agentsofvenn

[agentsofvenn]

Commission of Cromdhu for @assipattle! 🍃

[agentsofvenn]

Le Bien Qui Fait Mal 

There was a tension in the evening air as Dionaea sat on the bleachers in the temporary amphitheatre set up for the show. Around her people conversed excitedly, giggling and glancing at the stage below.

It was not her show, or even her troupe, performing but Dionaea had been going out of her way to watch other performances. Truth be told Dionaea was looking for inspiration for her own performance and paintings. Her usual act was starting to lack a spark, despite the electrocution rods, and she hadn't finished a painting in months. The large pile of burnt canvases that sat outside her caravan were evidence of her frustration. 

So far her plan of watching shows had been a wash out. Oh they had all had interesting components to them, but Dionaea always left afterwards feeling empty. But this show had been getting rave reviews, tickets were like gold dust so the cultist leaned back in her seat as the lights dimmed and waited in hope this was the answer.

The music washed over her as she rested her head in her hand. An hour into the first act and Dionaea had given up on the show. It was a mystery how it had been given such praise in the entertainment circles. Huffing a sigh the Rakdos cultist listened to the crowd, the general audience seemed to be happy anyway but she herself was miserable. 

The waste of money and energy to now sit here watching this dross irritated Dionaea. Good thing she never paid for the ticket, it had been "gifted" to her by an admirer, otherwise she would have been most upset. 

Flashes of fireworks lit up the sky above as the cultist pulled out the ticket from her corset. Scanning the front of it Dionaea scowled at the advertising on it promising that the show was a "once in a lifetime event". Clearly the show producers had put more time and money into the advertising and bribing critics rather than the actual performance itself. The cultist clicked her tongue in annoyance, how droll. 

Just as she was going to rip the ticket up and leave when there was a change in the air. Underneath the sound of fireworks and drums a heavy dull thud started to beat out. Frowning, Dionaea, cocked her head to side trying to figure out the direction of the strange sound. 

From the heavy clouded night sky a gust of wind caught her attention. Another gust, much stronger so that it stirred her hair peeking from under her cowl came, accompanied by the loud bang of what sounded like thunder.  Dionaea looked skyward wondering if a storm was bearing down on them all when blazing light cut through the clouds of the night sky. Her, recently tattooed black sclera, eyes going wide Dionaea gasped in wonder as a hulking figure crashed down from on high like a falling star from the heavens above. Thirty foot high with wings that spanned twice that and a crown of flame that matched the monstrous scythe of fire that the figure held. Rakdos Lord of Riots, the Showstopper, Guild leader of his self titled cult stood in all his terrible glory right in front of the stage. Dwarfing everything in sight his landing unending the bleachers causing audience members to scatter while screaming. It was truly an abominable sight to behold, Dionaea's heart skipped a beat and a blush dusted her cheeks.

Dionaea was transfixed as some people around her started to run. The bleachers she herself was sitting on shook violently under her at the tremors of impact from the Demon Lords landing.

"ENTERTAIN ME," Rakdos ordered, the performers scrabbling about to their places to begin, hurried conversations as they all scurried. "DON'T MAKE ME WAIT FOOLS." The demon warned as he leaned down low to watch the stage. 

Dionaea's world zeroed in until all that remained was her Lord. She had, of course, heard his voice in Rix Maadi, it wasn't as if you could miss it, as he held court. Now the prime age of 21 and a half Dionaea used to boast she had actually glimpsed the Lord of Chaos once in the guild hall. But now to see him fully in the flesh, his full glory unconstrained, her head spun at the sensation. 

Despite sitting at the highest point of the makeshift amphitheatre Dionaea still had to crane her neck up to see his face, her position giving her a perfect profile of his monstrous visage. Tucking her legs up the cultist rested her arms on them so she could hold her head in utter rapture.

The show below started with a sudden announcement as the players threw themselves into their parts. It might have impressed Dionaea if she was paying them the slightest attention but her eyes were scanning the figure of Rakdos. Analysing each inch of him, the colour and tone of his skin, the sharp contrast the blazing light of his scythe played on his hulking flesh. She willed her mind to emblaze it in her mind, brand her complete devotion to him on her soul as the unimaginable heat poured off him and his weapon.

Dionaea was in no way the only audience member left, there were other curious to the Demon Lords verdict on the show. They didn't need to wait long. A bark of a laugh that echoed like a clap of thunder made her blink for a moment out of her gaze.

"YOU DARE INSULT ME WITH THIS GARBAGE?!" The demon declared. Around Dionaea the last of the nosey audience scattered shrieking as an evil looking flaming scythe arced down making impact with the stage. 

Dionaea didn't flinch a muscle as fire exploded around her. Towers of flame climbed around the amphitheatre, heating her flesh so as it almost matched the scorching energy in her veins. An angry gust of wind hit the lone cultist making her raise her arm to protect her face as her cowl flew back. Smoke and fire scorched her lungs making her cough and splutter painfully.

The hulking figure had stretched his wings out smashing what was left of the amphitheatre supports. As he started to rise the gusts from his wings fed the fires causing a wave of flames to ripple across the bleachers. The sides of the stage engulfed in the inferno framed Rakdos in an emblazen halo of angry fire and smoke. Dionaea couldn't shift her gaze as her Lord lifted up high in the air, flaming debris fluttered off him transforming his visage. "No" Dionaea thought it was a transfiguration. 

Fire surrounded her, crowding her vision as her world suddenly tilted and fell away. Her last memory before diving backwards into choking smoke and flame was Rakdos figure disappearing into the heavy hung clouds and pillars of smoke.

"Rakdos take me." She prayed before all went dark.

Screaming and rushing of people was what woke Dionaea. Her eyes flickered open slowly and she immediately started coughing painfully. She could taste smoke and soot coating the inside of her mouth and throat. As the world started to come into focus the cultist saw the smouldering ruins of the amphitheatre lying around her. The cultist dragged in shake breaths and took a moment to internally assess any injuries to herself. Everything ached but nothing seemed broken, which was a miracle in itself till, she felt the tell tale squishyness of broken bodies under her. She groaned and started to roll over to get up and was met with charred, bloody remains of unlucky audience members that had cushioned her fall from above.

Shouting and rushing of bodies swept past her as water rained down and starting to quench the fire. No one seemed to notice her as she shakily got to her feet, still hunched over, she unfolded herself to a standing position. Gasping and spluttering Dionaea tried to gulp in air but her lungs still burned, the smell of burnt flesh clawing at her. She took a small comfort in the familiar smell.  

The cultist looked down at herself and saw the badly singed damage to her clothes. Running a hand through her hair she felt that it had not escaped the onslaught either. 

"Fuck, me." She rasped, holding her throat coughing, Dionaea turned her head to the side and spat out a mouthful of soot.

Dionaea balled her fists into her stinging eyes rubbing at them and smudging grime over her face. Swaying unsteadily the cultist started staggering off in any direction that was away. Her footsteps heavy and dragging as her flesh seemed to still feel like it was burning. It seemed like hours that she wandered in a daze, her feet seemingly walking in a set course but her mind was totally disconnected and only filled with the image of flames.

