Voracity
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Mad Tea Party (Redux) II
🕑 Added 2022-09-07 09:12:01 +0000 UTCEdit: in sleep deprived state I forgot the description for one of the nobles, that has been
The moment I see the monsters, I’m ready to fight. I’m not afraid, I’m not hesitant, I’m not even fazed. Whatever these things are, they can’t be worse than what I’ve already faced.
These creatures actually remind me of the very second type of monster I faced on my arrival in the Labyrinth: the spider-like not-dogs that chased me through the woods outside the abandoned schoolhouse. If I were to give these things a name, it would be not-cats: the bodies of big hairless sphynx cats but stretched out unnaturally, eyeless, and with large scorpion tails.
“Cheshire–”
“Already on it!” My companion slips behind me, expression focused as she concentrates on priming castings of my signature spell. She’s already anticipated what I need, so the rest is up to me.
“[Carrion Swarm],” I call out, arm extended and fingers outstretched in the direction of the new arrivals. The spell diagram flashes in my mind’s eye, full of arcane symbols I’ve yet to decipher, and then it’s gone as I unleash the spell and send white ravens flying from my hand, their feathery bodies emerging from my porcelain skin.
The birds soar for the beasts and I run after them. The not-cats are chasing after the man who fell through the portal, the man my seeking spell led me to, as he races away from them through the emptied food court. One of the not-cats is larger than the others, and it sprints ahead of them on elongated limbs.
My birds reach the two smaller beasts, and as each raven lays a claw or a wing on the flesh of a not-cat the raven is wreathed in noxious black mist that clings like muck.
A splintering pain wracks my body as [Feast or Famine] takes a bite out of my soul to fuel each casting. My thoughts are scattered like viscera before the claws of a great beast, and every nerve feels electrified with fresh and horrid sensation. I stumble in my stride and have to catch myself, still unused to the intensity of the spell, and then its second half hits.
The black mist spreads from birds to beasts and consumes the essence of the Labyrinth’s latest horrors. The cat-like monsters wither into husks, skin stretching taut against frames that lose mass until they’re just bone, and as they fall I drink in their life force, their very souls, and the resonance-rich mana tied to such consumption. It is a soothing balm after the torment of the initial casting, and I revel in it, but there’s still something disorienting about rapidly shifting between pain and pleasure like that.
The few ravens that went for the third beast take longer to reach it, and as they approach they are swatted from the sky by the lightning-quick motion of the not-cat’s scorpion-like tail. The tail’s barb pierces each bird in succession, tearing through them. For an instant the black mist is there, rising from the ravens and clinging to the tail, but the birds scatter to shadow too quickly and the creature’s tail shrivels not quite to uselessness. Again I experience the cycle of soul-rending agony and hungry satisfaction, but it’s muted compared to the other burst of sensation.
I hiss and call out to my other minions, “Surround the big one!”
The white ravens flap their wings and rise from the dehydrated-looking husks of the lesser not-cats, but as they do they begin to fall apart. Feathers and flesh alike slough from fragile bone, and then it all melts into shadow.
The last monster takes advantage of the opening to pounce, lunging for the fleeing man as he looks back at my shout and nearly trips. His momentary stumble is enough for the beast, which knocks him to the ground and pins him there.
He looks up at it with fear in his eyes, and I finally notice the object in his hands: an ornate sheath of blue and gold, with a sword hilt poking out of it. He raises the sheath and manages to wedge it in the creature’s toothy maw, blocking it from biting him, but its claws rake into him freely.
Shit. I can’t rely on summons for this, I’ll have to do it myself. I close the distance with the beast now that it’s stationary, and as I move in I conjure Vorpal, the hilt appearing in my hand with ease. I lunge for the creature, movements purposeful and fluid, the killing instrument seeming almost eager to guide my strike.
With my first movement I slash at the beast’s tail, the rapier’s edge cutting through with only the barest of resistance. The top half of the tail falls to the ground, stinger rendered useless to the monster, and clear water bleeds from the point of severance.
The mutant sphynx cat turns its eyeless face toward me, at last recognizing the real threat in the room, but that ornate sheath is still wedged in its mouth and it can’t move away from the man it’s pinning fast enough to avoid my second strike. The point of my blade pierces its skill and Vorpal runs clean through to the other side.
