesh was unharmed by the extreme temperatures.
It was still churning as Narzhak laid down plate after iron plate over the being, locking them together like a mesh of reptilian scales. Made malleable by the heat, the metal twisted to flow around the curves and creases of the flesh like the skin it lacked, encasing it in an impenetrable cuirass. Molten droplets ran down and stretched from its underside, where they were caught and moulded into sharp, jagged ridges. The loose edges at the back of its head were lengthened into a spike-topped shield-like crest, and two long, curved horns that were like iron pillars ran from its lower corners to flank the head.
The body floated there in the water for a few moments for the two gods to inspect its ironclad steam-wreathed form. Then the creature’s body expanded as it was given its first watery breath. The creature’s eyes opened and peered through the near-darkness around it. The creature’s six legs and tail wriggled in sequence for it to swim lazily in the water of the Abyss.
“What shall we name it?” Ashalla asked.
His hands still coursing with the energy work brought, Narzhak scratched on his wrist. “It’s... imposing,” he pondered, “more than most of what walks on land. A sign of wrath. Leviathan from the deep.” He was quiet for a moment in uncharacteristic contemplation. “Leviathan,” he repeated, “it’s worthy of not having any more as a name, don’t you think?”
Ashalla rumbled. “The ocean already has Leviathan Anglers. Leviathan of the deep would make this the Abyssal Leviathan.”
“They do?” One of his eyes widened with an absent gaze. The rest remained focused ahead. “They must not be as impressive. I’ve yet to see one. But that’s unsurprising. What could match something we’ve both set hand to? If it is to show its might to the world, it’s but fitting its name should be a reminder of where it came from.”
“Indeed,” Ashalla said. There were no words for a few moments as a thoughtful rumble echoed between the two. “There is the matter of where to send it first. I am not too familiar with the lands of this world. I have explored one region, the blood-stained land of giant creatures on the vast continent, but I have already placed a mighty creature of my own there.”
“The one with a coast longer than the island Kirron brought up twice over? I haven’t seen much of it. There were some small, speaking things near the sea the last time I passed by, though,” Narzhak reminisced, eye still distant, “One was a very good listener. They wouldn’t need another show of power. But someone else -” his gaze snapped to the present in its entirety, “In that same place I just came from, a flaming rabble was making itself an annoyance not long ago. If they reach the forests they were headed for, there’ll be ash to spare for the whole ocean. I couldn’t think of a better opportunity for the Leviathan to show both purpose and strength.”
At the mention of the forests, there was a sudden change in the water. Although Ashalla had no face beneath the water, the agitation of the currents was enough to indicate Ashalla’s feelings. Phystene’s forests! Ashalla thought in alarm. Then she said in a voice like a coming storm, “Yes, that is an ideal location. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Leviathan, with me!” The Abyssal Leviathan, which had been wading in the magma below, perked up at the command. With surprising speed for a creature of its size it swam upwards through the rift above, following behind the flowing current which was Ashalla. They had an army to face.
Narzhak is wading through the ocean. The salt water is terrible for his skin, so he leaks blood and rust.
Ashalla appears and complains.
Narzhak, seeing a potential ally, does something about it. They call sharks to drink Narzhak’s leaked bodily fluids. He later turns them into an extraordinary species specially designed to drink spilled divine ichor in the oceans, which Ashalla later mutates to be a bit more colourful and mutates some of them to survive in the Abyss.
They chat. Ashalla tells Narzhak about the soul oysters.
Narzhak then challenges Ashalla to a wrestle, to metaphorically blow off some steam and test their strength and what-not. After checking that they were sufficiently far from land to not break things, Ashalla accepts, and they fight. At the end of the fight, Narzhak is battered and bruised, and Ashalla is considerably smaller than before (a quiet sign of exhaustion).
Who won? We’ll let you decide.
They then decide to make something together. Ashalla leads Narzhak to the Abyss, where they create the Abyssal Leviathan. The Abyssal Leviathan is a colossal six-legged crocodilian coated entirely in metal armour. It has a ceratops-like shield-head-crest with two horns sticking out to the side. It is infused with the magma of the Abyss, allowing it to boil water. It is also surprisingly fast.
They ponder what to use it for, and Narzhak mentions the fiery rabble burning the forests on Dragon’s Foot. Remembering her pact, Ashalla races off with the Leviathan to deal with it.
Narzhak Start: 3 MP, 7 FP Spent: 2 FP on sharks that seek and consume divine body matter, 1 FP on Abyssal Leviathan. End: 3 MP, 4 FP Portfolios: 6/10 Subjugation
Water flowed from the gaps in his armour like rivers over a mountainside, pooling in lakes as he trudged out of the shallows and strode further inland. Most drained into the desert sands within moments, leaving glistening salt patches in their wake. Bitter puddles remained scattered in the shade of the largest iron monoliths. Something large and white, barely a speck at the titan’s feet, bolted out of the ground-shaking steps’ path.
