A Hunter and a Dead Bug
Gaze upon mangled roach corpses. They’re familiar: the faint reds and greens, the matriarch’s face that once regarded Awelah sadly, now ripped away.
“You said the hounds were bane’s work, Oocid?” Fihra’s saying. “No fucking kidding. More and more of them, and they just keep getting closer. Feels like we’re being hunted, doesn’t it?”
“Get used to it,” Awelah scrapes. “Thought you noble Windborne banes were going to protect me?”
Fihra smiles with her teeth.
“Kindly quit it, dears,” the mentor cuts in.
“If we are being hunted,” Oocid starts, “the question is what to do about it.”
The mentor leans back, watching her wretches work through it.
“Any bane that could make direbeasts has got to be out of our league.”
“Any bane that hides behind minions is weak,” Awelah says. “It shows they lack the confidence to take on their prey directly.”
“Sure. And if you want to wade through a pack of direhounds to get to this weakling, be my guest, princess.” Fihra smiles at Awelah again, and the pale nymph scowls back.
“So our options so far would be… tracking down the bane behind the beasts, or run and hope they lose our trail.”
“Or were never on it.” The quiet voice is Makuja. “We’re assuming we keep feeling the hound’s presence because they’re after us — but if it’s simply coincidence?”
“The pawns spoke about a master giving orders to kill all Duskhold natives. I am a Duskhold native. There is something out there hunting me.”
Oocid nods. “Pawns imply a bane, and the hounds imply a bane, and the hounds are fulfilling the pawn’s mission. All the pieces fit.”
Makuja backs off and says no more.
“I am satisfied with your analysis.” The mentor is all grim seriousness now. “We are returning to Solaroch at top speed. We are not prepared for an engagement with unknown hostiles.” The mentor reaches in their bag.
“Soldier pills?”
“You’ve learned how to use them? Oocid? Fihra? Good. Each of you pick up one of your teammates. I’ll carry the rest.”
The two nymphal banes are only big enough to carry one. Their mentor is much bigger. A pawn climbs on and wraps their closed forelegs around her, followed by Makuja. Awelah is reluctant to be carried like a child.
“Just do it, princess.”
It is faster. Over an hour, they see the hills and pits near the Spider’s Spine give way to the plains as they venture into the southern plains of Windhold.
It’s while running along a ridge that they see it. The ridge flattens down on one side to a small lake. And along the shore of that lake, a fight.
It must have started at great range. On their side of the lake arrows stick out of the sand at increasing frequency. A cloaked figure is advancing. From under their cloak, a trio of black orbs fly out, reminiscent of the wisps.
Their target strikes an imposing figure, even from this distance. Thick cords of muscle are visible between plates of chitin. They stand a head taller than any imago — including their mentor.
In one instant, they kick forward, and an impressive spray of rocks and sand fly up. The innumerable small particles must destabilize the black orbs, and they lose momentum and are pulled down by absorbed mass. The kick sent the big bug back, too, so all three fall short.
They’re holding a huge bow. While gazes were distracted by the trajectory of the orbs, they had nocked, aimed, and launched a pair of arrows. In less than a second.
The cloaked figure dodges with an ethereal deftness. The arrows fly faster than any nymph can track, and still go wide of the target.
The banes above run faster, hoping to pass unseen. They might have. But the dodge of the ghostly figure briefly throws up their thick cloak.
Just enough for Awelah to catch a glimpse of their chitin — a pale, subtle violet, just like hers.
“My clan!”
The only thing securing Awelah was willingly clinging to Makuja. She lets go. It’s a rough landing, due to the mentor’s great momentum.
Awelah stands and runs as fast as she can down the steep slope of the ridge, unfolding her spear.
Meanwhile, the two strange banes continue closing to melee. This much closer, each has less time to dodge the others’ attacks.
Now a few things happen in a very small window of time.
The archer crouches, and the cloaked one tenses, but when they make a massive leap, it’s toward Awelah.
Before they get there, though, Awelah is yelling. “Asetari!”
The cloaked bane glances at her.
That moment of inattention is exploited. They nock an arrow midair, and it flies true.
The other Asetari doesn’t move. Their hands are running through a short series of signs.