Black mist erupts from the blade and consumes the monster, and again I am wracked with pain and joyous voracity. My soul splinters and is forged anew, fractures of essence sealed with an influx of stolen soulstuff. I arch my back and clench my other hand, nails digging into skin hard enough to draw blood, but each puncture seals just as quick as it’s made thanks to the vital force flowing from the beast to me.
I tear Vorpal from its skull and it dies, and I flick droplets of water from the blood-red blade.
When the high fades and my breathing steadies, I turn to the man who fell and finally take him in: tousled blonde hair, big brown eyes, sun-tanned skin, and an altogether unremarkable build and face. His white shirt is torn and rapidly staining with blood from the wounds that monster gouged in him. Belatedly, I realize that’s a serious problem and one I don’t have any immediate way to solve.
I grimace and extend a hand down to help him up. “Hey, guy: get up and we can try to… find a… healer.”
Before my eyes, the bloody gashes in his chest knit together and seal up like the skin was never broken. There’s no mark on his body, no indication he’s still in pain, nothing. The only sign there was ever a wound is the blood still staining his shirt and visible on his chest through the holes in that shirt.
He regenerated. He regenerated his wounds, which isn’t how this magic system fucking works, because the only kind of magic that can heal a wound that quickly is transfusion magic. I didn’t see him leech that life essence from anywhere, and I certainly didn’t give up any of mine, so where the hells did he get it from?
I stare at him, speechless, as he takes my hand and rises to his feet. He scratches his head, looking sheepish.
“Thanks for the assist,” he says awkwardly. “I’m Dante. That was, uh, that was really cool with the sword. Sorry I didn’t do much with mine; I got it, like, today, and I really don’t know how to use it.”
I’m barely paying attention to what he’s saying, because I’ve just noticed what he’s wearing: he’s in a navy-blue blazer over a white button-up shirt, with bland gray trousers, a gray necktie, and black dress shoes. It looks like a school uniform.
Arriving in another world wearing a school uniform and chased by monsters, gifted an item on entry and powers that defy the conventional laws of magic. Just like me. He has to be. He has to be, there’s no way he isn’t.
No, no, I refuse. This can’t be happening. And that’s my fucking power! That’s the cheat ability I asked for, and the God of Death laughed at me.
One way to confirm, not that it isn’t blindingly obvious what’s going on.
I flicker on my soul sight, shifting my vision from the false corporeal to the true meaning lying beneath the skin of the world. The mall around us becomes ink on paper, sketch lines and vague impressions of physicality. When I look at most people with my sight, I see a mask of bone and a form that tells me something about them. The only exception is Cheshire, who, like me, is a witch that can foil sixth senses.
The only exception until now, I should correct, because when I look at Dante all I see is a blue storm of swirling, random, meaningless nothing. When I peer closer, straining my sight, I can just barely make out a glimmering star beneath, dim yet oddly hopeful, but that’s it.
His soul looks nothing like Averrich’s, which showed me the infection of madness coursing through him, and it’s nothing like the souls of figments, held up by strings that lead back to the tower of black glass. There’s nothing to prod at here, no meaning I can discern, no clues I can draw. He’s obscured to my senses, just like my soul has been obscured to everyone who’s tried to peer at it.
He’s a witch, just like me and just like Cheshire; someone specially chosen by Nyarlathotep herself to be granted special powers and privileges outside the bounds of the normal magic system.
In isekai terms, he has a cheat ability. And it’s not proof that he’s from Earth, just like that outfit isn’t proof and being chased by monsters certainly isn’t proof, but when you put that all together and compare it to my own arrival in this world… the parallels are disturbing, and this does not seem like a universe where coincidences are just coincidences.
It’s a sick joke, and I bet I know who to blame: Katoptris and Nyarlathotep, my two tormentors.
I flicker off soul sight and see the kid–Dante, he said his name was Dante–waving at my nervously. He says, “Uh, hey there, weird magic woman. You’ve been staring at me kind of intently. Do you, like, have a name?”