Crackling with renewed strength after a spell spent simmering down below the ocean’s surface, Narzhak’s eyes scanned the horizon. Sartravius’ lonely fire-hill was smoking again. Had he actually gotten something done in the time of a walk around the world? He squinted into the distance - sure enough, there was something that vaguely resembled the rearguard of a horde trudging over to where lay the riverlands, with what seemed to be smaller molds of the Phoenix hovering, rather disorderly, further north. The god found himself shaking his head in disapproval. That was Sartr's idea of an army? And, worst of all, it was going west?
”Hrghm.” The first thing he thought of was punishing such a parade of blunders with a surprise assault. The things down there were not only disorganised and unarmed, but facing the wrong way; carrying up enough kostral to make it quick, brutal and thorough would have been a moment's errand. But that, Narzhak thought, picking out a clam from a chink in his skin, would have been unsportsmanlike. For all he knew, those were just the worst training manoeuvres Galbar had ever seen, rather than the attack he was expecting. No, the best thing was to send a warning, a light sting of humiliation to punish this kind of carelessness. The giant's eyes lit up at the thought. He had just the thing for that.
The Scar was three steps away, and the Pit one more below that. The Iron God paused to inhale the familiar smokes and ash of his home. He found himself more reluctant to leave again every time he dropped in, and the great alcove overlooking the passageway looked more and more inviting. Maybe it was the emptiness, he thought, idly extending a small hook from a finger to pry open the clam. Wherever he had gone, there had been little to excite a real thirst for a battle worthy of the name. Nothing measured up to him, nothing looked like worthwhile scrap material, and places to search were growing scarce. He shook the thought away. Once he was done with this, there would be time to go find something to busy him in person. Perhaps see if Ashalla had kept in shape since that time in the palace, and ask her what this tiny black sphere inside the clam was, and why it was there-
Right, when he was done here. Narzhak snapped a claw, sending the rattle of iron ringing over the charred wastes. He did not have to wait long for a reply. Clouds of dust and ash rose from all sides and converged towards him, heralded by a thunder of hooves striking the ground. Thousands of black snouts, steely tusks, bloodshot eyes looked up, ears twitching in perplexity at the abrupt summons. The god’s four eyes found the one they sought immediately - his iron-grey back bristled a good few palms above the rest.
”You’ve been busy,” he rumbled with some surprise, ”And you were the only one down here.”
“I do what I do,” the first boar answered with an impatient huff.
”That’s good and all, but we’ll need more than this now,” Narzhak mused, one finger toying with the black pearl. He breathed out bloodlust, and the massive herd edged apart as its leader’s body began to grow and swell. His fur became like many razors locked together in a cuirass, his tusks like battering-rams, his hooves great enough to raze forests in a step. He snorted, and the air from his nostrils raised whirlwinds of black dust.
“Now what?” he seemed to ask with the look of his still disproportionately small, beady eyes.
”Take a good pack and get up there,” the god pointed, rather vaguely, to the direction where the surface supposedly lay, ”If you see a winged thing that looks like me, bring it to the place. I’ve got things for you to do. The rest of you, get back to, ghrm, doing what you do.” The bulk of the beasts seemed all too glad to obey.
With the ash from the boar patriarch’s hooves still settling on the black stone of the rift, the god turned to the cave mouth closest to his eyes. The kostral peering from it fell on the ground in prostration. He motioned with a finger, and they scurried off, soon returning with half-picked bones, mangled carcasses, scraps of iron and other refuse. As they piled up their trove, he idly flicked the pearl at his head. It sank into the metal of his face as though it were fluid, and dropped below. Bitter, he thought, crunching on it, but with a nice aftertaste if you pay attention. It could be worth the while to look for more.
Later, he reminded himself, glancing at the now sizable amorphous heap of leftovers. The kostral had already wisely retreated into the tunnels. Narzhak breathed in hatred, letting it gather up in his lungs before releasing it into the waiting body-
And choked as a cloud of terrible bitterness rose up to clog his throat. He tried to blow it out of the way, but it clung to him like something alive, scraping at the walls of his gullet as it crawled up, dangerously up-
”Aaghck!” the god coughed, shards of iron and globs of black spittle hammering the rock around the cave, ”Ghkhaaph! The spit they - phagh! - made something this - khaack! - rotten for - bhahgh!”
“I get wanting to chew something,” an unfamiliar voice like the scraping of rusted metal said from the cliffside, “But really, you don't check your stuff first?”
Perched where the mass of the refuse had been was a hunkered figure of grime-spattered iron. Its body was a patchwork of near-disjointed plates, their jagged edges interlocking like the pieces of a battered jigsaw. Sharp ridges ran along the exterior of its long arms, from spiked shoulders to four-digit hands. Miraculously, the scratched mark of the Bloodied Fist on the corner of its chestplate was not only recognisable as such, but mostly upright.
