718 Vhalar 66...
Panic was a luxury.
There was something incredibly mortal that came with the overwhelming fear of one’s own impending death: the sudden seizing of the heart, the slowing of thought, the unavoidable mantra of “I’m going to die” repeated over and over and over again. It was a truly visceral thing – the sort of state in which realizations both grand and distressing might burst into one’s overwhelmed mind with revelation and epiphany. Yet it also seemed to have the strangest effect on one’s ability to draw logical, reasonable, conclusions based upon those newly gained insights.
“Death is coming”, the mind would say, to which one would unfailingly shout, “Then let it come!”
Perhaps it was the mind’s way of easing the soul into oblivion, preparing it for its service to the Wounded God Below. Rather than fear, it instilled blind rage – righteous indignation.
To fight.
To die.
And Mathias felt none of it.
As Primrose’s now fiery emerald gaze rose from Kysar’s severed head to the hulking mass of flesh and fibres that stood at least twice as tall as the headless body it dragged behind it, it was clear she was overcome with that same panic induced furore. Caetano, injured and immobilized, could only pale further, fingers scrabbling against the thorned bark limb that impaled him, tearing his own skin in a vain attempt to remove it. Mathias rose to his feet and placed a hand on Primrose’s shoulder, head shaking gently side to side. “We should run, Primrose.”
“The fuck we should.” Reclaiming the Caetano’s axe from Mathias’ loose grip, she swung at the limb, awkwardly cutting deep into the wood and vines, but only halfway. The force of the blow rocked through Caetano’s leg and he let out a brief shout of pain. The noise seemed to break whatever invisible, unknowable force that held the behemoth of a ferahom from advancing upon them, and it started forward with the slow, deliberate movements of a hunter arriving to finish off meat caught in a trap – unhurried and possessed.
Unlike the odd blend of slender and strong that the fruiting ferahom that now lay lifeless and oozing on the ground before them, leg still lodged firmly in the leg of the now sobbing mess that was Caetano as Primrose frantically tried to extricate the axe from the sticking bark she’d struck, the new creature was more of a poorly defined mass. It moved on several legs – some flesh and some bone, though the latter were more wet, slick vine than anything remotely humanoid. They were arranged similarly to a solid skirt, smaller limbs at the centre that lengthened with each diameter of attachment, leaving the outermost legs almost spider-like and barely touching the ground as the other, more central limbs shuffled and skittered to slowly bring it forward.
Its body looked very much like an old, worn child’s doll, torso after torso, male and female, had been fused together, a spiral of flesh and bone and leaf and root that wound its way up in what was essentially a pillar of meat. The thing had no discernable “head”, but among the chests and breasts and squirming, squelching vines, there were periodically placed eyes here and there – all different sizes and colours. Some of them even looked animal. Its arms sprouted from either side of its grotesquely twisted body. They were almost entirely braided vines that branched off into smaller tendrils whereupon the tips of the thick, durable fibres were topped with hands – and claws –, flesh fused to plant, the point of connection a sickly gangrene. The fingers are flexed and grasped at different rates, some slow and languid, others fast and frantic, and many of them made odd popping noises that only served to make the thing all the more disconcerting as the sound of twenty-odd pairs of bare feet scuffled along the loose, overgrown cobbles of the ancient road.
Like all ferahoms, though it was most certainly not human, it still retained a vaguely humanoid shape – albeit one without a head, much like Kysar’s bleeding, limp body. Parts of it looked just as ancient as the whisper of a wall that ran the empty barony’s perimeter, while others seemed incredibly fresh. Its seemingly long-lived life and sheer size made it a far more formidable thing to look at – let alone engage.
With another swing of the axe, Caetano was at last freed from the greater weight of the first ferahom, but it still stuck through him like an absurdly sized splinter. “Help me get him up.”
Though it was an order, Mathias shook his head, eyes fixed on the encroaching creature – who, in turn, had rolled most of its myriad eyes to do the same to him and Primrose. “No.”
“The fuck d’you mean ‘no’, we’re not-“
Caetano let out another anguished gasp of pain as he pushed himself up, clinging to Primrose’s shoulder as she glared furiously at the short, bright-eyed man across from her. “I can-“ Caetano started, skin more silver than olive now, coated as he was in his own blood. “I can run, just-“
“We take him, we die.” They were very quickly running out of time – the massive scurrying creature traversed an alarming amount of ground for how casually it seemed to move. “Leave or perish alongside him,” he calmly set down his ultimatum as he reached out and tore Caetano’s satchel of food from him, eliciting a weak groan of protest and a widening of Primrose’s eyes in both surprise and mounting lividity.
“Don’t you dare-“
But Mathias didn’t wait for her reply. Instead, the moment the satchel was secure in his hands, he picked up Caetano’s second discarded axe and hurried off down the path, somewhere between a brisk walk and a half jog.
“Mathias! Get back here, dammit!”
He did not get back there.
“Mathias! Mathias!” From what he’d seen of the creature’s pace, even without turning to look behind him, he knew it was upon them. Caetano’s scream was wordless, mixing in with the sickening crunch of bone and tearing of flesh. While he expected all of that, what he didn’t anticipate was the sound of a second pair of feet close behind him. “Vai-te foder, Mathias.”