“Oh. Right.” Okay, gotta look cool, gotta look cool to impress the new kid so I can get him on side in dealing with Averrich because apparently my magic compass thinks he’s the key to that particular showdown. I need a title, cool people have titles, why don’t I have a title? I need a badass moniker to show how badass and awesome and powerful I am. Argh, fuck it, let’s just steal something from anime and hope he’s not a weeb. I straighten up, pose with my rapier, and proudly announce, “My name is Maven Alice of the Crimson Moon, the True Ancestor vampire princess.”
He looks at me with befuddled confusion. “Isn’t that from Tsukihime?”
“Dammit,” I swear, clenching my fist in frustration. Well now we know he’s definitely from Earth. Why is he here? Is he meant to be the Hero to my Demon King of Tyranny? “Who the hell knows Tsukihime in 2022?” I ask instead, stalling for time while I try to figure out how the fuck I’m supposed to respond to meeting someone else from the Zero Sphere.
“There was a remake last year, and a new Melty Blood.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, nevermind that, I need you to tell me everything about how you–”
I’m cut off by a flash of prismatic light, and then the air is filled with an ominous hum as shards of fractal glass flicker into existence all around me. Each node expands, contracts, expands, and they all resonate with that awful tone. The fractal shards become fractal panes of stained glass that grows to encircle both myself and Dante.
My gaze meets Cheshire’s in the instant before the rainbow glass can encase me entirely, and she reaches out. Our hands intertwine for a single moment and then she’s melting into my shadow, charm bracelet around my wrist, as the cocoon completes itself and the prismatic glass swallows me whole.
When I blink my eyes, I am standing within the swirling rainbow-colored maelstrom I’ve seen twice before: it’s the Corridor of Reflections, the Labyrinth’s world between worlds that contains within it the mirror-paths connecting all reflective surfaces within the Labyrinth.
The kaleidoscope effect is as dizzying as ever, and instinctively my gaze flits to the tower of black glass that pierces the sky. The storm of prismatic color bleeds from that tower, from each point where jagged glass cuts into the skin of the cosmos.
The last time I was here, I fell from one mirror into another with barely a glimpse of the Corridor. The first time, I walked across panes of glass from mirror-portal to mirror-portal. This time, I appear to be standing on a circular stone platform suspended in midair.
Below me and in front of me I see a much larger stone platform, circular like the one I’m standing on but missing a chunk, like a cookie with a bite taken out of it. Six thrones are arrayed in a half-circle on the side of the platform not missing a piece, and six figures sit upon those thrones.
I take in their visages scattershot, attention flitting rapidly between figures: a man with golden skin and a haughty air reclining on a throne of glittering jewels; a woman dressed like a flapper from the 1920s slumped against a throne of velvet, sipping from a glass of wine; someone dark-skinned and gray-haired, gender uncertain, resting listlessly on a throne of unadorned stone; a jackal-headed woman with an exposed glass heart, her throne black jet but painted with red hearts; a misshapen amalgamation of animal parts in mismatching fashion, hunched upon the ruins of a many-colored throne; and a woman split down the middle, half-corpse and half-beauty, on a throne of grasping hands.
These, I immediately intuit, must be the Nobles.
Six more platforms, smaller like mine, are arrayed around the bitten half of the central platform, opposite the thrones. I see Dante on one, two figures I don’t recognize on their own, and the three people I expected to see here: Averrich the Goblin King, Esha of the Myriad, and Vaylin Kirinal. Beyond them, seated in amphitheater rows, I see hundreds of silhouettes, figures cast in total darkness.
Before I have time to take in any more information, a resounding thunderclap fills the air and my attention is drawn back to the central stage. A seventh figure materializes from glass and takes the shape of a woman made of glass, unclothed and eerie. Her skin, her hair, her eyes, all glass, just slightly discolored from each other to create the illusion of definition. She’s not wearing my face this time, but I know she must be the Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria. Who else could accomplish this feat?
The Beast clasps her hands together and smiles up at me, then at the rest of the audience. I try to call out to her, to snarl at her, to say anything, but no sound leaves my lips. The Beast’s smile grows wicked, and then she spreads her hands and begins to speak with joyous, manic fervor.