A finger flicked up the creature's grilled visor, revealing the only visible part of its body. Encased between the dome-shaped studded helmet and the high gorget ridges was a patch of rough grey skin with no features beyond a large mouth in the center. It bared an alarming number of knifelike yellow teeth in a lopsided grin and licked its lipless edges with a dripping rope of black flesh.
”Because you would have,” Narzhak growled. The creature shrugged, sneering. ”And who’re you supposed to be?”
“I’m, uh...” the ghastly being picked between his teeth with a finger. His grotesquely long tongue darted out to smell the puddle of filth remaining at his feet. “What’d your slaves call it? Vrog? Not like anyone else’ll know.”
”If you say so. All I know-” the god raised a finger, poising it for a flick, ”-is I could use less vrog in my house. Out with you!”
With a single snap of the gigantic fingertip, Vrog and the ledge he was crouching on were sent flying towards the plateau that led to the surface.
The Iron God heavily shifted his head from side to side. He could start over again and have someone better done in time, but impatience mounted where the bitter taste had finally dissipated. Be done with this, and then… Besides, he had not been expecting much from this to begin with. All it did was confirm his suspicion: a pile of vrog would stay a pile of vrog no matter what.
The gathering that met around the Scar’s central fissure soon afterwards was as complete a war council as had ever met on Galbar to that day, which was not to the credit of war councils. The boar patriarch sharpened its tusks on a floating piece of rock in as much tedium as his snout could express, his herd sprawled and rolling on their sides nearby. The Omen, perched over a large pitfall, looked as sinister as it was unhelpful for any sort of contribution to an assembly; the few stray ghouls on its back were little better. The finishing blow to the council’s credibility was perhaps that Vrog, still sneering and apparently not much the worse for his recent flight, was the closest it seemed to have to a competent member.
Mercifully, its leader was determined to keep the hearing brief.
”You,” the shadow of Narzhak’s pointing arm fell over the boar pack, claw outstretched towards the west, ”take the footsoldiers. Run them down all you like, take down the leader if you’re feeling like it. Just leave a few standing. You,” he motioned to Vrog and the Omen, ”find a way to get those things out of the sky. With how visible they are, we might not need it now, but I want something ready the next time they come up. I’ll take the east.” The last part was remarkably unspecific. ”Get to it.”
The earth shook a few times before the god disappeared beyond the horizon. The boars were soon gone in the opposite direction, clouds of black dust covering their rear.
Vrog tasted the air with a few lashes of the tongue and nodded to his newfound subordinates. “Lucky we’re not stuck doing the lifting this time. Or I’m not,” he added, climbing atop the winged monstrosity in a froglike bound. “First things first, there’s one step a war can’t go without, and it’s...”
“...not this.” A chewed seed sac was spat onto the bloodied ground, going to join a considerable pile of plants, insects and small rodents marked with the cuts of pointed teeth. Vrog scraped the remains of the blossom out of his mouth and picked up another grey-reddish pod. He probed it from all sides, coiling his tongue around it, then tossed it into his maw and began to munch. A few moments later, the mangled pod landed on top of the other discarded attempts. “Not this either.” It seemed the whole Steppes did not have a single thing to keep his jaws busy. Maybe this next thick-stalked weed would do better, but by this point he was beginning to think he might need to start searching elsewhere.
He twirled the uprooted plant between thick iron fingers. The pods on this one were too large to be chewed whole. He plucked a steely-coloured seed out from a cluster and bit into it. The thickness was good, and the taste- The taste was about right. He might just have been tired of sampling, but this one would just do for now.
Vrog spat out the husk with a satisfying whistle. Chewing felt good, of course, but the part that came after was just as important. In fact, he could make it hurt.
A seed was tossed into the air, and his tongue caught it with a sharp lash mid-flight. It burst open like an overripe fruit, scattering into a cloud of dust that drifted away over his head, into the depth of the steppe, past the staring ghouls on the Omen’s back. Some grains settled on the dead plant on his hand, and he clicked with pleasure as the kernels still hanging from it grew pointed and sharp. He snapped one off, bit it open and spat the husk with force. It flew like an arrow, sticking into the ground where it hit. That was sure to be painful.
The weed slipped comfortably into a gap on his side. Vrog didn't know much about plants, but what he had down there should have been good enough for it to take root. He wasn't going to haul himself back here whenever he was done with one stalk.
Speaking of which.
“Second step,” he said aloud, hoisting a large metallic flask, “off to the Cauldron.”