“⸢Astral form: Umbral Body Projection!⸥”
It’s like a physical shadow flying out from under the cloak. It floats between Awelah and the archer for one second.
Awelah had been prepared to thrust her spear at the incoming bane.
But then the shadow makes one tarsign.
It says nothing, but Awelah easily identifies the technique. One of the basic four spells wretches learn: ⸢Umbra Form: Bane Blast!⸥ Something between a punch, a small explosion, and an impulse of raw force.
The archer is shoved back.
Then the shadow spins in the air, and grabs Awelah by the spear, pulling her towards the now-advancing cloaked bane.
“Awelah? You survived.”
Awelah makes an inarticulate sound at hearing a familiar voice. Her uncle, Honarari.
The other Asetari moves to stand between Awelah and their enemy.
“If my niece is watching… I suppose I’ll have to show just what made this clan noble. ⸢Asetari Style: Shell Game Technique!⸥” The bane’s cloak had looked thick, and it’s because beneath the cloak lay other cloaks.
There’s what looks like an illusion of tearing, and two identical figures fly out from underneath, both with their own cloaks, and each one of them like that physical shadow. The cloaks tighten around them, and they repeatedly swap positions as they advance, rearranging themselves faster than Awelah’s eye can track.
The enemy bane, who still hasn’t landed, simply nocks and fires three arrows at once, piercing all three forms. The shadows seem to waver, but they all persist.
“What? One of those had to be your real body.” The other bane is landing with three legs on the ground, staring down the two Asetari.
“Oh, it’s a clan secret.”
Each of the shadows move to surround them, throwing out punches and attempted grabs, all moving at speeds only high level vesperbanes can track. The other bane twitches back from the shadows’ touch, and they land several hits. There’s a unity to them that exceeds mere coordination; as if the archer fights one enemy with three bodies. When the larger mantis backs off, you don’t need the expression of wide, extended antennae to tell that the larger bane had underestimated them.
The shadows regroup and then fan out around the panting mantis. “Witness the power of the Asetari bloodline. Our astral will is divided, but undiminished. Each of my projections acts with full autonomy. You are outnumbered by far. Give this up.”
“Outnumbered? Then you are ignorant of the name Unodha.” The vesperbane makes a sound in their gullet that should be impossible for an insect.
She howls.
And her hounds reply in turn.
“Come to me, my children. Our hunt will end.”
Her uncle makes a fourth projection to lead Awelah away from the fight, back toward the ridge.
Team nineteen is already coming after her.
“It wasn’t supposed to come to this. I’ll engage Unodha. Fihra, Oocid, protect Awelah. Get her out of here.” The mentor moves forward, and eyes go to the shadow guiding her.
The shadow has vague tints, coloring the light that refracts or reflects off it, hinting at her uncle’s expression. “This is goodbye, my child.” The sound is unnatural, coming from the absence of palps.
“No. No.”
“You will be the last of us on this plane. Make our spirits proud from where they watch you, yes? You have to rebuild our clan. You have to avenge us.”
“I will. But you could—”
A head shaken. “My time is borrowed even now — and Unodha is beyond me. Here is my advice, child. Heed it. Tell no one your name. Trust no scourge in this land: they heard our pleas, and still let our stronghold crumble. The Anthimati clan is your enemy: take no offers from them, and grant them nothing. And do not fear the light of dawn.”
Awelah nods with a look of determination, committing the words to memory.
“And at last, I have a gift to give you.”
And then the shadow steps forward, into Awelah, and the nymph screams.
Moments ago, the mentor stepped forward to confront Unodha. She leaps, and from a height, rains down a hail of throwing knives with a single sweep of her forelegs. It’s a two dimensional volley, and Unodha easily positions to avoid it, but in so doing goes right where the mentor wants her.
Two well-practiced tarsigns. A mouth yawning open. Then:
“⸢Ash Form: Flamespitter Technique!⸥”
A jet of some liquid or gas bursts from the mentor’s mouth, rocking her back in the air. Then it ignites, and a gout of burning fluid is crackling toward the archer.
When smoke and ash clears, it reveals a wall of beach silt pushed up to defend Unodha, made almost glassy by the assault.
The mentor eyes the wall. A sand form user?