What a sight she had witnessed. What glory that her Lord had bestowed upon her. Dionaea started shrugging out of her costume in an attempt to cool down. She wiped at the sweat on her brow as she continued forward in her trance. If anyone noticed the cultist state or actions of undressing they didn't approach her. Not that it would have been noticed by her. 

Dionaeas brain burned in a mad fever and despite her state the cultist saw that she was standing in front of her caravan. She had no idea what time it was or even who she was at this point as she blindly lurched through into her home.

Standing in the main room she ran a hand through singed hair and swayed violently. Tugging at what remained of her clothing she groaned in relief as they dropped to the floor. She was burning up from the inside, seeing the majesty, the splendour, of the Lord of Riots had set her mind ablaze. Surely it had to be the honour of witnessing him that caused this feverish ecstasy. This built up tension that scorched her blood, that called out to be released.

Without thinking Dionaea staggered over to her easel, a blank canvas already waiting and then opened her mind and splayed it out in paint. Her hands moved in a frenzy, at times dropping the brushes and using her bare hands to convey her terrible devotion, her worship, of her Lord. 

She didn't know how long she had been painting, hours, days even weeks could have passed by in a fever dream. This exaltation that possessed her couldn't be stopped till Dionaea expressed the grandeur Rakdos had set off in her. All the cultist knew was she had to put this feeling down on canvas, or canvases. There was at least half a dozen scattered over her home now. 

As she was finishing her last painting the door behind her barged open and daylight spilled in, casting a harsh silhouette in front of her. There was talking voices she recognised as she stood there dumbly, her hands dropped limply at her sides. With ragged breath Dionaea crumpled to her knees, she was done. Looking up at the painting she saw the swirling chaos, the cruel fire that decimated and consumed, together they birthed utter resplendent pandemonium. CoId sweat clung to her skin as she raised her hands to her face and laughed. It was ragged and ripped from her throat as the demented sound rang out. Yes, this was what she had longed for for so long, for the world to witness.

Giggling to herself Dionaea didn't notice the soft touch of gentle hands draping a blanket over her shivering form. Soothing voices whispering to her as those careful hands gently lifted her and led her to bed. Lying down, her body shuddered severely to the point of near convulsions as the rush of adrenalin fueling her for days was suddenly gone. Her brain started to shut down as exhaustion took her, her mind foggy as a cool damp cloth was placed on her forehead. A gentle wipe across to clear the soot that still clung to her as a voice close to her ear whispered.

"It's ok Pumpkin, we're here," her mother soothed tucking her daughter under the blankets. "Dionaea," her mother continued. "We knew you were talented, but your work here," there was a moment of silence, "Is magnificent." she crooned with pride as she wiped at Dionaea's forehead again with the damp cloth. 

Dionaea felt a giggle bubble out of her without any thought behind it. She was so tired, a wonderful euphoria filled her body as sleep dragged at her. Closing her eyes the last sensation Dionaea had before unconsciousness was the comforting presence of her parents by her side.

It wasn't until two days later that Dionaea woke up again. When she did, it was to the smell of food cooking and the humming of her mother at the stove. Then the young cultist was told that her parents and troupe had been worried at her prolonged absence. They all knew that when Dionaea was working that she didn't want to be disturbed but the lack of any sign of life for nearly a week had concerned them. Especially as there had been no word to her parents about her leaving on a trip. So now a new front door was being fitted to replace the old one that her father had kicked in an effort to check if anything had happened to her.

Dionaea took the half hearted scolding from her parents and troupe with good grace. The state they had found her in was explanation enough for her silence and her finished paintings, now a definite number of six, seemed to placate and captivate them all.

Now sitting up in bed with a teacup in hand, the artist watched with a burning pride as they had marvelled at her work. Once she was steady on her feet Dionaea knew that there was only one place she could exhibit them. 

Sipping at the tea there was a flutter of butterflies at the thought of her source of inspiration being able to see them. Oh well, Dionaea was never one to run away when her mind was decided. 

Hiding a blush creeping over her cheeks, a giggle escaped Dionaea before she put the cup down. Settling down under her quilt, in her nest of pillows the cultist closed her eyes and bit her lip in excitement at the possibility of being able to see him again. Dionaea smiled happily as she started to drift off into slumber, her dreams filled with screams and fire and a certain persons booming voice commanding it all.

"Rakdos take me." She prayed falling asleep.

[agentsofvenn]

The Accompaniment

The performance hall was like something out of a winter diorama, silent and empty, not a speck of dust settling upon the richly decorated surfaces. The whole place smelled of cleaning agent and wood polish, and the curtains swayed like solemn dancers along the snow-speckled windows. Merrith kept an eye out as he stole softly into the room, hands jammed into the threadbare pockets of his coat. He felt out of place, his ragged presence seeming like an insult to the room.

He weaved through the little clusters of tables and chairs, arranged seemingly at random throughout the space. Perhaps he just didn’t get this sort of thing but he’d have thought everyone would be positioned to see the stage. It did take up over a third of the room after all, dominating one horizon. And upon the stage was…

...Was exactly what he was looking for.

“My, and there I thought I was as careful as could be. Very nicely done Justicar, and how precisely did you find me here?” Myvin stood in pride of place on the stage, his spindly form perfectly poised, hands behind his back. They wore some kind of outlandish armour, engravings of a musical staff twisting serpentine over the dull iron. Their mask was in the same vein, but blank other than a single hole through which the figure’s sharp eye twinkled. Merrith had faced down the most hardened criminals, insane guild members and the horrors of the Undercity, but this bard’s eerie calm gave him pause. He approached.

“I’d love to say I pieced together something, but to be honest I got a list of every musical institution and performance space on register and went down the line until I found you.”

“Sheer luck then? How wonderfully prosaic.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to being disappointing.”

“No matter, all the best tales have a degree of artistic license.”

“This ain’t the best tales. How long have you operated in my world?”

“Oh, long enough to get a wonderful education at one of your top establishments. Ravnican musical theory is in a better spot than my home, my compliments to your plane.”

“You can tell my plane yourself when I take you in.” His grip tightened around the handle of his hand crossbow, thrust through a hole in his pocket. This was met by a sigh as Myvin turned his back, every movement dancer-fluid and precise. 

“But Justicar, I haven’t even had a chance to show you what I’ve learned. How can you possibly arrest me if you haven’t evidence?” One of the murderer’s hands extended outwards, their fingers snapping in a way Merrith wasn’t sure could happen while wearing gloves. Merrith took two steps back as he heard movement from the servant’s entrance on the right side of the room, lips thinning.

“Performers to your positions, we have an audience.” What must have been the establishment’s staff shuffled out, each one looking famished and terrified. Each held a crude violin that, as far as he could tell, had been cobbled together out of whatever came to hand, with a bow of similar disrepair. It was obvious that they were moving against their will, their eyes reddened and leaking tears as whatever compulsion laid upon them brought their bows up against the strings.

“...Let these people go, they’re not a part of this.”