Dropping back on the Foot for a bit while on his tour, Narzhak sees the rearguard of Sartr's armies marching off to the west, and decides to teach them a lesson for leaving their back so carelessly open. He picks up the first boar, who was busy populating the Pit with more ferocious swine, makes it gigantic and sends it with a herd of its spawn to hit the fire giant horde from behind.
He then tries to animate a collection of scrap and spare parts into a servant, but this backfires when he eats a soul oyster pearl he had found in the ocean - he chokes on the soul ash residue and unwittingly coughs up a piece of himself. The result is Vrog the Devourer, a fellow with a big mouth he likes to keep busy. (His name, a kostral word meaning “garbage”, implies the kostral are developing spoken languages of their own.)
Vrog, the Omen of War and some ghouls are tasked with inventing something to kill dragons, but the former is more interested in slacking off and creating weaponised semki. Narzhak himself heads east to search for something to wrestle with and find out more about the black pearls.
Narzhak
Before: 5 MP, 10 FP
2 MP spent on Vrog the Devourer, an avatar.
1 FP (bolstered by War portfolio) spent on pit boars, a ferocious breed. They make superb warbeasts if tamed.
2 FP spent on the boar Patriarch, an extraordinarily powerful beast.
0 FP (discounted from 1) to bless dartweed, a plant native to the Charnel Steppes, with sharpened seed husks. If spat by someone skilled, they can be lethal.
That morning the Grottu tribe lost two more members in the night. The great hunter Panganeem had disappeared, his hut empty and along with him was his faithful and first friend of the hunting party, Juttyu the Giant. With those two charismatic leaders gone, the tribe found itself mulling a little, having experienced a lot of loss in the last year. As if by magic, though, Thumfatem pulled the tribe from depression by showcasing a new wisdom from the Gods themselves, cementing his position as prophet once and for all; that wisdom being a fever-healing-fish marked with an eye, nicknamed ‘butterfly fish’.
It was in this crossroad of anguish and new hope that the tribe found itself in. Their chieftain Hoshaf had changed drastically in the coming days, becoming more direct, and aggressive. The people had begun to see him in a new light, a budding warrior of sorts from the frail man he had been. Once again, the tribe gave credit to Thumfatem, the advisor of the chief himself. The memory of a time before Hoshaf and the time of Viyoh began to fade in all but the most forlorn. The fact that the name should be uttered in any way other than as a reminder of Hoshaf’s legitimacy troubled the chieftain.
He found himself combing the now sacred beach of the Grottu, a holy site that is off limits to all but himself and the prophet. By a pile of rocks the corpse of Viyoh laid, picked clean and bleached but otherwise undisturbed. Hoshaf pushed a rocked with his foot, he had avoided this crime scene since he became chieftain, and despite his new found confidence, he couldn’t help but feel Viyoh’s ghost.
“I can erase you, you know,” Hoshaf snarled to the sea, “Make it like you never existed. I cannot kill someone who never existed.”
And the sea answered.
It began far in the distance. Out among the waves there was a shape, like an island or a great rock, which he did not recall ever seeing before. It glowed and flickered in the daylight, and, even though the heliopolis was but rising, it had the colour of the evening.
The shape was moving. It grew higher and broader, and it was clear even from far away that it was much larger than even Yimbo. In another moment, a gleaming wall covered the horizon before his eyes, the strange island perched atop it like a colossal head. No – it was a head, and those were arms, each longer than the greatest wave Hoshaf had ever seen was tall. He could feel the beach faintly shaking beneath him, despite the behemoth's steps falling far below the water.
It stood, darkening the earth and sea around itself, and spoke in the voice of a storm.
”You cannot, and you should not. If you won't know that you have killed, what will you have left to be certain of?”
Hoshaf was frozen in terror at the very sight, let alone the voice of such a construct before him. Waves crashed against the beach with every twitch of the mighty metal titan. Eventually the chieftain regained enough of him faculties to answer, “What?”
”What I said.” The hard-leaved reeds that sprouted among the dunes bowed under the rumbling words. The being's eyes shone like the inferno of a pyrgerak hunt. ”You have killed, and that's your accomplishment. That is what you are. Murderer. Victor. Destroy that, and you will be nothing.”
“I am the victor,” Hoshaf agreed hungrily, “My word is law.”
”Yes,” the immense head nodded, ”You rule, and he is dead. You'd be a fool to fear him now. Laugh at him! Show him you're a better chief than he could ever be!”
“I don’t fear him!” Hoshaf said perhaps too quickly, “I don’t fear anything. I am the chieftain, I am the strongest, I am Kirron-chosen!” The Selka kicked a lump of sand at the bleached bones, “He’s nothing, nothing!”
”Right.” An iron hand gestured to the west, casting night over the sea-cliffs yonder. ”I will tell you, there is a trick,” though still as oppressive as thunder, the voice grew low and conspiratorial, ”to make him vanish as he deserves without losing what you took from him. I will teach you, if you swear to use it.”
