Voracity
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5.5 The Masks We Wear
🕑 Added 2025-11-30 01:31:16 +0000 UTCI explain some of my thought process to Agatha—leaving out any detail too tied to Mordacity’s existence, but sharing as much as I can—as we explore the Glass-side Forks in search of components and a proper ritual site. I don’t know that either of those are necessary, but it feels right, and at this point I’m mostly going off feeling. To my surprise, Agatha agrees.
“It’s all arbitrary, right?” she says as we steal chalk off the shelves in an empty supermarket. “Greek gods far from their homeland, the egregores bearing Roman names, and a Mythos entity presiding over the whole enterprise. These are ideas that exist in the World of Glass, born of human belief, twisted to serve a purpose. So, as long as we can draw some kind of connection to belief, it should work. It’s like chaos magic.”
I raise an eyebrow. I swallow the chunk of peach I was chewing, which I stole from the grocery section while Agatha figured out which aisle we needed to go down. “Chaos magic?”
“Mhm! It’s this occult tradition from the 70s that got popular with writers for a while. It’s trying to be this kind of universal or underlying system behind all other magic—magic in the occult sense, I mean, so very witchy stuff, all indirect effects and spells so subtle you can justify not seeing any physical reaction. From the chaos magic perspective, power doesn’t come from any one god or symbol, it comes from the belief in that icon. So if something has meaning to you—if you believe in it—then you can do magic with it. I think the World of Glass might work in the same way.”
“Ferromancer described similar principles when she was teaching me how to make better familiars,” I muse. With the chalk secured, we scope out scented candles. “Prometheus likes clay and sculpting, but it’ll take anything that was made in some way. So, I settled on tabletop figures, stat sheets, and Magic cards. It meant more to me than whatever garbage I could cook up in pottery class.”
We keep those ideas in mind as we scout the empty city for the right location to cast our spell. Since Agatha will be the focus of the ritual, it should be a place that has meaning to her. A place that feels right for her transformation.
She chooses a bookstore. It’s a quaint little place, just a few stacks of shelves and a counter. The walls are covered in posters and leaflets. Agatha tells me it reminds her of her favorite bookstore growing up.
We push the shelves—gently, on Agatha’s insistence—up against the walls and clear a space in the center of the shop. The floor is hardwood, thankfully, which makes it easy to start drawing with chalk. Agatha has a steadier hand and a better eye, so she makes the circle while I decorate behind her with signs and sigils. Once the circle is closed, Agatha does the same, starting from the opposite side. We mark a pair of midpoints, dividing the circle into two halves.
“We should each decorate half the circle,” I’d told Agatha in the supermarket as we were planning the ritual. “It’s about making a connection between us, since that’s what I think the spell will need to get the results we’re after.”
Magic: the Gathering has plenty of cards representing transformation and mental alteration, so I draw the guild crests for Simic, Dimir, and Rakdos alongside the mana symbols for Blue, Red, and Green magic. I’m not exactly a Warhammer fan, but spend enough time on any wargaming forum—or nerd spaces in general—and you’ll see it brought up, so it feels appropriate to add the sign of Tzeentch, the Lord of Change. That still leaves a fair bit of space, so I reluctantly call on my greatest shame and dredge my memories for relevant sigils from League of Legends. The symbol of the Void in League—the setting’s most transformative force—is three curved lines and three dots around a triangle shape.
…Motherfucker, that’s just the Yellow Sign again, isn’t it? Those hacks. Whatever, this whole world is Hastur’s playground anyway. Might as well throw it in.
I finish my half first and glance over at Agatha’s work. A few of her symbols jog my memory as something vaguely alchemical, but most of it I don’t recognize.
“I’m going to make contact with Prometheus,” I tell her. “That might take a bit. When you’re finished with the circle, get in the center and concentrate on what you want out of this.”
Agatha acknowledges me with a nod, then gets back to drawing. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and reach for my magic.
Come to me, Prometheus. Let’s make something beautiful together.
Since the moment I became a witch, there’s been a heat beneath my skin and a furnace in my chest. Other people don’t seem to notice it when we make incidental contact, but I can roll around in the snow high up on a mountain and not get cold. That heat burns in two colors like intertwined snakes of light, green and purple woven together but never fusing.
In my mind, I see a workshop. Forge, anvil, and kiln. Tongs, knives, and hammers. The workshop is more lavishly decorated than the first time I saw it; the product of all I’ve fed it. Prometheus, faceless and familiar, greets me wordlessly with a hum of rising warmth.
I need something from you, friend. There’s a magical girl here, and I need to use my magic on her. I need to transform her into what she wants to be. Can you do that?
By design or by necessity, Prometheus can’t speak to me in clear terms. Instead, it shows me visions. I see fire washing over a woman holding a spool of thread. I see her hand slap the fire away. I see a clay doll put into a furnace and bake. I see a human put into the same and run out of it, smoking.
Well, that has troubling implications; my power sees non-mages as less than human. Fascinating. What if Ariadne stuck her hand in the fire willingly? I ask. What if someone took the flame into themselves, bit down on it, and swallowed?