“I beg to differ Justicar. Unfortunately you have not the tone I am looking for, but a good performer is always looking for proper accompaniment.” Bow hit string, each one creating a different, cacophonous noise from their blasphemous instruments that seemed to fill the room in ear-splitting discord.

“Rgh…!” Merrith flinched, or at least he tried to, but he found his body leaden and numb, the enchanted screeching burrowing into his head. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to marshal whatever willpower he could to resist this profane enchantment. “I’ve got a squad of arresters twenty feet away, you’re making a mistake…!”

“Oh come now Justicar, if you had such backup at your disposal it would have already been committed. You came here on a hunch, and it shall cost you.” Myvin’s voice had gained a contemptuous edge, their single visible eye flashing as their thralls did their reluctant work. Merrith’s head throbbed, and he could feel control of his body slipping away. He had to do...something…

His finger closed around the trigger of the weapon, and he felt a white-hot lance of pain as the bolt buried itself in his leg. He almost fell over, a growl of pain lost in the cacophony. His superiors had always told him that he was gonna shoot himself in the foot, but this…

It hurt like nothing else, but for that one moment of sheer, adrenaline-soaked agony he was himself. He lurched to the side, marshalling his magic as he pointed towards the performers. As suddenly as they’d started their onslaught cut off, magical noise replaced with magical stillness. Blessed silence, other than his own ragged breathing. Without waiting to see the result he turned and tore for the exit, his gait halted by injury but heightened by desperation. Another sigh was all that Myvin seemed interested in contributing to the mess, and that was fine by Merrith as he ran for it. 

“If I may offer a professional critique Justicar, next time do not come so boldly.” 

He didn’t stop running until exhaustion and loss of blood forced him to, and he collapsed in the silent street. Snow staining red around him, he took a deep, ragged breath and started addressing his self-inflicted injury.

“...Bastard…”

[agentsofvenn]

Balance

It certainly wasn’t how Crom had expected his day to go. That was putting it lightly, of course: how could anyone expect to go into a war zone, investigate a murder, sweet-talk some despots into coming back with them... and have it turn into that? He almost wished he had drank himself into a stupor the night before. It wasn’t even over, either; he still had to bring those corpses back to the Boros group, and he had to find the Guildless and… and…

Whatever he was going to do with them in the wake of that encounter, it could wait. Whatever he needed to feel about Nassiuss Venn could wait, too. He was bone tired. His back ached, his vision swam, and his head pounded like he had a terrible hangover. Merrith’s company had been pleasant, but it had been purely to get him away from that thing rather than for any desire for companionship. What he needed was the calm and the quiet of his own space, and he had already given that to Nhijha. If that was how it had to be, then -- 

That thing was in his home. As he wound his way through his gardens, he could feel it brushing against his mind. It was like a curious kitten prodding something new with a paw, or an infant craning its head to look for a mother. Every step he took brought the sensation into sharper relief.

And he’d left a drained, exhausted Nhijha alone with it.

His back screamed in pain at him as he tore through the remainder of his gardens. When he reached the house, he threw open the door and looked in, wild-eyed.

Nhijha was nowhere to be seen, but a shape squirmed on the bed. One of the blankets that had been thrown over it half slid off before catching on the uneven surface of his mantle. Crom sagged against the door, the burst of energy leaving him as quickly as it had come. In his mind, he felt that curious touch again, and for a moment his vision swam.

He hauled himself upright and entered his home, closing the door behind him. He put his hand to his shoulder and took Ganache down, putting him into his terrarium. As he got fruit and water for him, he could see that things had been left undisturbed, with only the plate and cup Nhijha had been using a testament to his presence. Crom should see if he could follow his tracks, catch up to him, and make sure he got back to safety all right.

His stomach knotted in anxiety at the thought. Hanging over the man like a bad smell… that was likely the last thing he’d need. And he was so, so tired.

He washed out the plate and the cup, his back turned to the bed. He resolutely ignored the weight leaning against his thoughts, twining against them like a cat might against his ankles. When the cup was clean, he wiped it out and went immediately to his still. It was only when the it was filled to the brim that he turned and made his way to his chair and sat down heavily. The drink slopped stickily over his fingers and he sighed, swapping it to his other hand and wiping them on his cloak.

The thing on the bed shifted. Crom finally raised his eyes to look at it. 

If it is the best thing to do, could you do it, and not me?

He should kill it now. Get it over with. How could it be used as a weapon if it were dead? Surely he had something in his garden to take the aberrant thing from the world. It wasn’t even a part of the natural order. It wasn’t…

(That weight of curiosity moved in his mind, pushing closer, then drawing back. Crom raised the drink to his lips.)

… it wasn’t something he should condone, in this little mire of misery he pretended was a home.

The physical form moved once more. He thought of Dionaea, dancing her wild battle steps between Esmere and the bed where the aberration had lain. He remembered her lifting it, her bare hands sinking against its shifting, massy darkness, and how she had flinched and tensed in pain, but continued to look at it with fierce tenderness, the expression no less true for its antithetical nature.

He lowered the cup, and once again felt that playful kitten’s paw bat against his thoughts. Was it reacting to that memory? Could it see it, and in its own eldritch way, glean the raw way it scoured at him? He thought about Njijha’s tired eyes, the way they’d glistened with tears that he was either too weary or too resilient to shed.

And he thought of Anais’ stiff, furious, retreating back.

One little happy family, Esmere seemed to croon again in his ears.

He should kill it now.

It shifted once more, and Crom sighed. He got to his feet and strode to the bed, lifting the blankets off of it. It writhed under his mantle, the heavy moss, ferns and fungi shaking as its pulsating shadows pressed against it from the other side. The faint image of a skull swam against the amniotic darkness, and once more Crom felt it lean against his mind, its touch neither probing nor demanding, but nevertheless latching to his thoughts. Feeding from from them.

She fed it cake. The thought burst forth, his inner voice almost incredulous. The cake her parents gave her. She sliced that abhorrent bitch to shreds and came back to feed it a treat, like she was soothing it.

She balanced it.

It writhed and pulsed, the swirling darkness drawing in his gaze as it knotted in a beautiful frenzy of fractals. Crom blinked, pulled himself back, and tried to direct his thoughts towards it rather than against. He glanced back at the endless fractals, and thought instead of mycelium twisting and twining together under the earth: a soft, downy spread of interconnecting branches that formed for miles if it was allowed to. He felt that touch again in his mind, saw the fractals morph and shape, becoming less regimented, their outer edges blurring. 

Was it trying to communicate to him?

Closing his eyes, he considered the spores that ran through his blood, how each one of them was alive with so much potential for destruction, for growth. He opened that tiny sliver of his mind to the thing that lay on his bed, and showed it what he believed. Life. Death. Life again. Rot and growth, hand in hand. 

Balance in a natural world.

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he felt it press more strongly against such a firm belief, felt it reach for it, felt it wrap itself in it.

He opened his eyes, and then, gently, placed his hand against his mantle. He could feel the aberration, this… thing... this… this child, move against his touch.