Hoshaf looked at the conspiring metal mountain, and pinched his chin, “Though I don’t know you, I can’t say no. Teach me these ways.”
”Who I am doesn't matter,” the giant waved his claw dismissively, ”Know only that I am blood-kin of your god. Now listen well. There are many of your kind that don't live like you do. They don't build the same mounds, don't praise Kirron the right way, don't obey your laws. Go find them,” the eyes burned with the joy of a pleasant daydream, ”and make them. They won't listen, and you will build a dune with bones like these. Then you will be the greatest of Kirron's own, and he only one of many.”
“Yes,” Hoshaf thought to himself, “And when it is all done, I will be the strongest.” He looked at Narzhak, “but how?”
”With these.” The hand passed over Hoshaf’s head, and a rain of heavy thumps struck the sand at his side. Iron maces with tapering grips, suited for thick selka hands, and heads circled with pointed studs lay mingled with short, smooth-tipped spears and hooked, harpoon-like piercing pikes. ”Give them to your people. Learn to wield them. This is my blessing.”
“All the tribes will know of Kirron's chosen,” Hoshaf grinned madly. “Even Antorophu will respect my strength after this,” He all but muttered, “I'll be stronger than he ever was.”
Quiet as his last words had been, the ear of a god was sharp. One of the colossus’ four eyes flickered in a playful wink. ”Ah, Antorophu?” There was a laugh in his voice, mirthful yet heavy with dark omens. ”You already won that battle, remember? She's yours, Hoshaf. Go and take what you earned. The day is young.”
Hoshaf grinned at the thought, “You are right, Blood-kin. Thumfatem has suggested the same, perhaps it is time to exercise my strength and victory.”
”High time. Enough mumbling over a heap of bones!” With slow, invisible steps, the god began to recede into the ocean. The tide steadily rose as he submerged, but not a droplet reached the pile of weapons. ”The world's full of wonderful things waiting for a firm hand to take them. Don't let anyone beat you to it.” Once more, the vast body became a wall, then a reef, then an island, then a rock. A blink, and it was gone among the waves.
Hoshaf stared down at the weapons, a wicked grin stretching over his face.
The tribe was whipped into a frenzy. Their very own God-chosen chieftain had returned from the holy grounds with bundles and bundles of strange metallic weapons and orders from Kirron’s Blood-kin itself. The zealots of the Grottu cheered and hailed their chieftain, while their prophet sulked.
“Don’t you think that’s a little too far,” Thumfatem advised in the chieftain’s private hut. Hoshaf blinked, his finger running to the tip of an iron spear.
“I thought this is what you wanted.”
“We already have what I- ,” Thumfatem stumbled, “--WE wanted. We are leaders, and we should be progressing our tribe forward, not sending them to kill fellow selka.”
“Not fellows,” Hoshaf gripped the prophet’s shoulder, “heathens, heretics, those stragglers who don’t recognize our strength.”
“Were you not on the beach?” Thumfatem growled, “Did you not see what bloodshed did to our children? Did you not hear Panganeem’s wails?”
Hoshaf’s face straightened, “This sort of talk is unlike you.”
“The first bloodbath,” Thumfatem nodded, “Was necessary, it weeded out the weak but it was supposed to be the only one. The second came, and proved we are still weak-”
“And now we are given the chance to show how strong we are, weed out the weak of the other tribes, grow our own,” Hoshaf made a fist, “It’s time we take what is ours, we are the strongest.”
Thumfatem recoiled slightly, “This isn’t what I wanted, you know.”
“A shame you aren’t the chieftain, then,” Hoshaf grinned.
“Don’t forget who made you,” Thumfatem hissed.
“Don’t forget what you’ve made,” Hoshaf narrowed his eyes, causing Thumfatem to silently gasp. Hoshaf jabbed a finger into the fat seal’s belly, “You can’t stop now, we’ve come this far.”
Thumfatem fell silent and Hoshaf continued, “in better news, I’ve decided to take a bride, as you suggested.”
The prophet looked up and Hoshaf smiled wide, pulling at a whisker, “Antorophu.”
“At last?” Thumfatem didn’t seem too surprised.
“But,” Hoshaf turned the spear in his free hand, “I hear she has children, two sons. Do you know who by?”
Thumfatem felt a pang in his chest and a clump in his throat, “No.”
“Who?” Hoshaf stared daggers.
“Hoshaf, you’ve changed,” Thumfatem dodged.
“Who?” Hoshaf pressed, his teeth clenched.
“Viyoh,” Thumfatem flinched, awaiting Hoshaf’s anger, but it never came. A sick cackle sounded from the chieftain. Thumfatem looked up, “What is it?”
“This world is a comedy,” Hoshaf growled through his laugh, “No matter what I do, I cannot seem to rid myself of my-- Viyoh’s mistakes.” He paused and his eyes widened with a disgusting idea, “I’ll have them killed. Enemies of Kirron, enemies of our tribe.”