“Welcome, one and all, to a wonderful, horrible spectacle. I’m sure some of you are feeling very confused right now, or at least very surprised, though at least two of you know exactly what is going on.” The Beast chuckles, voice echoing across the vast open space. “The festivities will begin shortly, but first, please, allow me a brief preamble. This city, my gift to all of you, has grown from a humble seed, nourished by dreams, into a magnificent garden overflowing with potential. I speak, of course, of Sanctuary 7.”
The glass woman sighs heavily, and when she speaks again her tone is despondent. “But alas, a maze can have but one minotaur, a crown but one head to rest upon. I wish dearly that I could provide paradise for all of you equally, but we have seen time and again that it is human nature to create evils where none reside.”
The Beast laughs and bares glass teeth. “You kill each other like animals. Presented with a banquet, you would rather feast upon the flesh of your brothers and sisters than partake of that which is without cost or caveat. You will lie and cheat and murder over something so worthless as power. You truly have no shame.”
“All of what is to come could have been prevented,” she mourns. “There was no need for this violence, no need for this miserable hardship. But the hard road has been chosen, and that choice must be respected. So you shall kill each other until one remains, and then that greatest of murderers shall claim a shard of glass and an empty throne, and she shall call herself a Red Queen.”
The Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria spreads her hands wide, expression serene, caught in something approaching rapture. “Welcome, my beautiful fools, to the seventh Game of Glass.”
I grimace at her several pointed comments. Yes, yes, we’re a garden of sinners and this is somehow all my fault for not taking the obvious bait when you dangled it in front of me. But, “Red Queen,” is that an Alice in Wonderland reference? She displayed knowledge of my past, just like Cheshire, so it could easily be that… and maybe it’s a reference to the evolutionary principle and the realpolitik theory of warring states. The endless unmoving race that can only be broken with the emergence of an apex predator or a hegemon.
Me.
The Beast brings her hands back together and announces, “Now, with that out of the way, let’s introduce our lucky contestants. Our first candidate is a demon who arrived here only a few days ago, but she’s taken to bloodshed like a corpse to a grave. Maven Alice, please step forward.”
The platform beneath me starts to shift, and it lowers down to perfectly fill the hole in the circle where the Beast is waiting. I bare my fangs at the glass woman and flex my fingers, wanting nothing more than to rip that head off her shoulders… but I know better than to think that would work.
The Beast reaches out and grabs my left hand, lifts it up, and then traces a swooping design on the back of my hand that lights up and glows for a moment before vanishing. “Your key fragment has been implanted,” she tells me with a smile.
I sprout claws from the ends of my fingers, and with my other hand I reach over and scrape those claws across the glass skin of her forearm. The sound it makes is ear-bleedingly awful, but her smile doesn’t falter and neither does my snarl.
The Beast gently extricates her arm, and then she turns her back to me and gestures to one of the seated figures. “Maven’s sponsor is the Noble of Grandeur and Shame, Lord Invernus. As the newest Noble of the six, he’s got a lot to prove with this nomination.”
I follow her gesture and see the man with golden skin, reclining with a posture of arrogant contempt on his throne of precious metals and glittering gemstones. He’s completely hairless, not even eyebrows, and his eyes shimmer with rainbow color. He wears a rainbow-colored trench coat and no shirt, which reveals his literally-chiseled chest, and his only other articles of clothing are a pair of pristine white trousers and white dress shoes.
Invernus. So you’re the bastard who set me up. I’ll enjoy wiping that smug look from your face.
My platform lifts away from the center as the Beast announces, “Our next candidate is an elf old enough to have seen the fall of his world, making him a real powerhouse in this competition. He truly embodies the spirit of euphoric celebration, and his revelry would make the Wolf Queen proud. Averrich, you splendid rogue, get over here.”
Averrich’s platform drifts down and he receives his key fragment with an exaggerated bow, the flamboyant fae seemingly entirely unperturbed and unsurprised by everything transpiring. He’s still bedazzled in sapphires and emeralds, with a crown nesting in his glam rock mop of hair, and I idly fantasize about ripping those gems out and tossing them into a gutter somewhere.
“Averrich’s sponsor is the Noble of Relief and Regret, Lord Kasumi. Her love of entertainment is legendary, so perhaps she’s hoping Averrich will prove an excellent thrower of parties as the seventh Noble.”
