718 Vhalar 65...
Heavy steps brought the twisted nightmare of what was left of a bear-infested with creep forward. It had been many arcs since the creature had lost its bottom jaw, many more since its once glorious coat of thick, rough fur had hung heavy and arm around it. It had had a life, once, long before it could remember – as it no longer was able to. Now it was part of something more, something greater, something… vermicular.
It had wound its way through bone and flesh. It had torn and cracked and ripped and rotted. It had unmade and remade. No longer was the bear a bear – it was ferahom. It was a soldier, a body, to fight in a war the creature it had been cast from had wanted no part in, had had no knowledge of. It was a tool, a weapon, a device to be used against the meat, the maggots and cockroaches that skittered about the desiccated remains of that city – The City.
To what end, not even the creature knew nor any of its kind. Knowledge was given, not shared, and there was nothing but emptiness - emptiness within and without. It was a howling sort of loneliness. A great void of nothing that pressed in around from all angle, threating – screaming – to squeeze the life out of it. Yet, it was a lifeless thing, in truth, and though the abyss squeezed and squeezed, there was nothing to be drawn forth but despair – only, despair so forgotten it was nothing more than a quiet whisper of a moan.
“It’s slow.” The red-haired Kysar spoke through gritted teeth, breath coming in steady but haggard, sweat on his brow and eyes bright and defiant. “But tough as fuck.” Dark green sap, effectively black in the light of the campfire, dripped from the guard of the man’s sword. He kept his distance from the ferahom, its now singular eye watching him as the creature gradually circled, all four of the party shifting in compensation.
Several breaks before, Primrose had cast her bow aside in favour of a torch, its flaming end more so keeping the beast at bay than anything else they’d been able to manage. “Why’s it keeping distance? Why’s it-“
“Maybe better to worry about the ‘why’ after we, y’know, kill it,” Caetano grunted, rolling his shoulders, hands still gripping his axes but far more loosely.
“Yes, but… how do we do that, exactly?” Mathias had retreated to the edge of the packed dirt of their campsite, shifting now and then to kick the crawling, seeking tendrils of creep from the heels of his boots. “The moment one of you gets close-“
“Yes, stranger,” Kysar spat the word out, his frustration – for once – more so directed at the ferahom than the young man behind him. “We all know what happens.”
With a lurch, the bear moved forward, and Primrose unflinchingly brandished her torch as she’d done countless times already. As they all knew to expect, the creature blinked once before it stepped back once more, eying them with what was assumed to be caution – though, in truth, it could have been anything.
“Either way, we can’t keep doing this.” Eyes shimmering a light shade of sky blue, Caetano shook his head, using the soft of his wrist to wipe away some of his sweat.
“If you are all confident you can dispatch it if you are able to get close enough,” Mathias spoke quietly and calmly. His spark had grown colder, and he could feel the strain on his soul, but he had ether left enough for the time being. “I will provide the opportunity.”
“And how’re you-“
Primrose’s tired but firm voice interrupted Kysar’s grouse, “He’s kept that redhead on your shoulders so far, hasn’t he?” She received a brief grunt but no further questioning. “We go on your signal, Mathias.”
Nodding, slowly, he reached down into the chill of his spark, the cold marble of glass that sat squarely in the centre of his soul. Unfocused ether flowed through it, condensing and concentrating into spheres and cubes, bursting forth from his fingertips to swarm around him in a silent, unseeable buzz of activity. Each sphere, all seventy-six million of them, found its place along the template in his head; four million thirty-six hundred five here, seventeen thousand thirty there… and in each, an even smaller, sharp edge cube lodge itself within each sphere.
“Go.”
The three of them moved as one, familiar with one another out of both necessity and the time they had spent together over the arcs. Though Mathias remained where he was, his bright eyes were focused solely on positioning the elongated, reinforced shield an inch in front of Kysar and Caetano as the men charged forward in tandem, weapons brandished. The shield itself was curved, large enough to cover their entire bodies but incredibly thin – a sheer shroud that only just warped the air within, catching now dying light of the fire with the faintest of flickers.
Large, sharp claws clacked together as the creature raised an arm, readying itself for what was going to be the end of the meat, of the disturbance – a return to the silence. Only, as its large, unflinching swipe connected with not the men but the air in front of them, there was, for the briefest of moments, resistance. Then, all the force that had been intended to tear open the guts of the noisy meat exploded outward from them instead. Unprepared, the creature took the full impact, staggering backwards as the bones of its chest snapped and splintered, vines writhing.
It had no time to recover.
Kysar’s sword sunk deep into the things chest – the ribs clearly displayed and easily avoided. Caetano’s axes slashed through the creature’s stomach, dark ooze speckling the ground with each subsequent cut as he hacked away with a speed that was just short of frenzy. With his free hand, Kysar drew a small earthen vial from his pocket and, in the same motion as he wrenched his sword free to reveal a deep hold into the ursine beast’s core, smashed the top of the vial against the flat of his sword before shoving it into the wound.
