Brent Stinebaker
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20-11 Blood in the Bright
🕑 Added 2023-12-14 17:24:44 +0000 UTCEvery half-strand has an opinion on vengeance.
None of it really matters. Because guess what? Shit’s complicated. Always. There’s no all-killing munition for this kind of thing.
Also, I'm gonna tell you something now so you don't need to be confused about it in the future: anyone who tries to sell you a platitude about forgiveness or letting things go when you’re obviously hurting is a fucking clown. Best case is they’re talking to talk. Worst is that they’re actually stupid as shit.
At the end of the day, revenge isn’t really a moral action. Or a just one. No. It’s an emotional reaction. A need to protect yourself—to show yourself that you can again. Or to make something right that you couldn’t before. Otherwise, how else are you supposed to live in the world?
It’s that inner human raging against the lack of order in this fucked up world of ours. Because we’re more than just animals. We’re more than just instinct. We live lives and remember the beauty of things, and when that’s lost, it hurts us somewhere bad, and that doesn’t heal right.
So. Vengeance.
Vengeance… it’s an action. Let’s go from there. I’m not good at this philosophy shit. Find an academic for that one. I’ll just give you the practicals of doing the deed.
The most important thing is understanding if you can execute on it at all. Wanna kill some piece of shit local ganger? Easy. Ursday night gig.
Trying to bomb a Guilder factory for tainted formula that your baby brother died on?
Yeah. Maybe downgrade that to assassinate a member of the board or something.
The ultimate thing is finding the realistic point where satisfaction meets tangibility. You want to hurt them back and get away without blowback. And make no mistake, you will do this for satisfaction or not at all. Revenge can feel good. Or like nothing. The former turns you into a suicidal joy-fiend. The latter ends with you learning to give head using a gun barrel. Both end in ugly ways.
In the end, there’s no amount of hurt that plugs up a wound. Don’t be blind about what you’re doing, otherwise, you might just end up being Soul-fuel without ever seeing the end of your goals.
-Quail Tavers, School of the Warrens
20-11
Blood in the Bright
Across the Sunderwilds where patches of stability stand deviant from the sprawling chaos of impossibility, reflective conduits came alight far through the Fallen Heavens. Passage formed across each leg of their journey, becoming exits down a vast and long path.
One such passage stood above all the others, and it was imbued within a single pane of glass, connecting enclave to a bivouac just beyond New Vultun itself.
With such, the expedition stood a success, but the wielder of the miracle was not finished, for the city had yet to be claimed, and the girl had yet to speak her wish.
“What do you want to do?”
Such were the words Avo asked Dice after infusing her with all the memories he had taken.
From a hundred and twelve deaths, he reconstructed a lost history and offered them over Dice, as was her inheritance.
The girl didn’t collapse inward like Essus. She did not turn deviant in the way Chambers did. She didn’t even rage like the Agnos.
From her person emanated but a single sensation, and it was coldness.
A growing chill spilled from the crack of her consciousness, like a door left half open during days of falling snow.
Within a shard of glass, ghoul, girl, and Regular drifted in a space between spaces as a war raged on beyond.
“Do you think he ever really cared for me?” Speaking the words took something out of her and lessened the weight of her ego, but she remained vacant of trauma.
Nearby, Avo noticed Draus shrugging. The Regular was peeking out a number of passages leading out into the tangible world. The demiplane of her Liminal Paracosmos was a weightless reality made from shifting shards, overlapping fractals, and moving reflections. Presently, a constellation made from five hundred and two dancing shards shifted around them, serving as passage and peephole both.
“Don’t think the man himself could rightly tell you, juv,” Draus said, pulling a few additional pieces of glass from the plane around them. “Half-strand sound’s like he had a bad case of fucker’s remorse. Just enough to snuff and torture, not enough to go all the way.” She spat, and chasm widened within the demiplane, passing her globule over into the real. “Ain’t no worth tryin’ to figure him out. Piece of shit’s dead. You’re still here. You got his enclave. You got his people. Question is… what do you want to do with ‘em?”
{Captain Draus, I hope you’re not implying mass murder as a means of therapy?} Calvino said, transmitting its disappointment into Draus’ Neurodeck directly.
“Who said anything about therapy?”
