718 Vhalar 65...
Creepborne.
Beings twisted and warped just to the point right before recognition was no longer possible, cruel farces of mimicked life, they were the things of nightmares, boogeymen all Quacians knew to fear. Yet, unlike the enigmatic horror of shadows who was far more terror than truth, the creatures of the creep were very, very real.
They crawled and shambled and lurched through the deceptively verdant hillsides and shaded forests. They caught and corrupted and consumed all living things. They tore them apart, they built them back up, and they sent them anew out into the world.
As a child, Mathias had always found the creepborne fascinating. It was not so much he particularly liked them, rather the very concept of unique beings infected with his country’s most ubiquitous danger was all too curious. Everyone, in one way or another – himself included – feared the creep.
But no one understood it.
The questions varied. What did it want? Why did it do what it did? Where did it come from? How does it do what it can, and what more is it capable of? How long until it and its creatures overwhelming the dwindling carcass of Quacia and the pitiable maggots that reside within it?
And the answer was always the same: “I don’t know.”
New knowledge – truly new – held a hold over him, an intoxicating ethereal aroma of lilacs and sage. He wanted to know. Of course, at the young age of eleven arcs, there was only so much he could do to further himself along; Graciana had made certain to saturate every aspect of his life in books and learning and thought and contemplation. She had seen the ruddy embers of a scholar in his young eyes and carefully fanned it until it had become the insatiable raging inferno that proved to be his singular driving focus.
There was no love, no wonder, no ambition. Only hunger.
And he hungered after the creep and its secrets like a wide-eyed stray chained to a post just short of the butcher’s table. He caught scraps now and then, lapped up the errant drops of blood and gore, but what he craved, what he needed always escaped him. He wasn’t stupid. He understood that to remove his collar, to burst forth and tear into the precious meats before him, was to toss away his life as easily as the butcher would break a small dog’s skull beneath his heavy boots.
But even shackled, he had learned more than most might ever hope to – or rather, feared to realize.
The changelings, the Tower, the pockets of creep… they were intriguing. They merited further thought, further investigation, but there, upon the small rise, surrounded by knee-high grasses that strained against their roots to recoil from the dull light of the campfire’s flame, faced with the encroaching silhouettes of creatures both familiar and so incredibly foreign against the now indigo sky, his knowledge was reduced to a singular simplistic line:
Kill them before they kill you.
Three figures, two the same size – both in height and build – as Caetano and one at least an elongated head and a half above Primrose, who stood the tallest of their group, approached from the direction of the ruins they were headed toward. Though both Kysar’s and Caetano’s backs caught the majority of the limited light the fire, casting their shadows long and spindly across the grasses, there was light enough to illuminate the striking differences between the two and one.
Both of the shorter ferahoms had sprouted from the desiccated corpses of pigs. They were uncomfortably slim, bodies stretched and contorted – their typically stubby legs wound through with vines and sap that clacked their exposed bones together as they limped forward; their “arms” long enough for their entirely bark covered knuckles to brush the tips of the grass beneath them. The left-most pig’s face had been split in half, revealing the grey rot that had been only partially assimilated into the writhing, squirming vines, and it dripped a thick, almost gelatinous back gelatin that slowly worked its way down the torn leather of its flesh sewn together with thin strands of ivy-like fibres that sprouted small, nearly obsidian coloured leafs.
They carried no weapons, but their “arms” were covered with segmented layers of a purplish, thorned bark.
The taller creature was at least the size of both the pigs in width combined. Grown from the carcass of a bear, its eyes caught the light of the fire in a dangerously intelligent sort of way, far sharper than the vacant clouded gazes of its porcine guard. Its body had been almost entirely replaced with vines and leafs and bark and roots. What fur remained was pale, wispy, and patched, revealing the white of its bone and the sharp dark contrast of its claws. Only the eyes remained, and some ancient flesh to keep them held within what should have been the empty sockets of its bare skull.
It too held no weapons, but its massive arms and hands topped with wicked curved claws seemed formidable enough.
Though he knew the ferahoms to be silent creatures, their soundless approach still served an eerie picture, even as Kysar spoke to break it with a steady hiss of breath, sword ready in his right and left searching through his pockets. “End the pigshits first, keep your distance from the big one.” Without glancing over his shoulder, he grunted out his next command with a heavy helping of disdain. “Stay back, abrogator.”