Immediately, the wet scent of oil filled the air – a trill before both men stepped to the side, their attacks now focused on the thing's arms as the ferahom slowly began to attempt to retaliate –, and Primrose followed through with her flaming torch, jabbing it into the wound. A magic mundane but just as powerful, the fire caught the oil alight in an instant, rushing down the small trail where it had trickled from the hole in its chest.
Creepborne didn’t feel pain or fear, so they said. Yet, as the flames rose higher, the artificially accelerated heat searing vine and flesh and hair and bone, that singular eye widened, and Mathias saw – or thought he saw – true misery bound tight in agony as their gazes met. He felt nothing for it, nor did he believe it felt anything for him – or perhaps even anything at all – but, as it staggered backwards, the flames beginning to consume it as Kysar and Caetano succeeded at last in rending its arms from its body, he found himself transfixed by its pathetic demise.
It had been so strong and capable, a creature specifically designed to kill them, to further whatever agenda it was the creep had, if any. They had fought and struggled and, in the end, as they stood around the smouldering corpse watching Caetano behead it just to be certain, they had won. They had survived.
It was a strange sensation, knowing one’s life had been at risk of being lost. More and more often, Mathias found himself in such situations, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was merely the nature of pursuing one’s curiosities – one’s drives and motives. He didn’t dislike it, skirting around death’s watchful gaze. Each victory was strengthening, a quiet acknowledgement that he was, simply put, better than the fallen.
And yet, like the still bodies around him that had once been formidable entities in and of themselves, he wondered how long death would allow him his careful teetering on the edge of its deep and endless abyss.
“Well,” Caetano spoke slowly, staring up at the others as he cleaned the blades of his axes on the shivering grass at the edge of their campsite. “Ky on first watch, then?”
Primrose, tying her three braids together about her head with a thin strip of cloth, nodded wearily. “If you’re up for it.” She offered him a questioning raise of her brow, which he brushed off with a nod.
“Fine with me.” He, too, was more reserved than before. “Sleep light.” Casually, he coiled an elongated arm of bark and vine that had belonged to the split-faced porcine ferahom into the fire, stoking it brighter and bringing some life to the fading pale yellow of its flame. “There’s always more.”
Heavy steps brought the twisted nightmare of what was left of a bear-infested with creep forward. It had been many arcs since the creature had lost its bottom jaw, many more since its once glorious coat of thick, rough fur had hung heavy and arm around it. It had had a life, once, long before it could remember – as it no longer was able to. Now it was part of something more, something greater, something… vermicular.
It had wound its way through bone and flesh. It had torn and cracked and ripped and rotted. It had unmade and remade. No longer was the bear a bear – it was ferahom. It was a soldier, a body, to fight in a war the creature it had been cast from had wanted no part in, had had no knowledge of. It was a tool, a weapon, a device to be used against the meat, the maggots and cockroaches that skittered about the desiccated remains of that city – The City.
To what end, not even the creature knew nor any of its kind. Knowledge was given, not shared, and there was nothing but emptiness - emptiness within and without. It was a howling sort of loneliness. A great void of nothing that pressed in around from all angle, threating – screaming – to squeeze the life out of it. Yet, it was a lifeless thing, in truth, and though the abyss squeezed and squeezed, there was nothing to be drawn forth but despair – only, despair so forgotten it was nothing more than a quiet whisper of a moan.
“It’s slow.” The red-haired Kysar spoke through gritted teeth, breath coming in steady but haggard, sweat on his brow and eyes bright and defiant. “But tough as fuck.” Dark green sap, effectively black in the light of the campfire, dripped from the guard of the man’s sword. He kept his distance from the ferahom, its now singular eye watching him as the creature gradually circled, all four of the party shifting in compensation.
Several breaks before, Primrose had cast her bow aside in favour of a torch, its flaming end more so keeping the beast at bay than anything else they’d been able to manage. “Why’s it keeping distance? Why’s it-“
“Maybe better to worry about the ‘why’ after we, y’know, kill it,” Caetano grunted, rolling his shoulders, hands still gripping his axes but far more loosely.
“Yes, but… how do we do that, exactly?” Mathias had retreated to the edge of the packed dirt of their campsite, shifting now and then to kick the crawling, seeking tendrils of creep from the heels of his boots. “The moment one of you gets close-“
“Yes, stranger,” Kysar spat the word out, his frustration – for once – more so directed at the ferahom than the young man behind him. “We all know what happens.”
With a lurch, the bear moved forward, and Primrose unflinchingly brandished her torch as she’d done countless times already. As they all knew to expect, the creature blinked once before it stepped back once more, eying them with what was assumed to be caution – though, in truth, it could have been anything.
