How relatively easy he thought it would have been to just…go home. Back to the camp. Back to his family, the other hunters.
He would have explained everything to them.
Yes. He would have explained the dead, rotting skin, the hollow eyes, the…hands. Everything.
And, they would have welcomed him back, eventually.
Like a true family should have.
If only that had been the case.
“MONSTER!”
“Kill it!”
“Archers! Take aim!”
“No, wait! It’s me, Silvarius!”
“LIES!”
Arrows had struck him, but he felt no pain.
Faces loomed, blades flashing.
His family.
They had tried to kill him.
So, I truly am a monster.
He had fled the camp, the hunters on his heels, crashing through the underbrush. Magic missiles and arrows whipping past his face, he ran.
He ran, and he followed that terrible, grating pull of the strings.
The strings that made his limbs dance.
The strings that always threatened to drag him back to that which he had tried - and failed - to destroy.
Ironic, how he had struggled against them to make his way back to the camp, and, not minutes later, he had gladly followed them, letting them carry him…
…home?
Mind spinning from confusion and anger and helplessness, he had barely registered the three lanky shadows barrelling past him, eyes shining blood red, acid green, and sickly yellow.
He had, however, registered the sound of gnashing teeth, tearing flesh, and pained screams that had followed.
No more arrows had flown past.
No more magic missiles, no more flashing swords.
No more voices.
He had fallen to his knees at some point, exhaustion and grief weighing him down, clawed hands carving furrows into the dank soil.
The shadows had crawled past him, licking their chops clean of blood and gore, grinning as they passed.
Soon enough, a hand - a claw, much like his own - had casted itself through his matted hair, drawing his gaze skyward.
“Aheehehehe…what are you doing all the way out here, little Silvarius? So far from home, so far - your mother and I were so worried!”
He hadn’t answered. There was nothing he could have said to get that needled grin to back off, to undo what had just been done, to fix his fatal mistake.
He had led the monster - his, and his mind stung at the thought, ancestor - straight to them.
The claws curled around him, standing him upright and pushing him to the south.
“Please, my son, my blood. Come home, where you belong.”
Though the words themselves were pleading, even calming, promising of sanctuary, the voice itself was a thinly veiled threat - one that Silvarius, having nothing left to fight for, nothing left to hope for, conceded to.
Teleport magic enveloped them both, and soon, the fetid stink of the Barrows - of home - greeted them.
Collab fic between myself and @laetitialaetitii! How It’s Made: General Gregorovic.
At first glance, the workshop might’ve belonged to any crafter, carpenter, or artist.
A desk, papers with sketches, schematics, and notes carefully arranged in small piles.
A set of bookshelves, some empty, others with carefully organized artifacts and bits of machinery, and yet others, stacked with crumbling tomes and crisp notebooks alike, being used for their optimal purpose.
A lathe in one corner, wood curls swept into a neat little pile at one end.
A carpenter’s bench, an island across from the lathe, upon which sat wooden and metal parts that, although meticulously laid out and organized, suggested no particular form yet.
A table kept immaculately clean, upon which jeweler’s tools sat.
On second glance, however, the crafter, carpenter, and artist in question was hardly ordinary.
A rack of surgical tools, gleaming in the low glow of the sturdy, practical Dorgeshuun heat lamp hanging over the fish tank on the second bench nearby.
A bell jar, contents concealed by moisture and mist.
A wall covered in esoteric diagrams written in Teregardian, painstakingly translated into Infernal.
A rack of labelled and draped cages, within which corncob and cotton bedding shuffled underneath tiny clawed feet. An occasional squeaking was the only thing that suggested their contents to the unaware.
Footsteps echoed in the darkness, drawing closer to the intricate, knobless, and lockless door across from the lathe. They stopped just shy of it and, though no keys jingled, something within the door clanked and shifted before it swung open on well-oiled hinges.
As it opened, there was a gust of cool air and the smell of dank cellars, out of place in the neat little workshop. When the door closed again with a barely audible click, the room was no longer empty.
His normal attire of opulent silks had been traded out for a set of, less aesthetically-pleasing yet far more sturdy, workrobes, over which a thick apron was tied. A pair of rubber gloves protected his hands - as he ran his fingers over each other habitually, the material squeaked and squelched, forcing his hands to his sides lest he have to endure that annoying sound any longer.
Sighing, he took in the state of the room and prepared to work.
So many things to do.
Also a ty to @zorialdiamond-blog for motivation/ping-ponging ideas back and forth with me for some of my parts of this fic.
Summary: How the giggling Sliskean standing on the Heart’s entry platform came to be.
Notes: Headcanoning the heck out of things, now, but hey, I had this idea and had to write it. Going off the idea that, for a short while after Gregorovic’s transformation, a little sliver of humanity hung on and he actually tried to resist Sliske’s control and influence (though it eventually gave out because munchies). More weird romance, creepy Sliske (complete with implications of memory alteration), and attempts to make a murder harlequin into a slightly sympathetic character. A lot of this is based on @zorialdiamond-blog‘s headcanons with some of my own thrown in there.
Once blue skies had clouded.
Once fresh forest air had turned sour.
A once arable land had fouled in the wake of an encroaching darkness that whispered through needled fangs and hungered for blood.
With it came war, fear, and death.
So too came those who would ward it off for as long as they could: fighters, spies, couriers, and anyone else who would give a hand to help.
A small tent stood on the outskirts of a camp, isolated. The smell of antiseptic and injury wafted through the flaps, and the silhouettes of cots and supply cabinets could be seen within, lit by an oil lamp - an oddly homey glow for such a clinical place.