“Of course.” Mathias’ reply wasn’t needed, but he offered it anyway as his bright grey eyes quickly swept over the area to confirm the only threads they faced were right in front of them. From what he could tell, as his ether began to swarm from his fingertips, coalescing into invisible swarms that swept through the open air to hover, nearly buzzing, around the unsuspecting heads of the other two men, there were no further creatures to worry about. Still, as the minuscule spheres of his concentrated ether found their places and his shields shifted out of the realm of will into reality, gently forcing the warped air to shimmer just slightly in air a few inches in front of both men’s chests, he kept his ears focused on the steady creaking steps of the ferahoms.
If there were more, he would be ready.
Primrose stooped beside him, dipping her arrow into the flame and rising back into her stance in a single fluid movement. “On your right, Kysar.”
Without hesitation, the man ducked low – just enough time for Mathias to understand what was happening and shift his shield accordingly – as a streak of flame hissed through the air. As it struck the split-faced pig in the shoulder, Primrose sucked her teeth in frustration. The flame continued to flicker for a moment before the creature patted it out, leaving the arrow where it had lodged itself and continuing forward unimpeded.
Kysar, popping back up immediately after the arrow had cleared him, wasted no time. He lunged forward, blade whistling for a trill in the emptiness of the air before it connected with its intended target. Though they struck ghastly figures, their lengthened bodies provided ample targets for dismemberment. With a roar, Kysar’s muscles bulged beneath the cloth of his shirt as the blade met with vine and sinew.
There was the briefest of scrapes of bone upon metal before it was followed with the heavy thud of a head meeting the ground. The grass rustled as it rolled away, and the body that had been left behind took several jarring steps forward as if it had not yet realized its recent decapitation. Its long arms swung once, one after the other, in a futile retaliation as Kysar hopped backwards, sword swinging back around to brace its dull edge against his gloved hand in a bladed guard as he tactically retreated. Like a tree felled, the body let out a soft, gurgling sigh, viscous liquid bubbling uselessly from its neck, as it toppled over.
Neither Primrose nor Caetano took any notice of Kysar’s abrupt victory. Arrow drawn and lit once more, she fired off another shot, calling it briefly before she let loose, while Caetano stepped forward and to the side, axes swinging one after the other. This time, the arrow found its mark, lodging itself deep into the creature’s chest, flame flickering bright as it fought to latch itself onto the worn, leathered flesh and catch light. Both of its arms rose, one patting furiously at the fire, extinguishing it with little difficulty, as the other curled before its body, forcing Caetano’ axes to chip into the thick bark that ringed the vines and bones.
Mathias, too, realized where his attentions were needed without needing to be directed. Though the ursine beast was still a few steps away before it could become a threat, the pig’s struck out at Caetano’s face, his axes lodged in the bark and guard forcefully stripped. With a small jerk of his head, Mathias redirected his shield, air shifting and shimmering as if a mirror had been thrown at an alarming speed, to intercept the strike. Thick wooden spikes collided with the reinforced etheric buckler, large enough to completely cover Caetano’s head but not much else. They scraped over the surface, passing harmlessly across Caetano’s face, as the man instinctively braced for the impact, eyes squinted but not closed.
Primrose had already knocked another arrow and fired at the bear, embedding the flaming projectile deep into the looming bear ferahom’s left eye, as Kysar swung his sword in a quick arc, lopping off the pig’s offending arm by chopping through the slim chinks in its armour of bark.
Though surprised by his complete lack of harm, Caetano quickly recovered, yanking his right-hand axe free and smashing it back down – and through – the bark it had been caught in before. Though his left-handed axe still remained stuck in the bark, his mobility was returned to him; he hurried back several steps as he finally shook his axe free.
The bear, unimpeded by the now doused arrow that stuck out of its bony head, swiped at Kysar’s exposed left. Another twitch of his head and Mathias sent both his shields to intercept. The impact was incredible, and though he had intentionally positioned the shields one over the other in case the creature was just as strong – or stronger – than it appeared, the top-most shield shattered into nothing, while the second found itself halved in strength by a single blow. Brow raising as more ether slipped from his fingers to both repair and re-create, Mathias made no comment on the strength of the creature.
Kysar seemed to notice it all on his own, hastily backpedalling up the hill, sword gripped tight and a sharp, “Éush'qy.”
Caetano retreated as well – the now literally disarmed pig hesitating as it took stock of the situation – and regrouped with his red-headed companion. “You felt that, Ky?”
Primrose, brow furrowed and eyes sharp, readied another arrow as she took a step back, this one unlit as thus far it seemed the fire wasn’t having her intended effect. “That’s a big fuckin’ bear.”