It seemed Primrose had chosen life over a meaningless death after all. Though she was angry – furious? – with him, a second able body was most certainly an asset. As he and she ran together, away from Caetano’s weeping, pathetic calls for help he knew wasn’t coming, Mathias doubted Primrose would forgive him for abandoning her companion. At best, she would understand the necessity of it and be prepared to make the correct decision should their circumstances call for it again, but he wouldn’t be able to trust her – just as she hadn’t been able to trust him.
Not that it mattered all the much how they felt about one another. Alone, they would surely die anyway. They were allies of necessity now – to sacrifice one was to sacrifice the other.
They picked up their pace but did what they could move quietly – bent knees and short strides to keep their bags from jostling too loudly, keeping to the grasses and dirt to avoid the sharp rap of their boots’ heels against stone, and choosing to weave through the narrower streets and alleys rather than the main stretch, more so in an attempt to foil any pursuit the monstrosity might attempt than anything else.
Both kept their eyes sharp for any further trouble. The first two ferahoms had come out of nowhere, lurking in the decayed, dilapidated buildings out of sight until they’d made themselves known. Every turn of the corner, every passing ruined structure, both Mathis and Primrose tensed, but they found no lurking creatures waiting for them. If there were more, they were not anywhere near them. Sweat had long since formed on his brow, and it stained his shirt and forced his trousers to stick as he pressed on, breath shaking against the bars of his self-control to flow thick and heavy rather than controlled and quiet.
It had been some time since Caetano’s cries had finally petered out before Primrose grabbed his shoulder in a firm grip in a signal they should stop. Her eyes were reddened around the edges, but beyond that, she seemed much the same as before, only sweating and weary as he, no doubt, appeared as well. Without speaking, she pointed to the remains of what had once been a tower. From the scattered rubble around it, it must have been at least twice, if not three times the height it now stood, and at several stories high, it still struck an impressive silhouette against the darkening purples of the late evening sky.
With an understanding nod, Mathias followed after her, eyes set on the path ahead of him, avoiding loose stones and keeping to the grass as they’d done during their escape. His legs ached and chest burned, but they were small prices to pay for avoiding what had sounded like a most unpleasant death at the many hands of the multi-legged tower of flesh that roamed the streets somewhere in their wake. As they approached the tower, Mathias found himself blinking up in surprise as a very, very familiar voice gently floated down from one of the thin windows above.
“Well, it is about time, darling.”
Panic was a luxury.
There was something incredibly mortal that came with the overwhelming fear of one’s own impending death: the sudden seizing of the heart, the slowing of thought, the unavoidable mantra of “I’m going to die” repeated over and over and over again. It was a truly visceral thing – the sort of state in which realizations both grand and distressing might burst into one’s overwhelmed mind with revelation and epiphany. Yet it also seemed to have the strangest effect on one’s ability to draw logical, reasonable, conclusions based upon those newly gained insights.
“Death is coming”, the mind would say, to which one would unfailingly shout, “Then let it come!”
Perhaps it was the mind’s way of easing the soul into oblivion, preparing it for its service to the Wounded God Below. Rather than fear, it instilled blind rage – righteous indignation.
To fight.
To die.
And Mathias felt none of it.
As Primrose’s now fiery emerald gaze rose from Kysar’s severed head to the hulking mass of flesh and fibres that stood at least twice as tall as the headless body it dragged behind it, it was clear she was overcome with that same panic induced furore. Caetano, injured and immobilized, could only pale further, fingers scrabbling against the thorned bark limb that impaled him, tearing his own skin in a vain attempt to remove it. Mathias rose to his feet and placed a hand on Primrose’s shoulder, head shaking gently side to side. “We should run, Primrose.”
“The fuck we should.” Reclaiming the Caetano’s axe from Mathias’ loose grip, she swung at the limb, awkwardly cutting deep into the wood and vines, but only halfway. The force of the blow rocked through Caetano’s leg and he let out a brief shout of pain. The noise seemed to break whatever invisible, unknowable force that held the behemoth of a ferahom from advancing upon them, and it started forward with the slow, deliberate movements of a hunter arriving to finish off meat caught in a trap – unhurried and possessed.
Unlike the odd blend of slender and strong that the fruiting ferahom that now lay lifeless and oozing on the ground before them, leg still lodged firmly in the leg of the now sobbing mess that was Caetano as Primrose frantically tried to extricate the axe from the sticking bark she’d struck, the new creature was more of a poorly defined mass. It moved on several legs – some flesh and some bone, though the latter were more wet, slick vine than anything remotely humanoid. They were arranged similarly to a solid skirt, smaller limbs at the centre that lengthened with each diameter of attachment, leaving the outermost legs almost spider-like and barely touching the ground as the other, more central limbs shuffled and skittered to slowly bring it forward.