Again the Beast turns and gestures, and I see the woman sipping wine with a bored expression on her face. Kasumi has dead eyes like polished stones, bright red lips, and completely unkempt black hair. She’s dressed in a black-and-gold flapper dress, the kind with sequins and beads and feathers, and she lets it hang lazily off one shoulder. Her throne is black stone carved with carnal images and upholstered with plush velvet, and upon one throne arm sit three bottles of wine, two of them empty.
Kasumi, who gave Averrich advance warning of the Game’s approach. She and Invernus both interfered to set up their candidates, so I wonder if any of the others did the same. And those titles they have, it matches the construction of the Beast’s title. Will whoever wins this game become the Noble of Lamentation and Euphoria?
Vaylin is next to be brought before the Beast. The azure-skinned demon looks mostly the same as the projection that Esha showed me–two pairs of upward-curving horns, all-black eyes with white-dot pupils, and a black-lipped smile–but she’s discarded the tank top and leather pants for a strawberry-patterned pink dress, though she’s still adorned in golden jewelry and red body-stitching.
“This demon is the biggest reason this city has devolved into so much infighting and urban warfare,” the Beast crows, “and if she gets her way I’m sure every soul in the Sanctuary will be turned into a puppet on her strings. It’s a pleasure to have you in the running, Vaylin Kirinal.”
Vaylin receives her key fragment and examines her hand with clear interest, waving it around and poking at the skin where the glowing design briefly appeared.
The Beast continues, “Vaylin has been sponsored by the Noble of Enthrallment and Apathy, Lord Krendagrel. I’m sure it would watch her performance with great interest if it hadn’t already found a new fixation to occupy itself with.”
Krendagrel is a creature with elongated limbs covered in a messy mix of feathers, fur, and scales. One of its hands ends in three digits, while the other ends in nine, and it has one leg ending in a cloven hoof and one leg ending in a bird-like talon. It has a wide mouth full of shark’s teeth; big, round, entirely-white eyes; no nose or hair upon the head; and a set of tall, pointed ears that curl at the tips and sprout chitinous growths.
The amalgamation of parts has an equally eclectic taste in clothing: it wears a red-and-yellow scarf over a green-and-blue shawl over a brown cloak, it wears a purple sash over bare chest, and it wears a checkerboard skirt, but nothing else. Its scattered patches of uncovered skin are muddy teal in color and possess an odd warped texture. It crouches on the ruins of a throne that looks to have sliced apart in two places, and the fragments are splashed with paint of all colors.
The Noble of Enthrallment and Apathy, true to its name and the words of the Beast, is completely ignoring the proceedings to instead pick at a puzzle. Its long digits toy with one of those mechanical puzzles that require you to disassemble interlocking pieces, though the puzzle in its hands is more complex than any I’ve seen in stores.
Vaylin’s platform drifts back, and one of the figures I don’t recognize drifts in to take her place.
“Introducing our next candidate, Valentina Vasquez! She’s a wizard who has, until now, attempted to stay out of the fighting between factions. Sucks to be you, Vasquez, but welcome to the brawl!”
The woman brought before the Beast looks to be in the peak of physical fitness, and her expression remains serene and unbothered despite the Beast’s comments. Vasquez has a healthy glow to her skin, short-trimmed brown hair, and wears blue-and-red sleeveless robes patterned with designs of flying fish and fire flowers. She receives her key fragment without ceremony.
“This candidate’s sponsor is Lord Juno, the Noble of Love and Hate. I think she might have a desire for Ms. Valentina, or perhaps she wants to see her murdered horribly by a demon.”
Juno is the jackal-headed woman, with clawed hands and an exposed heart of unbeating red glass. She wears red suspenders, a white button-up shirt, and black trousers, and she snacks on candied meats from a dripping pile atop one of the arms of her throne of black jet and carved red hearts. Juno doesn’t look up when the Beast calls out her name, as she’s too busy baring her teeth at the split-body woman, a hungry look in her eyes.
The wizard is dismissed and the other unfamiliar figure takes her place. This guy looks exactly like the archetypal necromancer, which in this setting means he probably is one and playing into that appearance to enhance his spellcasting. He’s got the sickly pallor, dark hair and eyes, hooded robes, and even a skull pendant around his neck. He also has a permanent scowl etched into his face, which might be more of a personality issue than anything magic-related.