“Either way, we can’t keep doing this.” Eyes shimmering a light shade of sky blue, Caetano shook his head, using the soft of his wrist to wipe away some of his sweat.
“If you are all confident you can dispatch it if you are able to get close enough,” Mathias spoke quietly and calmly. His spark had grown colder, and he could feel the strain on his soul, but he had ether left enough for the time being. “I will provide the opportunity.”
“And how’re you-“
Primrose’s tired but firm voice interrupted Kysar’s grouse, “He’s kept that redhead on your shoulders so far, hasn’t he?” She received a brief grunt but no further questioning. “We go on your signal, Mathias.”
Nodding, slowly, he reached down into the chill of his spark, the cold marble of glass that sat squarely in the centre of his soul. Unfocused ether flowed through it, condensing and concentrating into spheres and cubes, bursting forth from his fingertips to swarm around him in a silent, unseeable buzz of activity. Each sphere, all seventy-six million of them, found its place along the template in his head; four million thirty-six hundred five here, seventeen thousand thirty there… and in each, an even smaller, sharp edge cube lodge itself within each sphere.
“Go.”
The three of them moved as one, familiar with one another out of both necessity and the time they had spent together over the arcs. Though Mathias remained where he was, his bright eyes were focused solely on positioning the elongated, reinforced shield an inch in front of Kysar and Caetano as the men charged forward in tandem, weapons brandished. The shield itself was curved, large enough to cover their entire bodies but incredibly thin – a sheer shroud that only just warped the air within, catching now dying light of the fire with the faintest of flickers.
Large, sharp claws clacked together as the creature raised an arm, readying itself for what was going to be the end of the meat, of the disturbance – a return to the silence. Only, as its large, unflinching swipe connected with not the men but the air in front of them, there was, for the briefest of moments, resistance. Then, all the force that had been intended to tear open the guts of the noisy meat exploded outward from them instead. Unprepared, the creature took the full impact, staggering backwards as the bones of its chest snapped and splintered, vines writhing.
It had no time to recover.
Kysar’s sword sunk deep into the things chest – the ribs clearly displayed and easily avoided. Caetano’s axes slashed through the creature’s stomach, dark ooze speckling the ground with each subsequent cut as he hacked away with a speed that was just short of frenzy. With his free hand, Kysar drew a small earthen vial from his pocket and, in the same motion as he wrenched his sword free to reveal a deep hold into the ursine beast’s core, smashed the top of the vial against the flat of his sword before shoving it into the wound.
Immediately, the wet scent of oil filled the air – a trill before both men stepped to the side, their attacks now focused on the thing's arms as the ferahom slowly began to attempt to retaliate –, and Primrose followed through with her flaming torch, jabbing it into the wound. A magic mundane but just as powerful, the fire caught the oil alight in an instant, rushing down the small trail where it had trickled from the hole in its chest.
Creepborne didn’t feel pain or fear, so they said. Yet, as the flames rose higher, the artificially accelerated heat searing vine and flesh and hair and bone, that singular eye widened, and Mathias saw – or thought he saw – true misery bound tight in agony as their gazes met. He felt nothing for it, nor did he believe it felt anything for him – or perhaps even anything at all – but, as it staggered backwards, the flames beginning to consume it as Kysar and Caetano succeeded at last in rending its arms from its body, he found himself transfixed by its pathetic demise.
It had been so strong and capable, a creature specifically designed to kill them, to further whatever agenda it was the creep had, if any. They had fought and struggled and, in the end, as they stood around the smouldering corpse watching Caetano behead it just to be certain, they had won. They had survived.
It was a strange sensation, knowing one’s life had been at risk of being lost. More and more often, Mathias found himself in such situations, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was merely the nature of pursuing one’s curiosities – one’s drives and motives. He didn’t dislike it, skirting around death’s watchful gaze. Each victory was strengthening, a quiet acknowledgement that he was, simply put, better than the fallen.
And yet, like the still bodies around him that had once been formidable entities in and of themselves, he wondered how long death would allow him his careful teetering on the edge of its deep and endless abyss.
“Well,” Caetano spoke slowly, staring up at the others as he cleaned the blades of his axes on the shivering grass at the edge of their campsite. “Ky on first watch, then?”
Primrose, tying her three braids together about her head with a thin strip of cloth, nodded wearily. “If you’re up for it.” She offered him a questioning raise of her brow, which he brushed off with a nod.
“Fine with me.” He, too, was more reserved than before. “Sleep light.” Casually, he coiled an elongated arm of bark and vine that had belonged to the split-faced porcine ferahom into the fire, stoking it brighter and bringing some life to the fading pale yellow of its flame. “There’s always more.”