I project an image of coals in the furnace, stirring them until a choice ember is revealed, then plucking that from the flames with tongs. I envision passing that ember to outstretched hands that curl around it. Hands that come to cherish it, connect to it, bind with it.
I’m not trying to attack anyone with this spell. All it’s meant to do is help someone become more like who she wants to be. I want to give her everything she wants. I want her to feel better about herself. I want her to be her best self. I want her to feel good being that self.
I imagine Agatha, gloomy and shy, taking that green ember and brightening. Becoming happier, more confident, more comfortable. I imagine her speaking to the ember and nurturing it with her voice until it nurtures her in turn, transforming her into the version of herself she wants to be. Thread-bearing Ariadne, watching from behind, rests a hand on Agatha’s shoulder and smiles. There’s no reason for them to reject a true, nourishing gift.
The hum of warmth in my chest turns… contemplative, somehow. Constant fluctuation in temperature, as if the fire was debating with itself how hot it should be. Somewhere in my mantle, a pattern is adjusting. It’s working.
There’s another thing, I tell my power, and then I weave a new image. A clay doll is sculpted, fired, and painted by my hands, but it crumbles on my nightstand when I turn in for bed, the green flame streaming into my body. What if it didn’t have to come back to me?
I shape another vision. The ember from the forge is placed in a block of clay, half-shaped. The clay shifts and swallows the ember, and then it glows from within. It transforms into a painted doll, slow and steady, and when I rest for the night it keeps its new shape.
The hum of heat becomes more frantic. Images flash through my mind too quick to follow. Fire. Clay. Fire. Tools. Fire. Hands. Fire. Thread.
The heat settles. The static becomes a clear note. The thread-bearing woman, Ariadne, extends her hands once more, taking the ember and swallowing it. The block of clay is imbued with flame. The woman sits by my bedside, watching me sleep, the spark still burning in her chest. The clay crumbles, its ember expelled.
I understand. Only the gifted can bear this gift. Do it.
The new pattern locks into place. The mantle shifts. The fire flares.
I open my eyes. An emerald spark flickers gently within hands I don’t remember cupping. It feels natural. It feels right.
“Is that it?” Agatha asks. She stands in the center of the completed circle, surrounded by intricate geometric patterns. She’s clutching a Skulduggery Pleasant book tight to her chest—one of the only real books we could find in the shop, with most of the others being jumbled messes of nonsense.
“I think so.” I furrow my brow. “And I think I know what to do with it. Are you ready?”
Agatha nods. “I know who I want to be. I know what I need.”
I grin. “See you on the other side.”
I drop the spark onto the edge of the circle and watch it ignite. Green flame travels the length of the circle in an instant and flares from every symbol, then moves inward across the lines and angles drawn by Agatha. When it reaches Agatha, the flame swirls around her legs and crawls up her body like a hundred writhing serpents.
Agatha doesn’t flinch. She grits her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut, and takes a deep breath. The book in her hands catches fire. It burns, and when the flame burns out it leaves behind green-black ash and an emerald spark shimmering in Agatha’s hands.
She raises it to her lips, takes the spark into her mouth, and swallows.
A vision burns bright in my mind of two hands intertwined. One soft, bound in thread. One rough, stained with soot. An ember is passed and kindled.
The circle of chalk extinguishes, every symbol reduced to ash. Green flame burns beneath Agatha’s skin, glowing inside her throat and spreading down her chest and within each of her limbs. Agatha laughs, eyes wide and bright.
And then time stands still. Agatha is frozen in joy, illuminated in emerald. A yellow cloak drapes itself across my shoulders and a fathomless presence pushes down on me.
“Well done, Rachel,” the familiar voice of Hastur croons in my ear, soft and mirthful and terribly pleased with herself. “This is an excellent first step. Yes, this is exactly the spice my script has been missing. Allow me to reward you in the manner you desired.”
I’m as frozen as Agatha, unable to move or speak, which is the only reason I didn’t scream when I heard Hastur’s voice. The untouchable nightmare god is back, she’s interested in me, and she wants to reward me, and I’m not sure which part of that I should be most terrified about. Maybe all of it.
Then my body starts moving on its own and it’s suddenly very clear what should be scaring me. My hand raises, extends, and then all my fingers but the ring finger curl in. A rose that wasn’t there before twists itself into a circle around that digit, then tightens. Thorns pierce my skin, sharp and painless. Blood stains my hand. My chest seizes, my eyes go wide, and I cough up rose petals. Petal after petal after petal, hacking and wheezing, until red and pink are the only colors I can see.
“Claimant to the seat of Venus, you are recognized. Whether you rise or fall, know that I shall find your struggles very, very entertaining.”
The King in Yellow laughs, her golden cloak fluttering through the rose petals, and then she’s gone. The petals and thorns go with her, though I can still feel an twinge in my finger and an uncomfortable ache in my chest.