Creepborne.
Beings twisted and warped just to the point right before recognition was no longer possible, cruel farces of mimicked life, they were the things of nightmares, boogeymen all Quacians knew to fear. Yet, unlike the enigmatic horror of shadows who was far more terror than truth, the creatures of the creep were very, very real.
They crawled and shambled and lurched through the deceptively verdant hillsides and shaded forests. They caught and corrupted and consumed all living things. They tore them apart, they built them back up, and they sent them anew out into the world.
As a child, Mathias had always found the creepborne fascinating. It was not so much he particularly liked them, rather the very concept of unique beings infected with his country’s most ubiquitous danger was all too curious. Everyone, in one way or another – himself included – feared the creep.
But no one understood it.
The questions varied. What did it want? Why did it do what it did? Where did it come from? How does it do what it can, and what more is it capable of? How long until it and its creatures overwhelming the dwindling carcass of Quacia and the pitiable maggots that reside within it?
And the answer was always the same: “I don’t know.”
New knowledge – truly new – held a hold over him, an intoxicating ethereal aroma of lilacs and sage. He wanted to know. Of course, at the young age of eleven arcs, there was only so much he could do to further himself along; Graciana had made certain to saturate every aspect of his life in books and learning and thought and contemplation. She had seen the ruddy embers of a scholar in his young eyes and carefully fanned it until it had become the insatiable raging inferno that proved to be his singular driving focus.
There was no love, no wonder, no ambition. Only hunger.
And he hungered after the creep and its secrets like a wide-eyed stray chained to a post just short of the butcher’s table. He caught scraps now and then, lapped up the errant drops of blood and gore, but what he craved, what he needed always escaped him. He wasn’t stupid. He understood that to remove his collar, to burst forth and tear into the precious meats before him, was to toss away his life as easily as the butcher would break a small dog’s skull beneath his heavy boots.
But even shackled, he had learned more than most might ever hope to – or rather, feared to realize.
The changelings, the Tower, the pockets of creep… they were intriguing. They merited further thought, further investigation, but there, upon the small rise, surrounded by knee-high grasses that strained against their roots to recoil from the dull light of the campfire’s flame, faced with the encroaching silhouettes of creatures both familiar and so incredibly foreign against the now indigo sky, his knowledge was reduced to a singular simplistic line:
Kill them before they kill you.
Three figures, two the same size – both in height and build – as Caetano and one at least an elongated head and a half above Primrose, who stood the tallest of their group, approached from the direction of the ruins they were headed toward. Though both Kysar’s and Caetano’s backs caught the majority of the limited light the fire, casting their shadows long and spindly across the grasses, there was light enough to illuminate the striking differences between the two and one.
Both of the shorter ferahoms had sprouted from the desiccated corpses of pigs. They were uncomfortably slim, bodies stretched and contorted – their typically stubby legs wound through with vines and sap that clacked their exposed bones together as they limped forward; their “arms” long enough for their entirely bark covered knuckles to brush the tips of the grass beneath them. The left-most pig’s face had been split in half, revealing the grey rot that had been only partially assimilated into the writhing, squirming vines, and it dripped a thick, almost gelatinous back gelatin that slowly worked its way down the torn leather of its flesh sewn together with thin strands of ivy-like fibres that sprouted small, nearly obsidian coloured leafs.
They carried no weapons, but their “arms” were covered with segmented layers of a purplish, thorned bark.
The taller creature was at least the size of both the pigs in width combined. Grown from the carcass of a bear, its eyes caught the light of the fire in a dangerously intelligent sort of way, far sharper than the vacant clouded gazes of its porcine guard. Its body had been almost entirely replaced with vines and leafs and bark and roots. What fur remained was pale, wispy, and patched, revealing the white of its bone and the sharp dark contrast of its claws. Only the eyes remained, and some ancient flesh to keep them held within what should have been the empty sockets of its bare skull.
It too held no weapons, but its massive arms and hands topped with wicked curved claws seemed formidable enough.
Though he knew the ferahoms to be silent creatures, their soundless approach still served an eerie picture, even as Kysar spoke to break it with a steady hiss of breath, sword ready in his right and left searching through his pockets. “End the pigshits first, keep your distance from the big one.” Without glancing over his shoulder, he grunted out his next command with a heavy helping of disdain. “Stay back, abrogator.”