Weathered, aged hands dipped into a bowl of water, scrubbing themselves clean from the day’s final procedure. A courier, knife wound to the left pectoral. A simple suturing.
Tools were cleaned and reorganized, everything put back in its proper place. Bandages folded, salves and ointments re-shelved. Surgical instruments sterilized and stored.
The last instrument left out was the scalpel. It was always the scalpel.
It sat on its tray for a minute, scrutinized by its owner. A nightly ritual of remembering and attempted understanding and regretting.
How skillfully such instruments were used to carve out sickness and make way for healing. How easily they could just as well be used to cause pain.
Finally, Dr. Caroline Ivanov plucked the scalpel from its resting place and slid it into the nearby sterilizer. A wonderful little contraption invented by her husb...invented by the late Dr. Gregorovic Ivanov, it consisted of a heat-proofed box filled with tiny metal beads, into which instruments and tools could be stuck. A runic heat source beneath the box provided the intense temperatures needed to kill any and all microbes attached, leaving the instruments as clean as possible.
She brushed a graying strand of hair from her eyes, tucked it back under her headband, and scowled at the contraption.
Microbes could be killed.
Memories, however, were made of far sterner stuff.
Darkened rooms, poorly lit work tables.
Notes strewn about, written in an increasingly frantic doctor’s scrawl.
Tools left unorganized, soiled.
Cages.
Blood.
Desperation.
Madness.
“You’ve gone too far this time. I won’t let you do this to yourself any longer.”
“My love, please. Try to understand. I have no other choice…”
“I can’t...I can’t do this anymore!”
“Then leave.”
And she had.
Or, at least, she had tried to.
She had tried to wash her hands of everything she had done at his side and in his name. Yet, like a cancer long since metastasized, all she could do now to ease her turmoil was palliative.
A return to the creed she had devoted herself to so many years ago - do no harm - had been her latest attempt.
Sighing, she finally removed the scalpel from the sterilizer, set it down on a fresh tray to cool, and finally undid her headband, letting the tangled mess of hair fall back into place. She would need to comb it again sometime, and soon too. At this rate, it would no doubt mat together if she didn’t do anything.
I should just do it now, she thought, and hope that no more patients come knocking at this hour.
She sat by the oil lamp, pulling out a small metal comb from one of the many pockets on her person, and began to work through the stubborn mass. Though hygiene was health out here, appearances were often pushed to the backburner. As long as you were clean, it didn’t matter if you had an uneven, hastily shaved buzz cut like most of the fighters or a well-oiled pompadour like the chef who worked the mess hall on the other side of camp.
Grimacing, she tugged through a particularly gnarled tangle, the comb coming away with several strands of hair attached.
Sighing hotly, she tossed the comb over her shoulder, listening to the muffled tink it made against the floor of her medical tent.
Then, she just listened to the sounds of the nearby camp.
The crackling of the bonfire that had been set.
The far away chatter of the fighters as they discussed an upcoming operation.
The rustling of the bushes nearby.
The creak of wood-on-metal, interlaced with a low hiss of steam.
The slight chattering and grinding of gears.
The very human mumbles and whimpers of pain.
Sitting up, she stole a glance over her shoulder. The comb lay just under the open tent flap, yet beyond that was nothing but shadow and foliage.
Shadow and foliage that seemed to move and shift, as if someone was there, disturbing it.
A patient?
Slowly, she stood and edged through the tent flap, picking up and pocketing her comb as she passed.
“Hello?”
There was no response.
“Hello?” she tried again, stepping further out into the night. “I’m a doctor. If you are injured, please, show yourself. I may be able to help.”
A few moments of relative silence. Then, more rustling, and a reedy, high-pitched voice finally answered.
“Ahahehehe...I doubt you can help me.”
“Do you?” Placing her hands on her hips, she leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the speaker. She thought she could make out a huddled shape at the base of a nearby oak, but the low light thrown by her oil lamp failed to reach it. “I reversed advanced ghastrisis in no less than seven patients in the last week alone. Give me anything on that caliber, and I can most certainly help.”
The rustling grew louder, mingled with manic chuckles that pricked at the back of her neck, and she took a reflexive step back into the tent, wondering if she should call for help. Anything she might have said, however, died in her throat as the huddled shape drew closer and began to untangle itself.
Limbs - long, lanky, and clawed like some terrible insect’s - reached out of the bushes, pulling a torso and head along behind them. The shape swayed, the grinding and hissing and clanking from earlier coming from within its body as it loomed over her, no less than eight feet tall.
Details were shadowed, obscured. But, the outline, serrated and gangly, was enough to freeze the blood in her veins.
“I doubt that,” it hissed. “Caroline.”
She screamed.
Stumbled.
Scrambled back into her tent, casting around for anything to protect herself.
“CAROLINE!”
Its shriek was met by her own as she glanced back and saw the edges of the creature clawing its way into the tent.
“CAROLINE, WAIT! AHEHEEHEEHEE!”
That shriek was closer.
Her hand met the handle of the oil lamp.
She whirled around, swinging.
There was a split second that the creature’s face was fully illuminated by the lamp.
A pale, near featureless mask, holes marking where eyes should have been.
Teeth like scalpels set in a mockery of a smile.
A crown of spikes, like some opulent, over-designed court jester might have worn.
A split second for her to take the terrible rictus in, rimmed by orange and yellow fire.
And then the lamp impacted, shattering.
The creature tumbled back with a cry, the light now extinguished, and she vaulted over the nearest table, snatching up the scalpel from its tray and brandishing it before her.
“Come any closer, I dare you!” she roared, gauging the distance to the tent flap. This creature was too fast, the flap too far away. She wouldn’t make it if the thing decided to charge again.