“You’re feeding,” he said it to, and he let his mind soften slightly, so that it could glean the intent of his words from his thoughts. “And you’re growing. In some way… I suppose that makes you alive.”

He turned and emptied his cup into the sink.

“And if you are alive, that means you deserve a chance to be nurtured.”

[agentsofvenn]

Watching the Sunrise

“Do you think this is going to work?”

Sath couldn’t quite keep the nerves from her voice as her needle moved back and forth, patching the threadbare tunic before her. It was dirty and any more rips would probably spell its doom, but it was all she had. She didn’t get a reply, after a moment she looked up. 

Satharion stood there, eyes closed and deep in thought.. His expression was sheathed by the brilliant copper hair that framed him, always the first thing that seemed to stand out about her and her brother to strangers, but right now she wished she could see beyond it. Finally he spoke, his voice warm and soft, enough to inspire confidence in her any night but tonight..

“...Yeah. When have we screwed up yet, hm?”

“Brother.” He leaned back, his smile not quite filling her with confidence. He strayed over to the cooking pot, the last of their meagre funds, and stirred it carefully. His eyes never met hers. That was different. “...I’m worried. Perhaps we should call this off-”

“And do what? Starve? Never again ‘ariel.” He tensed, his fists clenching, but his voice didn’t raise. It never did. She couldn’t help but sigh, checking the new stitch to make sure it was sound. It held, but for how long? 

“But we could die. I feel like we’re in over our heads. The Orzhov are-”

“There is no alternative. Do you remember the promise we made to each other?”

“...How could I forget?”

“Then you should know why I can’t back down from this, no matter how difficult it gets.” His head lowered, a rueful smile on his face. “I won’t let us suffer on the streets ever again. I want us to wake up in a nice house and watch the sunrise, like you always wanted to. I want us to be able to live as we please, not get kicked to the curb for the circumstances of our birth ever again.”

She couldn’t argue with that. How could she? It’s what she wanted too. She stood up, slipping the tunic back on, and hugged into her brother’s back. She felt him relax, taking a deep breath as her presence soothed him.

“We’ll see that sunrise. Soon. After this.”

-

“Down here!”

“Stop them!”

It had all gone wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Perhaps it hadn’t been meant to go right in the first place. Sath’s lungs burned as she followed Satharion through the parkland, stolen funds clutched under her arm. The heavy footfalls behind her signified their pursuers were gaining on them. She couldn’t tell how close; she couldn’t bring herself to look back and find out.

“What do we do?!” Her brother was silent as they rounded a bend in the footpath, and she forced herself to keep running. She glanced back, panic swelling in her chest as she saw no pursuit. They were further behind than she thought, perhaps she could-

And then a sudden force sent her sprawling off the path and into a bush. She fell backwards, and a searing pain and warmth rippled through the back of her head as she hit a tree heavily. She lay there, dazed and confused, as she heard her brother run a little further before coming to a halt.

“You want this money back? Then take it you BASTARDS!” Her eyes widened and she tried to stand up, but her body was too heavy, too tired from running, her gaze too unfocused from the hard hit to her head. The sound of exertion and the clashing of weapons tore through her periphery as she lay there insensate.

“A-’arion…” She made one last clumsy attempt to stand, then darkness claimed her.

-

When she awoke night had fallen, the dense foliage gleaming in the moonlight. Her head hurt awfully, but she could stand. 

“...’arion…?” Then it all came back and she JUMPED to her feet, stumbling out of the bush with her half of the money still in tow. Her vision was still blurry, but she knew where she was. She had to get back to the hideout, Satharion would be worried about-

And then she tripped over something.

It was him.

Her eyes widened as she beheld her brother’s cold corpse, kicked onto the side of the footpath like roadkill. His face was pale, his body stiff, his threadbare clothes covered in blood. He stared sightlessly into the distance.

Sath gaped, her eyes bulged in horror as she beheld what was once her brother. Bile rose in her throat, she wretched helplessly into the grass. Not that she had anything to bring up.

“ARION…!” She gripped him, shaking his corpse as though a vigorous enough disturbance would bring him back. She didn’t know what to do, so she clung to the corpse and wept bitterly.

“...Arion...come on you idiot...you...you can’t see the sunrise from here…You were the one with the foolish, high-flying dreams, you can’t die before…” Her words died in her throat. She looked for new ones, tracing her hand down his cheek.

“...It was meant to be us. This story isn't meant to end here...you...what am I to do without you?” Her entire body shook, great sobs wracking her form as she clutched him to her. “Why did you have to go and do that…? Why leave me to walk this COLD WORLD ALL ALONE?!” Her voice rose, her tears trickling down his cheek. Then it broke, and she just sat there with him.

She didn’t know whether she sat there for an hour or a year, it didn’t matter anymore. Who was she without her twin? Two halves to the whole. Now just half. Her hand slid down to his hand, and she felt cold metal.

She looked down with bloodshot eyes, looking at the bloodstained dagger he wielded. With the same gentle care she did everything she pried it from his grip. She glanced along its edge, then back towards the Orzhov bank they had stolen from, its domes still visible from here. Like her innards had been immersed with ice, bitter fury swelled in her breast. She gripped the handle of the weapon until her palm was bruised, going to stand up.

“...I’ll be there soon…wait for me. I’m coming with the ones that did this.”

And then an unfamiliar voice broke the stillness.

“I very much doubt that.” Sath jumped, clutching the knife as she whirled around to whoever spoke. A figure, female-looking and dressed in drab blacks and blues, stood there. Hooded and cowled, it was hard to get a good look at her face. How did she not see them until then?

“...Wh-what?” The figure took a step forward, which caused Sath to take one back.

“Your stance suggests you’ve never used a knife to kill anyone before. They’d cut you down in short order like they did your brother.” Sath’s visage twisted in fury and she stopped taking steps back, holding the knife up threateningly.

“HOW DARE YOU-”

“-Insult him? Nonsense. He wasn’t trained in combat, and he was facing trained knights. If anything it was a credit that he held out as long as he did. I don’t expect you to fare half as well. Walk in there now and you’ll just be another fool who died for nothing.”

“...Then...what am I supposed to do? I have n-nothing.”

“I am offering you something.” Sath’s eyes narrowed, and the figure cocked her head in obvious amusement. “Before you ask, it is absolutely too good to be true. I will train you to exact revenge on them. I will even feed and house you as you do it. But I demand service in return. Lifelong service. Not that you seem to have very much else to get in the way of that.”

“...Just...who are you?” The figure smiled, even in the dark she could see that smile.

“Finally you ask the right questions. I am…”

[agentsofvenn]

Allies

Sath couldn’t help but chuckle to herself as she strode along the bridge, the newly-dampened sound of the waterfall completing this little picture. She could feel the enchantments the Selesnyans had wrought upon her start to fade, and not a moment too soon as well. The poor things had been so nervous about who to send to the newly-formed Guildpact squad as well, it was a simple thing to convince them that she knew them and was only too happy to help.