Agatha doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s laughing and twirling in the ashen circle, the green glow fading as the magic integrates. I can still feel the spark, dimly, pulsing inside her. I’m confident I could reach out and reclaim it, which is good enough for me; testing that theory would mean having to do the ritual all over again, and I’m not sure it would work as well a second time.
I try to hide any sign of what I just went through from my expression. Agatha doesn’t need to know about what I’m planning, or my encounter with Hastur. Luckily, I have mountains of experience hiding my emotions.
Internally, I’m freaking out. The pain and terror were one thing, but being recognized as a “claimant to the seat of Venus?” Does that imply “Venus” is a title rather than a name? I mean, it sounds like my plan is working, but that phrasing is peculiar. And do I have Venus powers now? Are there other claimants? Will we recognize each other on sight?
Agatha interrupts my train of thought by leaping over and hugging me. She buries her face in my shoulder, squeezing me. For a moment I freeze, but then social scripts take over and I hug her back. She’s very pleasantly soft.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “I feel incredible.” She pulls back from me and does another twirl, eyes shining. “I feel like I can do anything. Monsters? No problem. Supervillains? As if. Egregores?” She stops in place, meets my gaze, and grins. “They won’t know what hit them.”
I grin back. “Venus will regret ever trying to manipulate us. We’re going to burn her kingdom to ash and steal her golden crown. We’ll show them, Agatha. We’ll show them all.”
She squeals and hugs herself, still an absolute dork despite her fresh perspective. “Gosh, this is good. This is like my anxiety meds times a billion. I was expecting to feel a little more confident, but this is amazing. Can I—how long can I stay like this? Does it have a time limit? Will we need to like, recast the ritual every week or something?”
“Nope!” I chirp. “Normally my transformations go away when I sleep, but I carved an exception for this spell. I think, though I may be wrong, that this should last until I take it back. Oh, and you can probably end it yourself? Not sure of the exact mechanics, but it literally shouldn’t be able to do something to you that you don’t want, so if you don’t want the transformation at all, it should either come back to me or just, turn off until you want it again. Might have to experiment. If you have any problems, text me something weird. Ask me to read Umineko.”
“Okay, but you should do that,” she says playfully. “And hey, maybe you’d pick up more girls if they thought you knew how to read.”
I blink. “Did you—”
Agatha covers her mouth, eyes going wide. “Oh my god,” she says, voice muffled by her hands. “It made me snarky. All my heroes are snarky.”
I burst out laughing. “Fuck, that’s great. Now we gotta keep it.”
It only takes a second for Agatha to join me in laughter, and nearly a minute for us to wind down and recover. When we do, I conjure a shifter and hand it to Agatha.
“Head back without me. I’ve got one more piece of business to take care of before I leave the World of Glass. I’ll be fine.” I need to wrangle Hastur and get some answers about this “claimant” business.
Agatha nods, smiling. “‘Kay! I’m already excited for tomorrow’s stream. Oh! I’ll spend tonight practicing so the change looks more natural if the Jovians are watching, which they probably are. See you then, Arkie.” Agatha frowns. “Am I a nicknamer? I’m going to have to experiment with that one and collect more data.”
You dork, I think affectionately. “See you then, Aggie.”
“That sounded way more natural,” Agatha complains as she heads out the door of the bookshop and takes flight.
I watch her go. I’m not sure if I just did a good deed or something insanely selfish, but I suppose time will tell. So long as I get closer to my goal, does it matter?
I consider that question seriously. Does it matter whether I hurt or help Agatha? I’m not sure. Sophia is such a kind and caring person, but Striga is a blade that cuts without hesitation. If she thought it would lead to killing Venus, how would she really feel about manipulating Agatha like this?
Maybe I should ask her.
I imagine that scenario: eager, needy Archon telling her beloved Striga all about her plan to get rid of Venus. Would I be scolded and put in my place, or would I be congratulated for my initiative and brought in on more of Striga’s own plan? It could jeopardize my game if Striga disapproves, but should I really disobey if Sophia thinks I’m in the wrong?
But Sophia doesn’t have perfect information. She’s missing pieces of the puzzle, and that’s my fault. Although…
Imagine how grateful Sophie would be if I killed Venus for her. What a wonderful surprise that would be, if I helped her. Killed for her.
If I saved her, like she saved me.
I giggle. Yes, that would be ideal. I just need to stay the course. In a sense, delaying my confession has actually helped me; what better confession gift than the head of a god? I just have to kill Venus and I’m guaranteed to win Sophie’s heart. Then I can tell her everything.
“Okay, Hastur,” I say aloud. “Are you going to come down and chat, or am I going to have to go hunting?”
“You won’t find her if she doesn’t want you to,” my own voice mocks me from behind. “To the King in Yellow, we’re just ants crawling in the dirt.”
Cold fear spikes down my spine. I whirl, gun in hand, and press it against a perfect replica of my own forehead. My own face stares back at me, facsimile lips twisted in a smirk.
“Hello again, Rachel,” says the deimovore.
Comments
Lako
How did I miss this chapter? Thanks for it:)
NeRike
If Rachel is now a claimant to Venus, then that makes Agatha some sort of mini-Champion for Archon, I guess?