A claw thunked down on the far table as it pulled itself upright, brushing charred fabric from its shoulder. It cackled again, the sound like a petri dish being dragged across metal.
“Oh Caroline. My love, my heart. It was I who pushed you away. Not the other way around.”
Her hand shook, the scalpel flickering with what little light remained in the tent.
There was only one person in the world who had ever talked to her that way.
There was only one person she knew that had that voice. That rhythm. That tendency to laugh as he spoke.
And, he was dead.
“Who are you?!?”
The creature, neglecting to answer, stood again, mask scanning over its surroundings. Its eyes - what passed for them, anyway - came to rest on the sterilizer, the heat source beneath which still gave off a slight glow.
“You kept this after all this time?” The creature’s hands came to rest on the sides of the sterilizer, turning it this way and that. “But it’s so old! I made it out of scraps that time we were-”
“When we were working in Avarrocka...NO! He’s dead. He’s been dead for years - he’s gone!” She shook and shook, disbelief clanging around between her ears.
“Yesssss,” the creature hissed, though the sound was more pained than aggressive, and it gave her pause. “He is gone. Very, very gone. But he’s not quite dead. Not anymore, at least.”
The glow from the sterilizer illuminated the creature’s mask from below. Inorganic, polished, and as white as a bleached skull. Yet, there was something about the set of the fabricated cheekbones. The point to the chin and the swooping curve of the jawline. The curl of marble beneath the eye holes that imitated the dark circles that had been there since the first day she had met him.
Him.
She shook her head - it couldn’t have been.
But, the truth was staring her in the face, and the name fell from her mouth.
“Gregorovic?”
The creature nodded slowly.
“Gone, but not dead,” he said simply, folding his claws in front of him, each finger over the one below.
Just as he used to do when greeting patients.
“What-” she lowered the scalpel slightly, grip faltering, “-happened to you? Where have you been? Why are you here?!? Why-”
The creature hissed again and shivered violently, wood and metal rattling against each other in an unsettling cacophony. Caroline stifled a second scream as the mask’s mouth opened in full - when lit from below, those teeth were no less utterly terrifying.
Hissing petered off into wheezing chuckles, and the creature backed up a step, huddling back down into a spindly, spiky ball of limbs.
“Hehehehee...the hunger, Caroline. It gnaws at me.”
“What? W...what are you talking about?!?” she stammered, shaking her head again, furiously.
“Too many questions at once, dear, slow down. Please, slow down. Your voice, your fear, is so very enticing. It calls me - makes my stomach growl and churn. But please, don’t fear. Just ask...and I will answer...oh, I’m so sorry...so sorry…” It’s - his - voice quieted, quavering, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him. He sounded worried, frightened even, like a child running away from a nightmare.
It might have been a ruse - a trap meant to lure prey in like some carnivorous plant bearing honey for an insect. Yet, she lowered her scalpel and stepped forward, composing herself.
“Maybe just start with why my dead-but-not-anymore husband is now an eight foot tall, masked, jester construct,” she said softly.
“So...you do believe me?” The mask raised and tilted to the side, and she could have sworn that the mouth curled a bit in a smile, the porcelain flowing like slightly molten glass.
The voice.
The face.
The mannerisms.
The memories.
It was him, she was sure of that now.
“I think...I think I do believe you, Gregorovic.”
An almost happy-sounding rattle filled the tent. Yet, the corners of her mouth didn’t even twitch in response.
“I believe you,” she continued. “But I still want answers. So, start talking.”
The rattling ceased, the mask’s smile drooping back into its normal set. After a moment, the creature - Gregorovic - sighed and began to speak.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Caroline. Such a terrible mistake. Aheehee...a terrible mistake to top off the terrible, terrible path I chose to follow. And this,” he lifted his claws, framing his mask with both hands, “is my punishment. ‘The monster within is displayed without,’ he said. And he’s right. He was always right.”
Who is ‘he?’ she wondered. And she wanted to ask, but another question took its place before she could.
“Why are you here, then? If you’re really the monster you appear to be - and I’m not disagreeing with you, by the way - why come and find me? To, what, apologize? To say ‘oh, I’m sorry for dragging you - my wife who had stayed by my side for, honestly, longer than she should have - into this entire mess and then driving you away before making you believe I had finally died from my own insane experiments?!?’”
She didn’t notice her voice had risen to a sobbing wail until her eyes started to sting from the tears welling up there.
But, she wasn’t done.
“Or maybe ‘I’m sorry for suddenly turning up, years later, in the body of some spider-harlequin no less, and scaring the living daylights out of you?’ OR, MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, ‘I’M SORRY FOR BEING THE REASON OUR SON RAN AWAY? THE REASON HE HATES US NOW?!?’”
Gregorovic curled further in on himself, mask turning away.
“I tried to talk to him, you know,” Caroline continued, voice thick, tears now streaking her cheeks. “I found Carson after you drove me away - tried to patch things up. And you know what? He wouldn’t even look at me.”
Her grip on the scalpel tightened painfully, metal digging into her skin.
“He. Wouldn’t. Even. LOOK. AT. ME!”
With a cry, she flung the scalpel across the tent, and it whacked into a cluster of shelved supplies with a strident clatter. Her knees hit the ground, her face in her hands.
She wept.
Wept for a son estranged, a husband lost, and a life near-irredeemable.
She wept for what felt like hours.
Something shuffled closer and closer, the sound barely audible beneath her sobs.