“You can’t!”
“Can’t I!?” Hoshaf clenched his jaw, “You said it yourself, I am the leader, I do what I want. You heard their cheers for me, their cheers for my weapons and my blessings. I can do whatever I want because I am the strongest, I am the chieftain.”
“I won’t let you,” Thumfatem pushed past Hoshaf, heading for the door. There was a sudden pain and warm trickle, agony shooting up Thumfatem’s spine and a cold numbness engulfing his legs. He collapsed to the ground, his lungs too empty to scream. Hoshaf’s spear poked out of his chest, the shaft rammed through his spine. Hoshaf kneeled down next to Thumfatem, bringing his whiskered face close to the gasping seal.
“I’m sorry,” Hoshaf hissed at the dying man, “It’s Kirron’s will.”
Hoshaf, chieftain of the Grottu, withdraws to the beach where he killed his friend Vyoh and ponders over his remains. Narzhak, who was passing by some kilometres from the shore, overhears his words and appears before him. He tells Hoshaf to drown out his doubts with more aggression against other tribes, and gifts him a handful of selka-friendly iron weapons. The chieftain enthusiastically agrees, as do his followers once they’re given the news.
Only Thumfatem, the prophet, vocally disagrees with Hoshaf’s new ideas, but the chief dismisses his concerns. Having been urged to by Narzhak, he decides to take Antorophu, Vyoh’s mate, for himself, presumably by force. He learns that she had two children from his former friend and plans to dispose of them; Thumfatem tries to stop him, and is killed.
Narzhak
0 MP (discounted from 1) spent on a gift of anachronistic iron weapons for the Grottu
The unlikely duo, now riding atop a giant bunny, had skirted the edge of the vast Sandravii for days, going north through sparse shrubland towards the shadows of the Qiangshan mountains. Behind them was the Giant's Bath and with it, the Nanhe river. Yet they pressed on, letting Penelope lead the way. Arya, far too delighted with her giant friend, didn’t even question where the Jackalope was taking them. She simply told Split that they should trust in their noble stead and have faith in her ability to take them to the market, wherever it might be. The kostral was satisfied with nodding and plucking another fruit.
That was many days ago, and now Arya looked at herself within the newest small stream they had found themselves next to. The stream had no name, but it’s waters were clear and undiluted. Arya thought Shengshi would like that. Meanwhile, Penelope was busy munching on plants downstream, and Arya did not know where Split had wandered off too. Instead of looking for her, she instead had donned the dress- her dress, that K’nell had given her. It was as comfortable as it was in the dream, and furthermore, looked amazing when she twirled about.
Arya shut her eyes, K’nell’s advice coming to mind. She needed to practice in the real world, and what better time to do it before they moved on again? Her eyes snapped open and she began to step. Though there was no music, that could change. She let the memory of the Palace’s rhythm take over and the ghostly symphony resonated in her mind. She even began humming to the phantom melody. It was bliss, and also a wonderful way to get rid of stress. And so the girl danced.
She didn’t know how long she danced, but her peace was interrupted by a distant explosion, mid twirl, causing her to almost fall, but she held her balance. Arya then spun around, trying to locate the source until her eyes fell upon the mountain of fire to the south east. It was but a blimp on the horizon, yet it burned with such renewed intensity. Even she could tell that it had erupted. The land that way was darkened by clouds of ash, and a certain terror filled her heart at the thought of the danger it possessed. Her mind spun with possibilities. Was it nature taking its course? Or an intentional act, brought about by a god? She did not know, but in the world they lived in, anything was possible.
The small girl blinked, and turned to Penelope, who was sitting upright scanning the horizon. Her deep hazel eyes were impossible large as she sniffed the air. Arya quickly floated over to the Jackalope and began to give the animal comforting scratches on her cheek. She had found that Penelope responded best to a gentle touch, and she did love her scratches.
Worried as Arya was, she didn’t want Penelope to be stressed, so the girl spoke softly to her, ”It’s okay. It’s okay girl. I’m here.” as she stroked the soft fur of the bunny. Penelope then slowly went back to eating, tearing into a nice leafy bush. With a sigh of relief, Arya then landed a top the jackalope’s back and scanned the area for Split. She looked upstream, then downstream, pausing briefly on the glow of the mountain on the horizon. Arya then turned around. There was thick, closely packed vegetation due to the stream, but further out the land was sparse, containing an abundance of splotchy shrubs here and there. Seeing as Penelope was enormous in her own right, she had a good vantage of the land. But this view only further worried Arya, for she did not see her tall, Kostral friend. So, she shouted, ”Split? Split! Where are you!”
For some moments, nothing. Then the undergrowth nearby rustled and shook, and Split’s grey, rugged body crawled out of it on all sixes.