Its body looked very much like an old, worn child’s doll, torso after torso, male and female, had been fused together, a spiral of flesh and bone and leaf and root that wound its way up in what was essentially a pillar of meat. The thing had no discernable “head”, but among the chests and breasts and squirming, squelching vines, there were periodically placed eyes here and there – all different sizes and colours. Some of them even looked animal. Its arms sprouted from either side of its grotesquely twisted body. They were almost entirely braided vines that branched off into smaller tendrils whereupon the tips of the thick, durable fibres were topped with hands – and claws –, flesh fused to plant, the point of connection a sickly gangrene. The fingers are flexed and grasped at different rates, some slow and languid, others fast and frantic, and many of them made odd popping noises that only served to make the thing all the more disconcerting as the sound of twenty-odd pairs of bare feet scuffled along the loose, overgrown cobbles of the ancient road.
Like all ferahoms, though it was most certainly not human, it still retained a vaguely humanoid shape – albeit one without a head, much like Kysar’s bleeding, limp body. Parts of it looked just as ancient as the whisper of a wall that ran the empty barony’s perimeter, while others seemed incredibly fresh. Its seemingly long-lived life and sheer size made it a far more formidable thing to look at – let alone engage.
With another swing of the axe, Caetano was at last freed from the greater weight of the first ferahom, but it still stuck through him like an absurdly sized splinter. “Help me get him up.”
Though it was an order, Mathias shook his head, eyes fixed on the encroaching creature – who, in turn, had rolled most of its myriad eyes to do the same to him and Primrose. “No.”
“The fuck d’you mean ‘no’, we’re not-“
Caetano let out another anguished gasp of pain as he pushed himself up, clinging to Primrose’s shoulder as she glared furiously at the short, bright-eyed man across from her. “I can-“ Caetano started, skin more silver than olive now, coated as he was in his own blood. “I can run, just-“
“We take him, we die.” They were very quickly running out of time – the massive scurrying creature traversed an alarming amount of ground for how casually it seemed to move. “Leave or perish alongside him,” he calmly set down his ultimatum as he reached out and tore Caetano’s satchel of food from him, eliciting a weak groan of protest and a widening of Primrose’s eyes in both surprise and mounting lividity.
“Don’t you dare-“
But Mathias didn’t wait for her reply. Instead, the moment the satchel was secure in his hands, he picked up Caetano’s second discarded axe and hurried off down the path, somewhere between a brisk walk and a half jog.
“Mathias! Get back here, dammit!”
He did not get back there.
“Mathias! Mathias!” From what he’d seen of the creature’s pace, even without turning to look behind him, he knew it was upon them. Caetano’s scream was wordless, mixing in with the sickening crunch of bone and tearing of flesh. While he expected all of that, what he didn’t anticipate was the sound of a second pair of feet close behind him. “Vai-te foder, Mathias.”
It seemed Primrose had chosen life over a meaningless death after all. Though she was angry – furious? – with him, a second able body was most certainly an asset. As he and she ran together, away from Caetano’s weeping, pathetic calls for help he knew wasn’t coming, Mathias doubted Primrose would forgive him for abandoning her companion. At best, she would understand the necessity of it and be prepared to make the correct decision should their circumstances call for it again, but he wouldn’t be able to trust her – just as she hadn’t been able to trust him.
Not that it mattered all the much how they felt about one another. Alone, they would surely die anyway. They were allies of necessity now – to sacrifice one was to sacrifice the other.
They picked up their pace but did what they could move quietly – bent knees and short strides to keep their bags from jostling too loudly, keeping to the grasses and dirt to avoid the sharp rap of their boots’ heels against stone, and choosing to weave through the narrower streets and alleys rather than the main stretch, more so in an attempt to foil any pursuit the monstrosity might attempt than anything else.
Both kept their eyes sharp for any further trouble. The first two ferahoms had come out of nowhere, lurking in the decayed, dilapidated buildings out of sight until they’d made themselves known. Every turn of the corner, every passing ruined structure, both Mathis and Primrose tensed, but they found no lurking creatures waiting for them. If there were more, they were not anywhere near them. Sweat had long since formed on his brow, and it stained his shirt and forced his trousers to stick as he pressed on, breath shaking against the bars of his self-control to flow thick and heavy rather than controlled and quiet.
It had been some time since Caetano’s cries had finally petered out before Primrose grabbed his shoulder in a firm grip in a signal they should stop. Her eyes were reddened around the edges, but beyond that, she seemed much the same as before, only sweating and weary as he, no doubt, appeared as well. Without speaking, she pointed to the remains of what had once been a tower. From the scattered rubble around it, it must have been at least twice, if not three times the height it now stood, and at several stories high, it still struck an impressive silhouette against the darkening purples of the late evening sky.
With an understanding nod, Mathias followed after her, eyes set on the path ahead of him, avoiding loose stones and keeping to the grass as they’d done during their escape. His legs ached and chest burned, but they were small prices to pay for avoiding what had sounded like a most unpleasant death at the many hands of the multi-legged tower of flesh that roamed the streets somewhere in their wake. As they approached the tower, Mathias found himself blinking up in surprise as a very, very familiar voice gently floated down from one of the thin windows above.
“Well, it is about time, darling.”