“Caroline. My love. My heart.” A voice, familiar yet too high, too thin, spoke in her ear. A hand rested on her shoulder - she felt the claws, yet she didn’t flinch away. “I know that no apology I could come up with would ever make up for...aheehee...the things I’ve done. The things I made you do. Caroline.” Slowly, a second hand stroked her hair, oddly gentle for something so obviously made for evisceration. “Carol. I don’t have much time. Not much time until the monster without is the only thing left...but I had to come back. Had to get away from, heheheh, him, to see you again, even if all you do is look upon me with fear and disgust. To hear your voice again, even if all you do is rebuke me.”
A thought cut through her sobs, and she wiped her eyes, sniffling, focusing on it.
There’s that ‘him’ again…
He’s scared of ‘him,’ I can hear it.
He’s scared.
But...
Blinking back tears, she focused on the mask just inches from her face, placing her hand on his cheek.
“I don’t forgive you. I can’t. I don’t have the right to forgive you in the first place, even if I wanted to.”
Gregorovic rumbled in acceptance.
“But,” she continued. “If I can try and turn my life around, you can, too. You came here, to me, after all. Monster or not, no one is beyond at least a bit of healing.” Joints rattled and hissed, and she placed a hand over that terrible mouth to stop him from protesting what she knew, deep in her bones, was true. “We are doctors. Healing is our trade. The only difference is that, now, you’re my patient.”
Careful to avoid the spiked collar and crown that threatened to scratch her arms, she drew the creature, her husband, into a tentative hug. Slowly, carefully, and shakily, he returned it.
“We’re going to get through this,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “We are. I just know it. And we’re going to do it right this time. No more murders. No more dissections. None of that.”
There was no response to her promise besides a tightening of the arms around her and a low hiss that might’ve been a sob.
They stayed like that until the glow from the heat source beneath the sterilizer finally flickered out, leaving them with only the paltry moonlight from outside.
His hand had gone back to stroking her hair - the motion was familiar, comforting. At least until his claws managed to tangle themselves up in the mess.
“Oh dear, aheeheehehehe…” He tugged slightly, trying to free himself, but to no avail.
“Ow! No, just hang on, I’ll get it.” Caroline, stifling a chuckle at the situation, took her comb out of her pocket and began to work Gregorovic’s claws out of her hair. He tried to help, picking at her tangles with his other hand, but they were obviously not designed for precision or dexterity.
Designed.
Someone designed him, she thought. Plucked him from his human body and stuck him in this...thing.
Was it this ‘him’ he keeps talking about? The one he ran away from?
“Gregorovic,” she began, the name rolling off her tongue with some resistance. It had been so long, after all. “Who is this…’he’...you keep mentioning?”
A cold wind wafted through the tent, and Gregorovic shivered, hand finally coming free from Caroline’s hair.
“He is...heh...not someone you want to meet.”
“Oh, I’d very much like to meet him, dear. I’d like to crack his chest open and see if he even has a heart. He might call you a monster, and he might be right. But, the pot is calling the kettle black in this case.” Gregorovic twitched again, shaking his head.
“Caroline-”
He was interrupted, however, by a low chuckle that was very much not his.
The wind shook the tent walls again, shadows warping, stretching, and flickering in time to a new voice that hissed above their heads.
“Oho, it certainly is! It most certainly is.”
The shadows swirled, becoming corporeal and coalescing into a tall, weedy, and hooded figure that stood before the tent flap. Like mist, the darkness fell to the ground, revealing gray skin, silken robes, and a pair of piercing yellow eyes.
At the sight of the newcomer, Gregorovic stood, mantling over Caroline protectively. It might’ve been the lack of light, but she could’ve sworn that the shadows - other shadows, separate from the ones that had brought the new figure into the tent - were doing so as well, points of glowing green flickering almost comfortingly.
If the figure was discouraged by the display, he didn’t show it.
“Gregorovic,” he began, striding easily across the tent, fingers steepled. “Dear, dear Gregorovic. Greg. Greggie. Greggie, Greggie, Greggie. Did you really think you could escape me, Greggie?”
With the shadows hissing and swirling around her, she couldn’t quite tell what Gregorovic’s response to the figure’s taunting was. She could tell, however, that whatever he said wasn’t the least bit friendly.
“Stop it, Greggie.” The figure sighed, eyes narrowing. “You made a deal, and you made it of your own free will. You are mine. But, it’s not my fault you decided to go AWOL and put your un-life at risk.”
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat.
I’ve made a terrible mistake, Caroline. Such a terrible mistake.
“You...what? Gregorovic, tell me he’s lying. Please tell me you didn’t go so far as to sell your soul for a cure-” She trailed off when, instead of saying something - anything - to assuage her concerns, Gregorovic just remained silent, joints rattling.
The figure tutted, shaking his head.
“Oh no, Caroline,” he crooned, turning to face her directly. Though the shadows curled more tightly around her, he strode closer and closer, hands clasped. At this distance, he radiated a certain elegance and charisma - an infectious aura that drew her attention like a magnet. Yet, she could see something ugly and, dare she say, snake-like coiled beneath that facade, and it made her stomach roll uncomfortably. “May I call you ‘Carol?’”
She felt her brow furrow. No one called her that but her husband, and only very rarely to boot. To hear the monster that warped him into the creature standing above her use the name so carelessly poked and prodded at something deep in her core - something that very much wanted to snatch the nearest sharp object and drive it between those horrid yellow eyes.
“You can call me ‘Caroline,’” she spat. “You silk-trimmed, heartless serpent.”
A smile split the figure’s face, yet it didn’t even remotely reach his eyes.