“Introducing Hubert Ulchen, a necromancer who would have preferred to remain hidden in order to continue his silly little experiments. Too bad! Hubert has been sponsored by Lord Urna, the Noble of Desire and Disgust, who before her ascension to the ranks of nobility was once a necromancer like him."
Urna is the woman of two very different halves, the corpse and the beauty. One half is that of a shapely bombshell with very pale skin, an ice-blue eye, full lips, and very long platinum blonde hair styled in a side cut. The other half is that of a skeletal corpse, exposed bone and dripping gore, bloody teeth, and cold blue light in the depths of a skeletal eye socket. She wears a fluffy fur mantle over her shoulders, and a dress made of sheer black-and-white fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination, conforming tightly to her buxom living half and hanging loose against the skeletal frame of her corpse half. She sits with regal airs upon a throne of grasping hands carved in marble.
Like most of the Nobles she seems to barely notice the Beast, though in Urna's case that seems to be because of her fixation on Juno. As Juno bares her teeth at Urna, Urna curls her lip with a look of revulsion, but when Juno looks away to eat another candied meat that look becomes lustful and vulgar.
"Perhaps she feels a sense of kinship, or perhaps she finds his experiments as revolting as any sane person would and wants to put a target on his back. Either way, I don’t think he’ll last long now that he’s been exposed to the other candidates.”
The Beast chuckles and sends the necromancer back to float with the rest of us. I find his situation curious, and that of the wizard. The way the Beast talked about both of them framed them as almost less important than Averrich, Vaylin, or I, and that makes me think of how Cheshire talked about figments: as extras in a stageplay. The Beast has established Vasquez and Ulchen as obstacles to be overcome rather than true contenders for the grand prize. They’re not the main characters of this story.
Esha is next to drift down, and there’s only one Noble remaining to be her backer. The priestess is dressed in those same plain white robes I saw her in last, carrying her shepherd’s crook staff and wearing a blindfold over her eyes.
“Our sixth candidate is the priestess bonded to my city’s precious eidolon. Esha leads the Myriad and strives to be a voice of reason and compassion amid the chaos and conflict that rises around her. It is a shame that she has failed, and will fail, against the tide of human nature.”
I can’t see Esha’s face from this angle, but I see her hand tighten around her staff. How must it feel to be told by a godlike existence that your purpose in life is doomed to failure?
“Ah, but I digress. Esha’s sponsor is an individual of few words most days, but their reasoning for the choice of Esha is obvious: Lord Naryatska is the Noble of Isolation and Gregariousness, and Esha is one of the few people in this city that might be bearable to talk to after being granted the incredible power of my shard.”
The last of the Nobles, Naryatska, is dark-skinned and gray-haired with silver eyes and a withdrawn, listless aura. Their clothing is plain compared to some of their contemporaries, just a full-body gray jumpsuit complete with black gloves and black jacket. Their throne is unadorned gray stone, and as they are addressed by the Beast they ignore her words to continue staring down at an open locket cupped in both hands.
Esha is sent away, and the Beast’s smile grows wider, glass cracking at the edges of her mouth. “Historically,” the Beast says, “my kind have taken a rather neutral role in the moderation of these contests. However, we do reserve the right to select a candidate of our own to vie for the grand prize of the glass shard. I have chosen to exercise this right, in this very special Game of Glass. Come forth, my champion: Dante Reyes.”
Dante, looking surprised and confused, is brought down to the central platform and given a key fragment. I watch, seething internally, my suspicions confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt; Dante was brought here by the Beast to be my foil, my opponent in this Game of Glass to force my hand… and presumably, Nyarlathotep found that funny enough to grant him the witch power I wanted.
The Beast doesn’t dwell on it, though, once Dante’s been given his piece of the key. She sends him back, and then she cracks her knuckles and spreads her arms wide once more.
“You’ve received your key fragments, but not all of you understand what that means. Allow me to explain the rules of our little game. The terms are simple: each of you possesses one-seventh of a key that can, once fully formed, open the door to my colosseum in the heart of the city. A key fragment can be given willingly to another, or it can be extracted from the corpse of the holder. While these fragments start in the hands of these specific seven, anyone who is capable of defeating a holder may take the fragment from their corpse, and any holder may give away their fragment to any person.