And…

The smile caught just a little as she thought of Anais. It had been the first time she’d seen the erstwhile Golgari in her natural habitat, though she supposed that wasn’t exactly natural for her. Not yet at least. Still, to see her sigh and roll her eyes and answer in that tired tone, Sath couldn’t help but imagine in her heart of hearts that the stoic half-elf was having fun.

She was making friends. Even if she didn’t know it yet. That thought almost lifted her off the bridge entirely, her chest swelling with pride and relief. She had brought Anais into this life, this gloomy world of subterfuge and mistrust. It was hard not to feel responsible for any injury or misgivings. And misgivings were aplenty, Sath was far too good at reading people to not recognise the disquiet in her dearest friend. 

After all, it’s not like she hadn’t had misgivings every day since…

She shook her head. She was in too deep for that kind of thinking. What remained for her now was to try and guide her subordinates as best as she could. To try and ensure they all got what they wanted out of the arrangement.

She stirred from her reverie as a second pair of footsteps aligned in front of her. She glanced up curiously, brow arched as she beheld that second occupant. The bridge was large enough for two to pass each other comfortably, but passing this one wasn’t the problem.

Another half-elf. Seems a lot of people had the hots for elves a few decades ago, an errant thought remarked in her head. This one was tall and thin, almost malnourished looking. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his long coat, the inside of which could be seen an Azorius signet. Tired eyes peered out from a disheveled, stubble-coated face. Or perhaps tired was only what he wanted people to think, at least on the surface. Sath had played this game too long to not recognise that sharp glint in his eyes.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. The pair shared a curious glance as they approached each other, the air of not-quite-indifference almost palpable. Only when she drew alongside him did the other half-elf speak, his tone gravelly and irreverent. 

“Hey uh, this the new...Guildpact place?” Sath replied with her usual politeness, smiling as best as she could.

“It is indeed! Newly redecorated, I might add.” The pride that swelled in her voice wasn’t exactly disingenuous; she had done a damn good job. The...detective she assumed...took his turn arching his brow.

“You’re the...Selesnyan representative huh? Not exactly the type, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“They didn’t have anyone who knew them and I live nearby, so I volunteered.”

“And you know them huh?” 

“I certainly do. They’re lovely people.” He scratched idly at his jawline, head cocking before he shrugged both shoulders in an oversized gesture that almost had his coat slip off his shoulders.

“You have no idea. See ya around I guess.” He continued on his way, and Sath felt her smile become a touch fixed. She rubbed her face lightly as she started to descend the stairs, making sure to etch the face of that half-elf into her memory.

This was going to get complicated.

-

Merrith couldn’t help but let out a short-breathed sigh as he continued towards the group’s new abode. That conversation had him worried, but he wasn’t really sure why. Her story checked out, she had genuine Selesnyan growth enchantments unless his eyes were deceiving him, and he didn’t feel like she was lying. It was more of a general sense of disquiet than a logical thing. 

If his superiors were little voices in his head, thank goodness they weren’t, they would have told him that was a poor reason for suspicion. Thankfully he had been at this for far too long to give a damn what his superiors thought. The Azorius loved their regulations and strict orders of business, but he had never been a great member of the Senate. He was a cop, and his gut was the greatest tool he had.

But still, it wasn’t really his business. Best to just keep an eye out.

He knocked on the door.

[agentsofvenn]

Dionaea Muscipula

Rakdos Cultist and artists extraordinaire.

Artwork by Cacoethic (@cacogenic): https://twitter.com/cacogenic?s=09

[agentsofvenn]

Hedge Maze

The hedge maze stretched on, a lush labyrinth of loneliness.

Crom looked down the length of the path he had just turned into. The section ran a long way to the south, unbroken before the mist swallowed it up. He strained his ears, listening, but the thick foliage and mossy ground stifled all noise, swaddling him in a muted, verdant blanket. It should have been peaceful, but the quiet pulled taut like a wire, leaving Crom on edge and waiting for an attack.

He glanced back over his shoulder, then nervously up at the ceiling. This section of the maze had been grown overhead, turning it into something like a bower. The dim light from the drifting spores on the cavern roof above barely glimmered through, like the stars he sometimes heard the older Golgari talk about. Nothing else glittered there; no brilliant carapaces, no bright beetle eyes. He was alone.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Hours bled together in the Undercity, and Crom didn’t know how long it had been since he entered the maze. His provisions had been confiscated with the rest of his tools before he was allowed inside, and he hadn’t eaten since. He put it from his mind, slotting the discomfort into the same tired tolerance that he had for his back. He’d get to the center of the maze, and then he could do something about it. He could wait. 

Going back wasn’t an option.

His fingers trailed against the leaves as he walked along. Growing so far from the sun, they had an odd texture and shape. The glittering spores that had drifted through the upper canopy lodged themselves against the tips, and when Crom’s fingers brushed over them, they rose like fireflies, flaring into motes of light in the gloom. The mist dispersed slightly in their wake, showing two sharp turns to the left and to the right just in front of him.

He glanced down the left. It was dark, with a few dimly glowing points of light on the ground. The right twinkled dimly along the manicured walls when he strained his eyes. One disturbed, one undisturbed.

Never cross a path that you know you’ve crossed before,  he remembered. Who had told him that? Likely it had been a faceless being in the Swarm, no doubt overheard at one of the rot farms as he’d been grubbing for work. If it had come from elsewhere, it didn’t matter. What mattered was taking the advice to heart. Crom took the right path. He looked carefully at the hedges before placing his hand back on them, wary for anything sharp or suppurating hidden in the thick growth.

The path stretched a long way to the west. Crom felt his heart pounding his ears as he walked, aware in the silence of all soft, organic noises of his body as there was nothing else to distract him. He stopped, made himself take a steadying breath, and reminded himself West, before he continued on. More motes of dim, fungal light flared in the air as he passed, and Crom took heart in changing the previously stagnant. It meant he was treading new ground. He’d get to the center. He just had to remind himself of that, when the dark, the hunger, and silence pressed in against him.

A path opened to the right. Crom glanced down it, saw that it had undisturbed spores among the leaves, and carefully stepped in. He placed his hand to the wall once he was sure it was safe and took a step forward.

His foot came down on something firm, and he almost choked on his tongue as he jumped back. His breath hissed out as he recognised it for a wrist. The hand attached unfurled with his movement, the fingers ragged and congealed with dark, clotted blood. Crom’s heart beat a staccato rhythm against his ribs. He crouched and touched his fingers to the cold wrist, feeling no pulse. Carefully, he followed his gaze up the arm, and saw a Devkarin youth, face pinched, eyes sunken, and dried trails of blood smeared around their lips. The corpse was far from new, but advanced rot hadn’t yet set in. Likely, this was a hopeful who had been accepted for the trial only a short time before himself. They must have got lost and, frightened of the gnawing hunger and similar, endless paths, had tried to solve one of their problems. Crom’s gaze drifted down to the ragged fingers. To his mild horror, felt his stomach rumble a reminder of how empty it was. 

A squirm of unease roiled through him like a burrowing worm. This Golgari had been older than him, and had clearly been more robust. If they’d got overcome and stopped here, wouldn’t he? His heart thundered against his ribs as his breath hitched. He’d die here, slumped in a north-facing path beside a corpse, his body slowly rotting back against the roots, unless some caretaker Kraul came by and decided they could use the body elsewhere. He - 

North, he thought, I’m going north.