“Sometimes you get me worried.” With a heave of her forearms, she propelled herself to standing on two legs and dusted off a few twigs and leaves clinging to the ridges in her skin. “I said I’d go look around a bit. Were you asleep again?” She disapprovingly narrowed an eye at Arya’s dress. “Told you, that thing’s dangerous. Keep putting it on, and one day that-” a gnarled claw gestured at the fiery plume on the horizon, “won’t be enough to wake you up.”
Her expression changed as her gaze followed the finger, folds of lip-skin curling up to bare pointed teeth in an uneasy snarl. “Better talk about that later. Whatever’s happening there’s not good.” In a couple of deft pulls, she was on Penelope’s back, and prodding the enormous rabbit to start moving again. “Last time I knew something like that happened, we got that desert. First thing we do is get away fast.”
A silent sigh of relief rushed over Arya as she both heard, and saw Split. The Kostral’s words did not seem to affect Arya in the slightest, if anything, she was just glad to see her Kostral friend. Her eyes squinted into smiles as the Kostral climbed up Penelope. As they began to move, Arya settled down amidst the silken sheet, and looked at the fire mountain in the distance.
Her voice suddenly took on a serious tone as she said, ”Yeah, that’s probably a good idea, if what you say is true.” she then turned around to face forward and said in melodic fashion, ”Come on Penelope! Give us a good pace, girl.” and the Jackalope responded by beginning to speed up. Arya had figured out that whoever held the bell, was able to command Penelope a bit better than those without. The jackalope was far more responsive with her. The small star bell had soon found a home around her neck, fashioned with the strands of hair from Penelope. Arya mindlessly caressed it, as she hoped they would find the market sooner than later.
“We’d better find the hole that goes down or what Choppy’s got for it quick.” Despite the jackalope picking up pace, the kostral’s subdued alarm did not diminish. She shifted restlessly on the blanket, keeping one eye fixed on the pillar of smoke rising in the distance. Her teeth rhythmically grit together, a scratching sound Arya had not heard before. It was laden with apprehension.
“There’s a god that lives in that mountain,” she said after a while, breaking the uncomfortable back-and-forth of the scraping, “or something like one. Don’t care to find out what. Nothing wrong about that, but it’s got a deal with the Fell One.” Her voice dropped into a guttural growl, and she paused, glancing around. Shrubs, bushes, grass not nearly tall enough. No real hiding places. “Don’t know what they agreed about, but if something big’s happening there, maybe it’s time. He” she all but spat the word, “might be coming up.” The eye facing Arya winced nervously. “We’re far, but that doesn’t mean a spit. You think you can hide well if you need to?”
Arya could see that Split was on edge, and that alarmed the small girl. Split was a giant, six-armed weapon of flesh and bone, if something was making her nervous, that terrified Arya. But she couldn’t be afraid, else her fear would control her. Just as Kalmar had once said. Arya took a deep breath, before saying, ”I… I could if I needed to, but I’m not going to abandon you and Penelope. I couldn’t do that.” She then walked over to Penelope’s head and grabbed onto both horns. She turned her head to look back at Split, saying, ”We have a quest to finish, now don’t we?” Arya then turned looked back at the fire mountain, and had to blink as she saw a tiny black dot coming from the mountain. It hadn’t been there before.
”I don’t mean to alarm you, but what’s that?” she asked in shaky voice as she shifted her body to point at the speck.
The kostral turned up her head, following her gesture. Her eyes, by now used to the daylight, but still clearly not made for it, winced as they tried to make out the distant blot. “Can’t see any better than you,” her voice sounded almost hollow at that point, “But I know that the god of the mountain flies. If that’s it-” she broke off, blowing out air between her teeth with a whistle. “Nothing’s sure. Could be something else. I’d rather not meet that thing either way, but that’s not the worst.” She shifted to face Arya with a dim, disquieted and ever so indistinctly concerned look. “If you see something big come this way, run. Not just big, something-” she tried to gesture to indicate just how big, but gave up halfway through the motion. “I’ll tell you. Don’t mind me, I’ll be fine. She should be too.” A pair of fingers ran along the jackalope’s hide. “If he’s coming up, I don’t want him to see you. No telling what he’d do.” She produced the coffee flask and held it up. “You’d better take this, don’t want him asking questions. Hope you won’t have to, but-” She whistled again.
She listened to Split speak, Arya’s expression softening as she saw Split wanting to protect her. Tentatively, the girl reached out and took the flask, then said, ”It won’t come to that, Split. Trust me.” she looked away briefly before sighing and looked back, ”But… If worse comes to worse… Okay. Okay.” Arya turned around again and began said, ”Alright Penelope! Lets-” but her voice was cut off as the world suddenly went dark.