“Fiery, a counterpoint to your husband’s chilly indifference to the sanctity of lives other than his own. Very well, Caroline. You want to know the truth? Your husband sold himself - every last bit - to me in exchange for eternal life, for freedom from his incurable sickness. I, being the honest businessman I am, granted him his wish, and-”
Gregorovic shrieked, interrupting him.
“You turned me into a monster, Sliske!”
There was a sharp, deafening clatter and a rush of searing shadow that forced Caroline’s eyes shut. When she opened them again, the protective shadows and Gregorovic had been flung sidelong into the nearby operating table.
He lay tangled in his own and his shadow’s limbs, wailing in what might’ve been pain from the IV stand that had skewered through the side of his chest, pinning him in place.
“Gregorovic!” she cried, standing and making a move to help him. Her attempt was cut short, however, by a hand latching itself around the back of her neck.
Fingers dug into her carotid arteries, and her vision fuzzed, disorientation and dizziness stalling any resistance she would have otherwise been able to put up. A second hand grasped her chin, keeping her in place with the implicit threat of cervical dislocation.
“As I was saying,” Sliske hissed into her ear. “I granted his wish. Yet, he’s tried again and again to go back on our deal. Oh, he accepted his fate at first, but a little itch of humanity still remained. And it’s been such a hard itch to scratch out.
“Resisting the hunger that, if satiated, would sustain his eternal life. Attempting to break free from my control, trying to play the game by himself instead of being a good little pawn. And, the crowning act of disobedience, coming here to find you, the final remnant of the life he once lived.”
Caroline huffed, blinking hard to fight her vertigo. If she could just break free, somehow, and reach the supply shelf…
The extra scalpels.
“I’ve considered the various punishments I should level on him, but perhaps you could help me decide, Caroline. What will it be? Dismemberment? Freezing his joints? Or, perhaps, loosening them? Or,” his hands tightened, claws piercing her flesh. She felt blood trickle down her neck, soaking into her tunic. “Perhaps seeing you, his dear wife, be torn apart right here and now will be enough to convince him to come quietly.”
“NO!” Gregorovic clawed at the metal entrapping him, sending sparks flashing into the air with a screeching cacophony.
The hand on her neck loosened, blood flooding back into Caroline’s brain.
Now’s my chance!
With a cry that might’ve belonged to one of the warriors in the nearby camp, she drove her elbow into Sliske’s stomach as hard as she could and tore herself away from his claws.
A mad scramble.
An inhuman roar followed her.
Hands closed around the handles of as many scalpels as she could grab.
She spun.
Stabbed.
Blades sunk through silk and flesh where Sliske’s heart should have been, and she pushed him back, a victorious grimace stretching her face.
It fell, however, when Sliske barely even flinched.
He glanced almost pityingly between her and the scalpels sprouting from his chest before yanking them all out at once with an audible squelch. Black, iridescent ichor covered the blades and dripped from the wound, yet whatever it was sublimed shortly after hitting the air, the wound knitting itself back together.
He didn’t wince, gasp, or show any signs of pain.
He just chuckled. Smiled.
“I commend you for trying, dear Caroline. I really do,” he sighed, turning the scalpels over in his hands. “But, I think you’ll find that pawns like yourself can do nothing against the hands that move them. Observe!”
The smile lunged.
Steel flashed, then plunged.
She fell back against the shelves, clutching the laceration across her abdomen with one hand, the hole in her chest with the other.
Blood flowed, her apron stained with growing rosettes.
Air hissed between her fingers.
A lung had been punctured.
She thought she saw Gregorovic thrash about, thought she heard him shriek and scream, but her ever-blurring vision was soon blocked by those sulfuric eyes drawing ever closer.
“Thank you for your input, Caroline,” Sliske whispered, placing a hand on her cheek. “This will be a fitting punishment for dear Greggie.”
She coughed, and Sliske’s face was flecked with blood. Humming, he removed his hand to wipe the droplets from his skin and continued.
“However...I’m feeling oddly charitable on this lovely night, and am prepared to offer you the chance of a lifetime.” His smile grew, lips pulling back over serrated teeth. “I won’t punish Greggie, and I shall heal you as I healed him. The only thing I ask of you is that you serve me unquestioningly.”
“Wh...why?” she wheezed, hands shaking.
“You have fight in you, and Greggie’s complete devotion,” he replied simply. “I can use that. And, think about it! You’ll get to be with your husband again. Forever. We both win.”
Her vision tunneled, her time almost up.
“So, what will it be?” Sliske held out his hand, beckoning her to take it. “Tick tock, tick tock, my dear.”
Her head lolled to the side, and she saw Gregorovic shaking his head frantically.
Gregorovic…
I’m…
No. You’ve suffered enough - I won’t let this snake hurt you any longer. I promise.
She flopped her head back forward, and slowly placed her own bloodied hand in his.
“I-I accept,” she gasped.
A smile.
A laugh.
“As you wish, dear Carol.”
Shadows flickered.
Pain ebbed.
Then, everything faded to black.
***
He saw the blood.
Saw Sliske looming over her.
Saw the shadow spell wind around her, melting and reforming her skin, stopping and restarting her heart, killing and resurrecting her all at once.
Then, he saw Sliske step back.
And he saw her rise to her feet.
Mottled, almost gangrenous skin.
Hopelessly tangled hair a dull, dead gray.
A smile too wide, too fake.
Caroline....my love, my heart.
The sight twisted the itch of humanity inside him - the bit of him that he had refused to renounce, the bit of him that had held back the hunger and kept him from consuming.
It twisted the itch, pulled it apart, and tamped it down until it was little more than a tickle.
Easier to ignore, but still there.
“Welcome to your new life, Carol,” Sliske said with a grand flourish of his hands. “Well, your new undeath, to be more accurate.”