The fight picks up rhythm after that. The mentor closes to melee, and wields a torch doused in oil. Under her will, the flame bends, flying out to lick the bane like an additional limb.
Three direbeasts bound in moments later, and Unodha commands them with barks. She wonders why they weren’t already accompanying their master — then realizes: they had been tracking a bane whose signature technique was called shell game.
The bane holds out a limb towards the canines. Under an unseen force, their muscles swell and convulse like a pit of snakes. Spurs of bone split their skin and fur. The hounds have bulged to half again their initial size.
The mentor has time to form a string of tarsigns, seemingly to no effect, before a hound is charging at her.
The mentor grits her mandibles, and the battle rages on.
Awelah, recovering from whatever her uncle had done, feels heavier, but not very different. She turns to watch him fight. He has five projections now, and that seems to be his limit. It was enough to check the disadvantage imposed by the arrival of the three hounds — but even with a numerical minority, Unodha was just a different caliber of vesperbane.
They all were, really. What were these wretches, these pawns, next to the techniques the imagos were throwing around? The mentor has seemingly given up on the flame spells, and instead repeatedly makes the signs for a technique that rips or distintegrates chunks of flesh from the hounds. Their meat just shifts around to fill the gaps. Her uncle uses the water of the lake to give solidity to his vantablack creations, wisp-like orbs and spears that result in utter deliquescence when they land. It’s not enough to resist Unodha’s pressure. Her arrows flow true, and her hounds swipe through his shadows. One projection dissolves, and then another. He doesn’t cast more to refill their ranks.
Awelah sets her features and steps forward.
“You idiot!” Fihra says. “Why?”
“I watched my entire clan die. I can’t stand by and let another be… slaughtered.”
“What good are you to your clan if you are dead?”
She scowls. “My uncle’s gift… perhaps it made me stronger.”
Awelah is rushing off before any replies reach her.
Unodha gives a bark of a laugh. “I’m glad at least one of you is coming willingly to your death.”
But it wasn’t just Awelah — now others are running after her, to stop her. But Awelah moves fast. She sees one of her uncle’s projections disengage and kick off from the ground, move in Awelah’s direction, but at the wrong angle to intercept her.
Unodha nocks an arrow and switches targets right before firing — from the mentor to Awelah.
The arrow is let free.
Somehow, a pawn is jumping over Awelah.
The arrow hits their head. From the force of the arrow, the nymph’s head bursts into chunks of flesh. The cost of her life rains down onto Awelah.
Ooliri has a moment to think I wouldn’t have taken Mita to be the type for self-sacrifice. And, How did she jump like that?
Fihra is scraping her chitin raw, stridulating loud. “How many have to die for you before you wise up and save yourself?” The wretch is grabbing the violet nymph with raptorial spines, making Awelah bleed from her grip.
Even still, she is fighting her, trying to inch toward the fight. “I can’t… lose another.”
“My niece, you don’t understand,” one of the projections is saying. “Do you know how I survived all of my projections being shot through center mass?”
Another arrow is flung and it’s well within her uncle’s speed to intercept it.
This time, the cloak falls away.
It’s not a mantis underneath.
Just painted leather animated by a shadow projection.
“I’m already dead.”
Awelah falls limp, unresisting as Fihra pulls her away.
Before Unodha has time to make another move, the mentor’s authoritative voice is calling out.
“Oocid, hear me? Do you remember all our objectives? I’m transferring mission command to you — immediately.”
“Madam, what do you mean?” It’s Fihra asking. Oocid is just nodding seriously.
“Get out of here. Fast as you can.”
“Accepted your fate at last, Wardens bitch?”
“With the assurance of yours.”
The mentor begins forming tarsigns. It’s a long string of them. Unodha’s meaty antennae straighten in surprise, and she starts backing up.
“This must be—”
“Do you smell it, Unodha? Ever since you brought your hounds here… I’ve been filling the air with heavy flammable gas.”
Oocid watches her tarsi, and makes the connection at the same time as Unodha.
“—a suicide technique!” she finishes, while Oocid’s palps ghost the words, ‘Self-immolation.’
Emusa Rutabrood’s last words are thus: “⸢Ash Form: Funeral Pyre⸥”
And the world erupts.
Snuggly Serials 