“Of course.” Mathias’ reply wasn’t needed, but he offered it anyway as his bright grey eyes quickly swept over the area to confirm the only threads they faced were right in front of them. From what he could tell, as his ether began to swarm from his fingertips, coalescing into invisible swarms that swept through the open air to hover, nearly buzzing, around the unsuspecting heads of the other two men, there were no further creatures to worry about. Still, as the minuscule spheres of his concentrated ether found their places and his shields shifted out of the realm of will into reality, gently forcing the warped air to shimmer just slightly in air a few inches in front of both men’s chests, he kept his ears focused on the steady creaking steps of the ferahoms.
If there were more, he would be ready.
Primrose stooped beside him, dipping her arrow into the flame and rising back into her stance in a single fluid movement. “On your right, Kysar.”
Without hesitation, the man ducked low – just enough time for Mathias to understand what was happening and shift his shield accordingly – as a streak of flame hissed through the air. As it struck the split-faced pig in the shoulder, Primrose sucked her teeth in frustration. The flame continued to flicker for a moment before the creature patted it out, leaving the arrow where it had lodged itself and continuing forward unimpeded.
Kysar, popping back up immediately after the arrow had cleared him, wasted no time. He lunged forward, blade whistling for a trill in the emptiness of the air before it connected with its intended target. Though they struck ghastly figures, their lengthened bodies provided ample targets for dismemberment. With a roar, Kysar’s muscles bulged beneath the cloth of his shirt as the blade met with vine and sinew.
There was the briefest of scrapes of bone upon metal before it was followed with the heavy thud of a head meeting the ground. The grass rustled as it rolled away, and the body that had been left behind took several jarring steps forward as if it had not yet realized its recent decapitation. Its long arms swung once, one after the other, in a futile retaliation as Kysar hopped backwards, sword swinging back around to brace its dull edge against his gloved hand in a bladed guard as he tactically retreated. Like a tree felled, the body let out a soft, gurgling sigh, viscous liquid bubbling uselessly from its neck, as it toppled over.
Neither Primrose nor Caetano took any notice of Kysar’s abrupt victory. Arrow drawn and lit once more, she fired off another shot, calling it briefly before she let loose, while Caetano stepped forward and to the side, axes swinging one after the other. This time, the arrow found its mark, lodging itself deep into the creature’s chest, flame flickering bright as it fought to latch itself onto the worn, leathered flesh and catch light. Both of its arms rose, one patting furiously at the fire, extinguishing it with little difficulty, as the other curled before its body, forcing Caetano’ axes to chip into the thick bark that ringed the vines and bones.
Mathias, too, realized where his attentions were needed without needing to be directed. Though the ursine beast was still a few steps away before it could become a threat, the pig’s struck out at Caetano’s face, his axes lodged in the bark and guard forcefully stripped. With a small jerk of his head, Mathias redirected his shield, air shifting and shimmering as if a mirror had been thrown at an alarming speed, to intercept the strike. Thick wooden spikes collided with the reinforced etheric buckler, large enough to completely cover Caetano’s head but not much else. They scraped over the surface, passing harmlessly across Caetano’s face, as the man instinctively braced for the impact, eyes squinted but not closed.
Primrose had already knocked another arrow and fired at the bear, embedding the flaming projectile deep into the looming bear ferahom’s left eye, as Kysar swung his sword in a quick arc, lopping off the pig’s offending arm by chopping through the slim chinks in its armour of bark.
Though surprised by his complete lack of harm, Caetano quickly recovered, yanking his right-hand axe free and smashing it back down – and through – the bark it had been caught in before. Though his left-handed axe still remained stuck in the bark, his mobility was returned to him; he hurried back several steps as he finally shook his axe free.
The bear, unimpeded by the now doused arrow that stuck out of its bony head, swiped at Kysar’s exposed left. Another twitch of his head and Mathias sent both his shields to intercept. The impact was incredible, and though he had intentionally positioned the shields one over the other in case the creature was just as strong – or stronger – than it appeared, the top-most shield shattered into nothing, while the second found itself halved in strength by a single blow. Brow raising as more ether slipped from his fingers to both repair and re-create, Mathias made no comment on the strength of the creature.
Kysar seemed to notice it all on his own, hastily backpedalling up the hill, sword gripped tight and a sharp, “Éush'qy.”
Caetano retreated as well – the now literally disarmed pig hesitating as it took stock of the situation – and regrouped with his red-headed companion. “You felt that, Ky?”
Primrose, brow furrowed and eyes sharp, readied another arrow as she took a step back, this one unlit as thus far it seemed the fire wasn’t having her intended effect. “That’s a big fuckin’ bear.”