She giggled.
Curtsied.
“And I shall un-live to serve, Sliske.”
Gregorovic grabbed and slashed at the stand that speared through his chest once more, finally snapping it in two. With a garbled cry, he eased himself off and up, swaying back to his feet, his conjured shadows melting away.
I don’t have much strength left, aheeheheh, but Caroline...she’s safe now.
The tickle poked at his mind. Goaded him on.
He barely felt his hands reach for his glaives, yet he heard them uncurl and saw the glinting blades at his sides.
She’s safe...and I DON’T HAVE TO HOLD BACK!
He charged, blades spinning, his warbling battlecry piercing the air.
The world turned over, solid shadows pummeling him from all sides.
His back hit the ground.
His glaives clattered somewhere out of reach.
A boot crashed into his chest.
“AHA! Good show, Greggie, good show.” Sliske leaned over him, Gregorovic’s wooden frame creaking under the weight of his heel. “You haven’t eaten lately, have you? Well, you’ve never eaten, ever.”
His master was right; he had resisted, despite the gnawing hunger and his ever waning strength.
“You need to eat soon, Greggie. You wouldn’t want your wife’s sacrifice go to waste, now would you?”
As if on cue, Carol knelt down next to him, patting him on the shoulder with another tinkling giggle.
“Don’t worry, dear!” she cooed, that strange smile still there as if stretched by unseeable fingers. “I’ll help you eat.” She leaned in close and whispered to where his ear might have been. “The camp nearby. It’s practically a buffet. Warriors. Couriers. Even a chef. How tasty that one must be...”
He shivered, hunger rising.
If he could, he would have drooled at the thought.
Eat.
Devour.
The bodies. The souls.
Everything.
Sate.
Feed.
CONSUME.
Sliske stepped off him, and he rolled over, scuttling out of the tent on all fours.
His eyes found the camp - the remains of a bonfire still smoking. Beyond that, tents.
He could smell them, the occupants, and his mask cracked open, tongue lolling out over his teeth. The scent of their souls, his own hunger, and the promise of strength drew him in.
And he followed.
Feasted.
***
Once unblemished stone had been stained with veins of anima.
Once quiet air had clogged with shouts and the clang of weapons.
A once empty cavern had become populated in the wake of four armies that sang their deities’ praises and hungered for power.
With them, of course, came war, strife, and death.
So too came those who sought to turn the tide in their faction’s favor.
Carol practically danced in place on her platform, humming to herself in time with the sounds of battle around her.
She flipped a matted lock back over her shoulder, waving cheerfully at the young elf across the platform from her after watching a Serenist ingression force fall to her husband’s troops.
Her husband.
What was left of her heart skipped a beat at the thought.
Elves, demons, and ancient warriors could be killed.
Memories, however, were made of far sterner stuff.
She had been injured.
Her husband, pinned by metal.
Someone had attacked them.
But then, Sliske had come.
He had saved them. Given them new lives.
He saved me. Redeemed me. Greggie, too.
He’s done so much for the two of us.
Because of him, Greggie and I can be together, forever.
Aheeheehee!
Waving over a scouting wight to take her place, she skipped off the platform and hefted a fallen elf onto her shoulder, continuing up to the Necropolis despite their struggles.
Together in undeath, he said. And he’s right! He’s always right...
They cut into his frame when he had tried to drag himself to freedom. So, he had stopped. Given up.
Given up…
Half a mile underground, with nothing but the corpse of that old man - hardly fit for consumption, now, despite his hunger having nearly overcome him - as his companion, he had given up.
I’m alone, he thought.
Alone.
Heheheh…I’m so alone.
Abandoned.
Abandoned by the, ahahehehee, the master that once controlled me.
Where is he now?
I can’t hear him…
Can’t feel the strings…
The empty cavern loomed above him. What once rattled with the sounds of frantic battle and echoed with laughter, pain, and rage, had now fallen eerily silent.
As had he.
Suddenly, a face blocked out the ceiling. A decaying face rimmed by matted hair.
“Oh Greggie…”
Carol knelt, taking one of his hands in both of hers.
“The Heart, Greggie. The wights. They shamble, attack anything that comes near, even each other - they’re uncontrollable! I barely got out of there alive…what happened, Greggie? What happened?!?”
He, shaking and weak, placed his other hand on top of hers, squeezing slightly. His voice crackled, faltered, yet somehow, he managed to speak.
“Ah…heh…heh, Carol,” he whispered. “My heart…”
She lay down beside him, the dust shifting in the air around her, and hugged his hand to her chest as he wheezed out the last few words he could before unconsciousness took over.
After going bossing at Greg with @zorialdiamond-blog, I’ve been on a Sliskean faction kick, so have some shenanigans involving Wight!Adrius, o o (Akrisae), Greg, and Greg’s Chosen. Shades of weird romance (I ship Mad Love now, lol), regret, deja vu, and a ton of mood dissonance ahoy!
Oh dear…
My love is so lonely…
He’s always so lonely, even now!
Even now.
Oh, he has me, forever in undeath, but what good is that when I’m stuck on this platform all day?!?
I know! I shall visit him!
But…
But…
Who will keep these three fools company while I’m gone? Helwyn, the dear little pup? Sir Amaru, the vengeful sycophant? Karastus, the...oh dear, he needs some lotion for that sunburn, doesn’t he?
They’ll all be so lonely without me! I can’t have that! I can’t condemn them to my love’s fate - not now!
Let’s see...
Oh, you’ll work. You! Wight! Come and stand here for me!
Yesssssss, you’ll do. Be a dear and point people in the direction of the Necropolis if they ask.