He focused on that word. North. Crom squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath, centering himself. If he kept going north, he’d just loop back into the route he’d taken before, like as not. And yet the path ahead twinkled with the undisturbed spores caught on the leaves before the mist obfuscated the path. He bit his dry lips. Maybe it was a dead end in the maze, the shortness of the path hidden by the mist.

There was only one way to find out. Stepping around the body, Crom walked into the mist, took two more steps, and came face to face with a tall hedge, this one wound through with sharp thorns and twisted roots. There was a path to the right ahead again, and if he looked through it…

He could see the dark path he’d took down. 

A sigh of relief erupted out of Crom. It was so strong that he found himself laughing, the sound odd and muffled against the soft walls and floor of the maze. Somehow, he’d let himself get turned around. Crom let himself laugh a little longer, then collected his bearings and traced his path back to the west-facing path. As he passed the corpse, he looked down at it, wondering if he should say something, but ultimately he decided against it. The Blademaster could decide what would happen to the unlucky in his halls. Crom wasn’t about to make assurances to a lump of spoiling meat about the good it could do if it were only to be put to something else.

Soon he was back on track, in a dim quiet that crept under his skin and nestled in his heart. His strained hearing began once more to settle on the wet click and swallow of his throat, the growl of his empty stomach, or the grind of his bones as he moved. Crom put all of those into the same tolerance he’d stuffed the hunger and tried not to focus on them. Instead, he watched for turns and lights.

A path opened to the left. Though the current path stretched on ahead, Crom looked down the new one and saw that the mist there was beginning to disperse. He hesitated only a moment before taking the turn. His hand came up, but he pulled it back before touching the leaves. The walls here were studded with cruel looking thorns. Not for the first time, Crom wished the fierce gorgon at the entrance to the maze hadn’t took his tools from him. The stick he’d had would have been good for knocking the spores away from the leaves without lacerating his fingers. He wondered if that wasn’t the point: one hazard removed, a new one gained.

Fortunately, he could see the path in its entirety now. There was a turn to the left and the right, and one straight ahead. Crom weighed his choices, but when he noticed that the thorns were absent on the hedges after the left turn, he kept to the path. Just as his hand touched the waxy leaves and sent a flurry of spores into the air, he heard something coming along the path to the left.

He pressed himself against the hedge, trying to keep as still as possible. His breath came in sharp, rapid bursts which he was certain were too loud. The advance, while audible, was still muffled by the moss underfoot. His breathing was not, and he pressed his face against the greenery, trying to muffle it.

Something huge and hulking passed through into the right pathway. Crom cracked an eye open and peered, hardly daring to breathe, at the retreating back of a Kraul. The hard carapace scintillated in the dim light, and Crom could make out the shape of another dead Devkarin hopeful. They were cleaning out the failed attempts.

Though Crom had prepared, there hadn’t been much information to go on before he set foot in the maze. The gorgon who had taken his belongings had told him to find his way to the center before he starved, to slack his thirst at the clean fountains if he could identify them, and to not be seen by the attendants in the maze. They weren’t there to help him: they were servants to the Blademaster, and wouldn’t be gentle with a fool who let themself be seen before they reached him. Crom would rather not be skewered by a spear or trampled by tarsii for getting in their way.

Peeling himself out of the foliage, Crom brushed off clinging spores as best he could and checked the few cuts that he had. Nothing too serious. Not wanting to linger, and with the sound of the clicking footsteps of the Kraul fading, Crom followed the south-facing path until he came to a branching point. Left held more thorns, but right faded into mist again about halfway along the path. Both were poor options; no way to track his path was a bad one, but deliberately banking on a path with obscured vision was hardly good either.

Carefully, Crom bent down and touched the moss at his feet. It was springy, and in some areas it looked as though it had been pushed in in two neat punctures. Had the Kraul he’d just seen come from this direction before taking the left path? He spread his hands out, ears straining for a single sound, and felt the difference where the tarsii had bit into the springy ground and dug up miniscule clumps. Heart jumping, he brushed his fingers to the left, stretching out to see if he could find similar blemishes in that direction. His back throbbed, but he ignored it.

There were a few small tracks leading from the left; Crom could feel them now that he was looking for them. They weren’t angled properly for the ones coming in to the path he was on. It seemed more likely that those came from the right. Had the Kraul doubled back? Did that mean that the right had been a dead end, and they had collected a corpse it had found there?

His stomach growled, loud in the silence. Crom froze, listening hard, to see if anything had heard him. Just as he was about to let himself move again, he heard that same clicking gallop from before. The Kraul was coming back along the path.

Scuttling like a crab, Crom all but fell on his face as he made his way around to the left. His cheek grazed against one of the thorns; he felt a sharp sting and a hot burst of blood seep from the cut. He jerked his head away and scrambled back to his feet, his back now screaming sharp shots of pain with every movement. He was ready to run the moment he was on his feet, but he made himself stop. I can’t outrun a Kraul, he reminded himself, and I’ll only make more noise.

The thorns meant he couldn’t tuck himself in against the wall. Standing still felt like a death warrant. Crom wasn’t scared of dying, but he didn’t want to fail. Somehow, being mown down by an irate caretaker was more of a waste than curling up in the verdant halls and trying to eat his own fingers. At least the latter was a conscious choice.

So Crom walked. He placed his feet carefully, and kept his ears straining for the sound of the other coming closer. The moss muffled his slow footfalls, but he could hear the gallop get louder as the other made no effort to hide their passage. His heart pounded against his chest, a painful clip that merged with the hollowness in his gut and the sharp sting from his back. The discomfort made his vision pulse at the edges. He focused on walking steadily, eyes fixed ahead, while the tips of his ears twitched as he listened to the noise of the Kraul. It got louder and then all at once stopped. Crom felt his muscles lock in shock at the absence of the sound, but he made himself lift his foot and carefully place it down in front, and then again with the other. Keep walking, he told himself; now he could hear the clicking of their mandibles, not muffled by leaves or moss.

Click click, he though, just a beat behind the actual sound. He was tempted to laugh again, and bit down against the wild impulse as he took two more silent steps forward.

The Kraul moved again, only this time, the sound of their passage got softer. Crom’s breath caught and he held it, listening for a change in the steadily diminishing tempo. Had the Kraul taken the passage up north? He listened hard, trying to measure the distance between it and himself. When he could hear it no more, he let out the breath he’d caught. Quite apart from laughing now, he felt like he was about to be sick. 

Not my finest moment, he thought, as he raised a finger to touch his cheek. When he drew his it back, it was slick with blood. A facial wound would bleed a lot and sting like an irate beetle. He winced as he took the scarf from around his neck and tied it in place over the lower half of his face. It would stop the wound from flowing so freely and soak up the blood, at least.