“Once the door is opened, a challenger may approach me within my lair, and there I shall judge whether or not they are worthy of taking up my shard. If I judge them unworthy, they may still attempt to take the shard by force, if they think they have what it takes.
“The shard, for those unaware, is the animus of my being and the incarnation of all my powers as a fragment of Katoptris, she who is the origin of this throne world. Possession of the shard means mastery over that throne world, or at least one region of it. You will be immortal and omnipotent within the bounds of your Sanctuary, and still very powerful beyond. You will be able to reshape this city to your will, expand it, destroy it, whatever is your whim. Each figment will answer to you, and you will have the capacity to create new figments, and to change the laws that govern those figments beholden to you. You will be like unto a god or an archdemon, an existence approaching Royalty.”
But never reaching it, like a mathematical function approaching infinity in smaller and smaller increments the closer it gets. Forever tantalizingly out of reach. Glass does not grow. That was the downside that the Beast revealed to me, when she tempted me with the shard. I could have security, comfort, and a playground to rule over, but I would never escape the Labyrinth and I would never usurp the Divine Architect of Pandaemonium.
An unacceptable compromise.
“Now, before I let you loose to decide amongst yourselves who gets my shard… there is one other detail that will be different about this Game of Glass. You see, I’m afraid that two of you are dirty rotten cheaters.” I tense, knowing exactly what she’s talking about. “Invernus and Kasumi both acted to interfere with the conditions of this competition. They primed their candidates and nudged them in position to have actionable advantages over their rivals.”
The others are looking at me, I can feel their gazes on my flesh, those judging, curious eyes. Vaylin, Esha, Valentina, Hubert, and Dante, all learning for the first time that my place in this Game of Glass is not normal, not unalloyed.
“And so,” the Beast continues, “I have chosen to implement a measure to even the playing field once again. With the approval of those Nobles who did not attempt to cheat, I have decided to call for a one-day grace period in which no hostile action may be enacted by any keyholder, subordinate, or ally against any other person or property of those categories.”
Invernus smirks, maintaining his haughty air of superiority, but I see his hand clench the bejeweled arm of his throne so tightly that it warps the metal and leaves an impression. Kasumi, for her part, simply rolls her eyes, downs the rest of her glass, and refills it, spilling wine in the process. The rest of the Nobles seem untroubled by this declaration, which makes sense if they were in on it from the start.
Outmaneuvered by the Beast herself. I must admit I’m pleased by that, even if I was one of the two benefiting from advanced warning. This’ll hurt Averrich more than it hurts me, that’s for sure.
“Take this time to prepare yourselves, my beloved candidates. Strike alliances, plot betrayals, and scope out the territory you’ll be fighting in. But, if you attempt to break my peace… I’ll put you down myself. Have fun!”
In an instant, the world of color and stone vanishes, and both Dante and I are back in the mall.
This changes things. With a day of peace, we could do exactly as she suggested: strikes alliances and survey the terrain. If I could find where my enemies are located, that would be a huge boon. And if I could get Esha on side, I’d have all the resources of the Myriad at my disposal.
Ah, but first… the kid.
Dante is looking worried and overwhelmed, so I clap a hand on his shoulder and give him a big grin.
“Hey, kid: ever wanted to win a death game?”
Comments
VoraVora
Thanks for catching the typos! That last one is actually colloquial language.
Mikki Phoenix
I really, really, really like this chapter. I particularly like the fact that it isn't the trope-tastic "all but one of you must die, for you must fight until only one of you is left" setup, with all of the pointless internecine fighting that it entails. The fact that alliances are allowed, even encouraged, means that anyone who doesn't want to win (like Maven Alice) doesn't have to actually even fight -- and can still play a role in who wins, both by giving their shard to their favored candidate, and by attacking whomever they most want to have lose. All in all, it's a delightfully more complex tactical situation. Well done!
Mikki Phoenix
Change "skill" to "skull". First paragraph of the intro ends abruptly. "odd warped texture" to either "odd, warped texture" or "oddly warped texture" "to have sliced apart" to "to have been sliced apart" "shepherd's crook staff" to "shepherd's-crook staff" "get Esha on side" to "get Esha on my side"