Do it, or I’ll feed you to my husband.
Good boy!
Farewell, you three! I’m off! Oh, but don’t worry, I’ll be back soon!
***
Adrius stood as he always did, crouched on the precipice of the Necropolis, unblinking eyes scanning the battlefield from behind the obsidian mask that concealed them. His bow balanced deftly in his left hand, his right resting on the quiver of arrows at his hip, he occasionally felt a pang of deja vu spark through whatever was left of his mind.
The sight of white stone walls flickering amidst the dark, anima-stained rock.
A four-pointed white star emblazoned on a blue background occasionally replacing the banners depicting that strung-up, faceless, and struggling figure.
Knights in their polished armor, as bright as the sun itself, walking among the shambling wights and clattering skeletons that flitted in and out of the shadows.
Different place.
Different master.
Same job.
Can’t escape it…
Couldn’t escape it…
“Commander.”
Same co-workers, too.
“Yes, Akrisae?” he asked, not bothering to turn around.
“The Chosen. She’s left her post.”
“What?”
He finally stole a glance over his shoulder, and Akrisae, wide, staring eyes the only part of his rotting face visible from underneath his hood, pointed wordlessly back over the battlefield. Adrius’ own eyes followed the motion.
Indeed, a figure that he’d not noticed before was skipping gleefully through an ingression force of Zarosians, paying no mind to their presence, even when the ancient soldiers swung their weapons in her direction.
“She’s left her post.”
“I see that.”
“Should we inform the general?”
Adrius huffed, standing up to his full height.
“No need to bother him with it.” He strode back from the precipice, motioning for Akrisae to follow. “We can take care of this ourselves.”
***
My love’s going to be so happy when he sees what I’ve brought for him!
A fresh wight!
Oh, okay - it’s not as tasty as a mercenary or one of the Cywir, but at least it’s something.
He gets so hungry with his work, after all, and our dear old master sometimes forgets to feed him!
Oh look!
It’s my love’s ingression commander and his happy little battle-priest friend!
Hello, you two!
***
“Hello, you two!”
Adrius and Akrisae met the Chosen on one of the lower wooden ramps leading to the Necropolis and planted their feet, blocking her way. She, however, just smiled and waved, the pervasive undertone of laughter to her voice apparent as she greeted them and dropped the mostly-dead wight soldier at her feet.
“Chosen,” Adrius said, nodding curtly, and she cackled, the sound raucous. He saw Akrisae shiver and take a step back, but barely twitched himself at the sound. Whereas Akrisae was still acclimating to the Sliskean faction’s penchant for breaking out into random bouts of laughter, Adrius was quite used to it.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Adrius - I have a name. Go on, say it!”
“Carol.”
“There you go! Good boy!”
“What’s your business off the platform?”
Carol rolled her eyes at Adrius’ question and twirled a tangled strand of gray-brown hair around her finger.
“It’s always business with you, isn’t it? What if I just want a break? A vacation?”
“We all have our duties, here,” Akrisae piped up. “Yours is to stay on the platform and recruit.”
“Oh, don’t you worry your doomed self, Akrisae, my dear.” Though she smiled and her words were passingly benign, her tone carried a certain venom that pricked at Adrius’ ears. “The platform is well taken care of, and I’m off to see my husband for a little visit! Oh, you two are welcome to come along as well - the more the merrier!”
Adrius was silent for a moment, trying to process what he had just heard.
Husband?
Hm... She must have a lover among the wights or necromancers stationed in the Necropolis.
The thought needled his mind, and he tried to tamp it down before it actually started mocking him and digging up what little feeling he had left buried deep in whatever soul he had left. Not that he needed to, for, in the next moment, Carol had stepped close to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You understand, don’t you?” she asked, voice far less quavering and frantic than it usually was, and he looked away. “I’m not the only one with a spouse in that necropolis, Adrius. If she came by, wouldn’t you want to see her?”
He would.
Though everything within him - memory, thought, and feeling - was now dull and distant, one thing was still brutally clear to him, stabbing at him in the chest not unlike the ice spears that had done him in.
He would like to see her again.
He would like to see her again and not be forced by a set of unseeable strings to level his bow in her direction and loose an arrow at her face.
Looking back at Carol, his vision flickered again, a memory stirring and forcing its way out of the back of his broken, repurposed mind.
Kindly hazel eyes.
A mane of braided, golden brown hair.
Scarred skin that still somehow glowed with life.
A smile that seemed to drive back the shadows themselves.
In an instant, however, they were gone, replaced by the very much undead features of his general’s Chosen.
“Very well,” he said, finally. “Lead the way.” He ignored Akrisae’s hard stare as he waited for Carol to sling the fallen wight back over her shoulder and skip her way up the wooden ramp.
***
Oh, this is going to be so fun! A party, almost!
Hm…
I wonder why Adrius and Akrisae didn’t immediately let me pass when I said who I was going to visit?
Oh, silly me - they must not know yet!
Should I tell them?
Bah, it’s not important - they’ll find out soon enough!
***
Adrius had expected a wight or a necromancer - perhaps even a skeleton - to come running at the sight of the three finally arriving at the Necropolis, if Carol was to be believed that she indeed had a spouse among them.
He had not expected her to pass them all by without a second glance and make a beeline for the rickety bridge that connected the Necropolis to the chambers of…
...General Gregorovic.
“Chosen...Carol?” he asked, catching up to her. “You do know that’s the general quarters, yes?”
“Of course I know that, silly boy!” she chuckled in response, stepping onto the bridge. “Why would you ever doubt me?”
“I doubt he’ll appreciate you abandoning your post to visit your husband,” Akrisae said as he all but materialized at Adrius’ elbow.