The maze now seemed more silent than ever. Crom heard nothing but the rushing in his ears, but even that slowly faded as he continued down the path. He sucked in a deep breath, and set about taking stock of himself. His back was in pain, but it almost always was. He could ignore it. His stomach clawed at his ribs in hunger, but once he reached the center, he’d find something to eat. His mouth was beginning to feel tacky from lack of fluid, and he resisted the urge to lick at the blood on his fingers. He wiped it on his scarf instead, ignoring the sting from the cut. So he was sore, hungry, and beginning to feel thirsty. That was fine. That was alive, which he was determined to be when he left this maze too.

Looking around, the spores seemed thicker here, caught in glittering crevasses framed by the sharp thorns lining the bush. The overhead leaves were thickening, which only made the buildup of the bio-luminescent dust more apparent. As he walked, Crom saw roses unfurled on the hedges, petals red as the blood that was soaking into his scarf. They were an odd flower to thrive down here, so far from the sun, and their sweetness was soon heady in the air.

The hedges framed two wrought pillars. More roses twined up and around them, their thorned stems flowing like an organic wave as they knotted together at the top in elaborate decoration. Next to them, the worked stone would have seemed dull and lifeless even if its carvings had been refreshed. They were a blank canvas, a framework, for a rare spot of beauty this far in the depths of the Undercity.

Crom pass under the portal and into a large room. The moss underfoot was springy and dense, easier by far to walk on than that which carpeted the rest of the maze. The hedges that framed the room were wide apart, making Crom feel like he could breathe freely for the first time since he was swallowed in the silence of the maze. 

There was a fountain in the room, its gilded decor long since chipped and chopped off as it was pared back to the bare bones of its structure. The water that spurted forth and collected in the basin was clear and scentless, and Crom took a long drink. It was cool but not cold, and it tasted faintly of iron. His stomach spasmed around the drink, unhappy to be empty but for it, and Crom ignored it as he wiped his dripping mouth. He scooped up a handful of water and, removing his scarf, mopped at the cut on his face. His fingers came away with a flickering, dying spore. As its light winked out, Crom gave a faint smile. He wondered what having those in his body would be like. 

Wiping it on the scarf, Crom moved on. The room was larger than the pathways of the maze, but it wasn’t big enough to be the center of it. Pressing on was better than taking a rest, and so he tied the scarf back around his neck and walked through the passageway that opened into the next room.

If the previous room hadn’t been big enough, this one more than made up for it. The canopied ceiling high above made the room feel like a feasting hall, and the lush walls were twined with roses and bio-luminescent fungus alike. Moss and stone lined the floor in different places, splitting the room into several different sections. Each section held a rack of weapons, gleaming and sparkling in the light. It was bright enough after the maze for Crom to hold up a hand to shield his eyes; when the well-kept blades caught that light and reflected it back, it was almost too much.

A sound, faint but pervasive, snagged his attention. It was uncomfortably familiar, and was all the more sharp for being tapped across stone rather than moss. Crom lifted his gaze from a cruelly curved scimitar and looked up towards the dais as a huge figure came into view. His carapace gleamed in a muted iridescent rainbow as he moved through the light. His elegant, pointed limbs tapped against the stone as he moved, each one deliberate, drawing the ear and the eye to where he placed himself. In two of his four arms, he held a large spear whose edge was honed to a suicidal sharpness.

Kirrick the Blademaster tilted his head to one side as his sharp, glittering eyes fixed on Crom. His clawed fingers tapped against the pommel of his spear and his mandibles clicked slightly as he moved them. Each pointed noise made Crom want to flinch, but he held himself steady and tried to meet the Kraul’s look stare for stare. 

That hard gaze was too much, and Crom slowly lowered his eyes.

“Well, you’re not dead.” The voice was harsh and buzzing, the words coming from a mouth not shaped for the Devkarin language. “Bloodied, half-starved, scared, and swaying on your feet, but not dead.” There was a sharp tap as Kirrick slammed the butt of his spear against the ground. Crom stiffened, but didn’t jump. His back throbbed; he did his best to straighten up fully, rolling his shoulders back and trying to align his spine.

Kirrick’s pitiless gaze marked him, then he let out a sharp click and spoke in his own buzzing language, “Crooked, too.”

Crom’s eyes flashed and he looked up at the Blademaster, who looked back down at him. His mandibles spread and he buzzed something harshly. It took Crom a moment to realize that he was laughing.

“And intelligent. Were you taught Kraul before coming here? Or did you puzzle it out yourself from the rabble above? I’m surprised my kinsmen would deign to speak around a crippled Devkarin.”

Hot anger rushed through Crom. The cut on his face seeped warmly as the blood rushed to his face, and he raised his gaze to scowl at the Blademaster before he could remind himself who he was glowering at. Kirrick’s unkind, buzzing laughter came again, and he clicked his mandibles in a way reminiscent of snapping fingers.

“Did that make you angry? Well? Speak up, boy. Or are you a mute as well as a cripple?”

“Even if I was, I still made it through your stupid maze,” Crom buzzed back, the sounds difficult in his throat and harder against his lips. His eyes narrowed and he thrust his chin forward, a motion he’d picked up from some haughty rot farmers who looked down on their workers. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he panicked. This is Kirrick I’m snapping at, he thought wildly, I should stop, I should apologise. But he’d not wound his way through the hedge maze just be laughed at and tossed back outside, not even by the Blademaster himself. “I picked Kraul up by watching and listening, and knowing where to be.”

The laughter came again. Kirrick took a step down from the dais. Crom was small, skinny boy for his age, and the Kraul towered over him even from this distance. His knees felt weak but he held steady, staring fiercely at the other. I’m dead, he thought, maybe he’ll use me to mulch the roses.

“Good!” The Blademaster barked. Crom flinched, but he also swallowed in relief. That was better than a spear point through the chest. “Good. You’ve spirit even after you made your way here. Enough to spit back at someone who insulted your for nothing you can control, even if that someone could cut your head off before you so much as opened your mouth.” Kirrick buzzed his harsh laugh again and came closer still. This time Crom did tremble: the effort of keeping his back straight combined with the fear of having the Blademaster hone his attention on him was too much. Kirrick tilted his head again, mandibles clicking. “Are you in pain, boy?”

“I - “ Crom swallowed, glad of that drink now, even if his stomach still sloshed queasily with it, “I can manage.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Crom lowered his head again, staring furiously at his feet. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Hungry?”

“... Yes.”

“Tired?”

“... Yes.” 

Was he that obvious? Would Kirrick send him away for being too easily beat down by his trial? How long had he spent in the maze without food? Days were a blend of hours for a Golgari child who’d never seen the sun. Had it been days? That gorgon was so fresh a memory, it could have been minutes since she closed the gates behind him.

“At least you’ve sense to admit it.” Kirrick was closer now. Crom could smell the organic, bony scent of his carapace, and the strong, night-flower aroma of the Kraul’s natural pheromones. It blended well with the roses, and Crom realized that that might be why he had them lining his training hall in the first place. “What do they call you, boy?”

“Crom,” he said, and he looked up again, uncertain. “Cromdhú.”