The sudden shift from dark to light was bewildering and Arya had to blink, before looking up where Heliopolis shone. What she saw, was a vast cloud of something dark. It blotted out the sun, then it was over.
Arya looked back to Split with wild eyes, and then turned forward once more, shouting ”Penelope, run! Take us to the Market!” and all at once the Jackalope kicked her legs and the she was running. The wind blew through Arya’s hair as she clutched the coffee flask. She was spooked, to say the least. Something was happening on Galbar, and she could tell it wasn’t good.
If the sudden cloud over the sky had startled her, its effect on Split seemed to be much the opposite. Whether it was the familiarity of the shadow or the acrid smell of smoke that began to waft down towards them, she rapidly shook herself from her unease, resolutely snapping her jaws and turning her head to the fore with a click. Four hands grasped at the long white fur, making the kostral look like a statue fastened to the creature’s back with evenly-tied ropes.
“We’d better hope we won’t take another week to get there now.” Her voice had recovered its flat, raspy bite. “Good thing is anyone with an eye’s going to be looking at that first. If your eyes are as high as that-” she glanced upwards and chortled, “Sometimes being big isn’t all that good. Worst thing around for us now will be that other one, and he’s got to be busy doing all that.” She tapped Penelope’s flank with a free palm. “Still no reason to let up.”
”Whatever you say Split!” Arya shouted above the wind. ”I have a really bad feeling about all of this. I just can’t seem to shake it! Hopefully Penelope knows where she’s goi-” And then the Jackalope suddenly stopped, the force almost making Arya fly forward, but her grip was solid. She looked up, hoping to see the market, but was disappointed. All around them was still shrubland, broken by large rock formations here and there.
”Penelope! What are you doing?” Arya said disgruntled. The jackalope then raised her head, sniffing the air. She then cocked an air, as if she was listening for something. After a long, quiet moment, the Jackalope began to forage, much to Arya’s dismay. Grey fingers tapped on its hide with irritated impatience.
“That Choppy looked like she had a loose head,” Split grumbled, “Could’ve warned us about the defective rabbit, though. Defective, that’s the word.” she added, more to herself than to either of her companions.
”Penelope, this is no time for eating! We have to go girl!” Arya said as she gently prodded the bunny. But Penelope did not listen, instead she paused again next to a bush, her giant eye peering down at it with curiosity. After a moment, Arya heard a small ‘peep’ and a bird flew out of the brush. Then all of a sudden, Penelope was running again. Arya lost her balance and fell backwards, landing against Split’s body. Several hands swung up to catch her, the kostral herself miraculously keeping her balance despite releasing most of her grip. Two uneven rows of dripping teeth over her head were superseded by a quizzical pair of eyes.
Arya looked up at Split for a moment and said, ”What is she doing!” before scrambling back up to the top of her head, propped up by two arms from behind. She saw Penelope was chasing a small golden bird, with red plumage, and that it was leading them straight for a large rock formation. Arya’s eyes went wide and she began to panic, ”Oh no! Penelope! Penelope stop! Stop!” she shouted, tugging at the Jackalope’s antlers to no avail. Behind her back, she could hear a dissatisfied rumbling and clicking of teeth. As they got closer, the situation seemed dire. The bunny kept running. Arya looked back at Split and shouted, ”We have to jum-” As if the Jackalope could read her thoughts, with one mighty push, she had jumped in the air. Arya screamed, turning her head just in time, to see a massive hole in the ground, then darkness.
We find out heroes near a small stream having traveled north of the Giant’s bath, skirting the desert in the shrubland.
Arya doesn’t know where Split is when she wakes up from a nap, so she decides to practice dancing. Her practice is interrupted by the distant explosion of Mt. Eldahverr. This worries Arya and panics Penelope, who she begins to comfort.
Having dealt with Penelope, she calls for Split who arrives shortly after, having scouted the area out. Split climbs back on Penelope and is very concerned about the Volcano erupting, and they talk of gods and what to do in case of an emergency.
They begin to travel, only to find the day turns dark briefly. This further scares Arya and she tells Penelope to run, which the jackalope does, for a short time anyways.
Penelope then stops, prompting Arya to wonder why the Jackalope is behaving so strangely. Unbeknownst to the two heroes, Penelope is gaining them passage into the Route, much to their horror as she speeds off towards a rock.
As Arya begins to say they need to jump, Penelope jumps, and they enter an oversized rabbit hole. We fade to black.
Split-Tooth: +9 Prestige Starting +1 For Minor Role +1 For Major Role +1 For Jolly Collaboration +1 For Following a Quest = +13 Prestige Ending
Arya, The Learner: +8 Prestige Starting +1 For Minor Role +1 For Major Role +1 For Jolly Collaboration +1 For Following a Quest = +12 Prestige Ending
Izurich
Archetype Zero
Lord Zee
Cyclone