“Oh, hush, Akrisae.” She continued across the bridge, and the two wights followed suit, half out of a dulled sense of morbid curiosity, half out of a pressing, externally-generated need to apologize to their general for abandoning their own posts.
Finally, the three of them reached the opposite end of the bridge, coming to a stop in the corner of the cavernous, wall-less, and completely bare - aside from a few masks not unlike the one Adrius wore - room.
“OH, GREGGIE!!!!” Carol called out, voice echoing stridently as she dropped the wight once again. “I’M HOME!!!”
A wild laugh answered her, and a disconcerting bundle of gangly limbs arranged itself into a humanoid shape that stood, swaying wildly, on the other side of the platform. Joints creaked and groaned loud enough for Adrius to hear from where he stood, and the sound was enough to snap him and Akrisae to attention, ready to receive orders from their general.
“AHEHEHEeeee! Carol, my love!!!” Gregorovic, all eight feet of him, loped across the room, steps far more faltering and off-balance than usual. Adrius recognized the symptoms - their master had been starving him, most likely. “You’re here! And, you’ve brought guests!”
Wait…
‘My husband…’
‘Greggie…’
‘Carol, my love..’
Oh…
OH.
“Adrius?”
“Yes, Akrisae?”
“Am I missing something?”
“No, you’re seeing exactly what I am.”
“So...the Chosen. Carol. She’s…”
“...the general’s wife.”
“What an odd couple.”
“Indeed.”
They watched Gregorovic and Carol approach each other, that morbid curiosity still pricking at the back of Adrius’ mind. For a moment, he expected Gregorovic to tear apart and devour his Chosen, just like the mercenaries, prisoners, and adventurers he was fed with on a regular basis.
Instead, to Adrius’ surprise, or the modicum wisps of what could be called surprise that were left in his mind, Gregorovic knelt on the stone and wrapped Carol in a careful yet...loving?...hug, claws normally meant for shearing flesh and wielding those wicked, spinning glaives closing gently around her shoulders and drawing her close. Carol, in response, threw her arms around his neck, returning his hold with a happy squeal.
Wicked laughter and wild giggles rose from the embracing couple before they drew apart, Carol resting a hand on the cheek of Gregorovic’s mask.
“Oh dear, love,” she cooed, running a thumb along the ridge beneath the curved slot that denoted where his eye should’ve been. “You look famished - when was the last time Master fed you?”
“Eheheehehe...too long, too long. The World Guardian. After she...aheeehehehehe...trounced me, Master was so mad. So very, very disappointed. No food since…”
Adrius remembered most of it.
It was three weeks ago, when she - Finley - stormed the Heart, a one woman army bent on…
...why had she come, anyway?
He didn’t know. All he could remember was her screaming his name, loosing an arrow at her, missing, and then…
...she had cornered him. Unmasked him. Yet, she had refused to attack him. He had watched her blaze through the Necropolis after that, disappearing into Gregorovic’s chambers.
The next thing he had remembered was helping Akrisae reattach one of Gregorovic’s legs and patch up a crack in his chestplate that was still visible, even now. If he looked close enough, he could still see the burn marks on the general’s arms and hands as well.
“Well, hunger no longer, my dear,” Carol said, gesturing toward the fallen wight. “I know it’s not a banquet, but…”
“AYAYAYAYAYAYyyyyou brought me FOOD!!!” Gregorovic lightly bumped the mouth of his mask against Carol’s forehead, the Chosen blushing and giggling frantically.
“Not here, love! Your commander’s watching!”
“Oh?” Gregorovic turned his masked ‘face’ toward Adrius and Akrisae, the former seeing a slight sliver of needled teeth peeking out from the corner of the mouth. “Eheheehehe...let him watch. He let his...his WIFE...into my Necropolis, after all.”
“Less talk, Greggie. You need to eat.” Carol tugged on his sleeve, jabbing a finger at the fallen wight again.
“Yessssss…I DO!” With that, the mask’s mouth cracked open in full, the teeth glinting in the hazy air, and a writhing tongue snaked its way out from between them. Adrius felt Akrisae flinch and shudder beside him again as Gregorovic descended upon the fallen wight, tearing it to pieces and gulping them down whole.
Amidst the crunching and slurping, Carol skipped over to Adrius and Akrisae, an unsettling smile splitting her face. Winding her arms around their shoulders, she held them in place, forcing them to watch the meal progress.
“He is a dear, isn’t he?”
Neither of them answered.
***
My love is so lonely.
Always so lonely…
Always so hungry...
I try to help.
But, no matter how many times I visit, I always have to go back to the platform.
And so, after he finished his snack, I did.
He gave us our orders before we left.
Akrisae, he ordered to double his efforts preparing the ingression forces. They need to be stronger, faster, and better bolstered by his stolen prayers.
Adrius, he ordered to return to his post. And, if the World Guardian is to return, he is not to miss his shot.
Me, he ordered to visit more often! Heehee!
Oh, I love my Greggie so much…
I can’t wait to see him again, to hug him again, to hold him again, just like I used to before…
Before the sickness set in.
Oh, hello, Helwyn! Sir Amaru! Karastus! I’m baaaaack!
Did you miss me?
I missed you all!
Perhaps next time I visit my husband, I’ll bring you all along! Oh, he’d be so happy to meet you! Especially you, Helwyn - he so loves the taste of elf.
Oh! Do you hear that?
Do you hear his laughter from the Necropolis?
Isn’t it beautiful?
Isn’t it lovely?
Heeheehee…
No matter how lonely he gets, he always keeps on laughing.