“Ha… fitting, I suppose.” Kirrick stopped in front of Crom, looking down the length of his thorax at him. Crom tried to look up at him, but it was still hard to meet his gaze. I told him his maze was stupid, he thought, slightly dazed. 

“Well, Cromdhú, you’ve earned your place in my hall. It’ll be neither comfortable nor kind, but it will be yours.” He slammed the butt of his spear against the ground, and this time Crom did jump. “Come!”

Before he knew what was happening, one of Kirrick’s free arms shot out and scooped Crom up around the waist. Crom yelped; Kirrick’s carapace was hard, and the plates of it pinched at the joints. Kirrick laughed again, harsh and buzzing.

“I could drag you if you’d prefer. It’s all one to me, but I’ll not have you collapse behind me like you’re moments away from doing.”

Crom sagged in his grip, like a fierce predator going limp in the jaws of something far more deadly than it could ever be. His numerous pains all shouted for attention, and his aching muscles now joined that clamour. Exhaustion, now that it had been pointed out, weighed heavily on his body. The firm grip around him put pressure on parts of his body that didn’t normally feel it. An orphan child in a Swarm of busy people didn’t get touched often, and to his horror, Crom felt tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked them away rapidly, but not before the salt from an errant one stung the cut on his face.

He should have felt ashamed of that, and yet there was something else swelling in him. Pride, perhaps, that he’d managed it. Kirrick could break him in two now, laughing that he’d believed he’d won a place at all, but Crom would know he’d at least reached the center of the maze. The training halls were vast, the barracks of the Blademaster’s school full, and his students a crowd of uncertainty in Crom’s mind.

But it was something. Something more than being a floating speck dipping in and out of the Swarm and giving nothing back.

His hand heavy, Crom wiped the cut on his face with shaking fingers, and saw another softly glowing spore. It must have kissed against the cut on his cheek in the flurry of being lifted up.

Crom smiled at the thought.

[agentsofvenn]

The Hunt

Sunlight didn’t get this far down, instead a carpet of bio luminescent lichen far above gave the vast tomb complex a blueish, dappled light. The damp ground squelched below Rakshain, each careful step in the moss-covered ground accompanied by a testing grind to ensure the ancient masonry held. A thin scowl lined a lean, stubble-coated chin as the assassin advanced, his dark, lank hair swaying gently in whatever charnel breeze there was. His blade was held low in both hands, the bound fang of some enormous beast sharpened down to a fine edge. 

The smell was awful. A combination of rotting flesh and fear. That was nothing new this far under the surface though, it was a deservedly unpleasant locale. What WAS out of the ordinary were the whispers that permeated the tomb; the malignant chattering in a language one would hope not to understand lest that understanding be a sickness of its own, skirting the senses, seeming to come from the walls themselves. A pervasive wrongness, and one that would be excised come the morrow if the Devkarin assassin had anything to say on the matter.

The aberration was not difficult to track; it had left a carpet of foul, slightly acidic slime as it went, like some nightmarish snail. These tracks were all over the tomb, but these were fresh; there was an absence of small creatures that had drowned in it. He was on the right track. It wasn’t until he heard it that he realized just how close he’d come though.

A heavy wheeze, like old bellows, rasping at an unpredictable timbre with no apparent rhythm. The sound of the being’s morbid, slug-like bulk being dragged bodily over the stone, and whimpers of pain as the pressure of its own advance pressed stray shards of masonry into its soft underbelly. This was it. The target.

Steeling his resolve, he moved into the next room. It was more cramped than he would have liked, its roof sloped and clearly not long from buckling in on itself. The once-paved ground was rife with mud and ichor, playing host to shelves of angry-looking fungi. And then...It turned. Rakshain was being very careful, and making no noise, it must have had some otherworldly method of finding him.

Hearing it was bad enough, but seeing the target turned even Rakshain’s ironclad stomach.

It dragged itself along in what appeared to be a bloody, membranous sheath, as though it had nestled in its own oversized placenta. The oozing outer flesh did seem to be part of it though, as it bled from multiple open wounds on its underside. The skeletal, vine-choked being that emerged from that profane base had the form of an eviscerated human, its tattered nerves still winding around it like a morbid anatomical diagram. From the clearly broken neck sprouted three horse-like skulls, dripping cerebrospinal fluid from every desiccated orifice, the hollows of its eyes choked with multifaceted lenses like a fly’s. Its forearms ended in mantis-like claws which gleamed in the not-light. 

It screamed from every face at once, and it was all the Devkarin could do to keep standing. The wrongness of the sound was at odds with the world, and his heart longed to end it more than it longed to flee. A grim snarl on his face, he leapt at the abomination, blade extending, ready to end the life of this being, if its tortured existence could really be called a life.

-

“What happened then? Did you kill it?” Anais demanded from across the table, causing Rakshain’s gaunt jaw to shift in amusement. 

“So eager. One would think you were my superior, demanding a report.” Analla shook her head with a little smile of her own as they ate, looking down at their daughter. She hadn’t eaten a bite since Rakshain had started talking, though typically it isn't because of the graphic nature of what was being recorded. THAT was Analla’s job, and he could already tell that telling such a grotesque story at the dinner table would earn him a scolding harsher than the experiences of the story themselves. Still. 

“So did you?” He clasped his hands, resting his chin on them as he sat forward.

“I am still here, am I not?” “You could have ran away.” 

“Do I ever run away.”

“Not from a fight.” Intervened Analla, with a pointed look. Rakshain had to fight to hide the subtle barbs her words bore. It was going to be a long night…

“Well, it lashed out at me, screaming its maddening scream, but I knew something it didn’t…”

-

“Don’t think she likes my stories?” The tower the family home was built into opened up into a neat little balcony that looked upon their cavernous home for miles around. Rakshain leaned against the stone wall, tense and frustrated. He felt a gentle touch against his elbow, and in spite of himself he could feel his form start to deflate a little. Analla always knew how to bypass his defenses the way no horror from the depths of the undercity could.

“No, I dare say she likes them a lot. You have a lot of them, and they’re all very thrilling and captivating to a young mind.”

“But?”

“...But there’s precious few stories of her. You are missing your daughter growing up.”

“Tch. I’m here often enough.” A little stung, he brushed the fragile touch off. She sighed, running a hand over her braided hair as she eyed the back of his head.

“I don’t think you are. Take some time off.”

“You don’t just “take time off” from the Ochran.”

“What is the alternative Rakshain? Your daughter growing up without a father?”

“Analla, you think I don’t miss you both terribly? When I’m out risking my life?”

“I think you do. Just not enough to actually do anything about it.” Her hand landed on his back. “Don’t shut me out. Let me in. You know we’re bloody unstoppable when we put our heads together.”

“...Yeah...look, it’s...difficult. I’ll try and be around more for her. For you.” Finally he turned, tugging his dusk-skinned lover into a tender embrace.

“Not for me. For her.”

“For her, but hey. You’re worth spending time with yourself, you know.”

“I’m trying to make a point…”

“And I’m trying to give a compliment. Looks like we’re at an impasse, madame.”

“...Ugh.” She shook her head, but this time there was a hint of a smile. “So be it.”