{I can reject your weaponry requisition requests, you know?}
“Alright, alright. Wasn’t what I meant anyway. Ain’t no worth in killin’ these baseliners anyhow. They’re soft. Weak. Shit, I don’t know people could get this small. Havin’ a hard time differentiating between the adults and the kids here. Cullin’ them will be less fight than hittin’ a Syndicate, and I’m worn on bug-stomping already. Tired of things here too.” She turned her attention over to Avo and the ghoul turned to Dice instead.
“Her home. She was technically like a princess. For a while. Should be up to her.”
{Within reason,} Calvino said, voice tinged with a warning. {many in this city are suffering because of powers beyond their control. I have been very measured with you so far, Avo, however–}
“I know,” Avo replied. “Don’t think that’s what Dice wants. Is it?”
“No,” the girl said, softly. “I don’t… want that. I…” Her voice trailed off. “I never hated the dogs I killed. But I got better food if I won. I got their beds too. The master–Yakozitrin. He taught me that you can’t hurt a dog after it’s dead. But its food can be yours. It’s bed and kennel too. He is dead now. His food is ours. His kennel too.” She paused. “But there’s also the others.”
“The others?” Avo asked.
The girl’s body gave a mechanical whine as she nodded. “I want to talk with them. The ones who knew my mother and father the most.”
Avo understood. “In flesh or as templates?”
She considered her options. “I want to talk with my aunt. Personally. I want to see her before you burn her. I don’t care how I talk to the rest.”
The blood within Avo quivered with mirth as the Woundmother laughed. “Oh, what a lovely little hound. So resilient. And accepting. If only your pet degenerate and the crying one could exhibit half her mettle.”
[Hey, fuck you,] template-Chambers said, without any sense of amusement this time. [Her life’s completely fucked. I mean, my dad was a piece of shit too, but he never made me fight dogs for food.] A note of genuine depression escaped him. And jealousy–of the girl’s unbreakable demeanor. [Fuck. Shit. Maybe my old man wasn’t even that bad. Wouldn’t that be funny.]
+No,+ Avo replied, faint memories of Walton lighting his mind. +It can only be a thing of sorrow. Chambers. You’re still a person. She will never be. Doesn’t even seem to want it.+
And as Chambers let out a quivering exhale in his section of the mindscape, he left to seek Dice’s template, not sure what he was going to say, but probably about to shit-talk his dad.
Meanwhile, blood began to leak back through the reflections across the city, and shards of glass began to move.
***
“Mail capsule inbound!”
The head operator's cry was chorused by her assistants, and Hand Urrins watched their bodies explode into motion as reflections in the glass. The brass pipelines running between the walls rumbled and dinged as more messages returned from the battlefront. The scribes moved to their stations, adjusting snapping gears, spinning squeaking valves, and turning designated knobs in perfect sync, their coordination honed through years of cooperation.
How he envied their efficiency, how he wished he could have plucked it from them and bound it to the soldiers fighting below, almost seeming to time their foreboding loss with the master’s return.
The city of light was burning from within. Fire was rising where once only water flowed in ascent.
Standing at the very top of the Hightower, Urrins looked out from beyond the windows and cycled between magna-optic lenses. Position high over the city itself, and looking down over all there was to see, he saw the masses of clashing bodies, the positions where his Pearlguards were holding–and breaking–but also burning wheelbarrows pushed ahead heretical mobs, using the smoke to shield their movements from his gaze.
Of the five rungs of this blessed city, two were lost beyond doubt, the third was collapsing, and the second was being assailed.
Eight massive platforms rose and fell between the first and third rungs, carrying with them dispatches of manpower and supplies. The rails leading past the third had been blown, leaving any still fighting below stranded.
But the Dogmother’s forces had their way. Servants and traitors were positioned on levels above to aid in their climb. Ladders were built atop the sprawl of slums and ropes were thrown down from compromised positions.
One after another, they were trickling up. Inch by inch, the Pearlguard was losing the city.
“Sir,” a scribe attended him, holding out a sealed letter. The boy was young–too young–face without lines and skin soft. Terror crept along the corner of his eyes, but he held himself together well. He was dressed in robes too large for him–and the patch of blood told Urrins all he needed about how a novitiate had won the right to wear the robes of a learner. A sigil bearing the insignia of a quill held his apprentice’s toga worn on the outside of his uniform, and the Hand sighed.
Was this what they were reduced to? Drawing from the stock of children to choke the ravenous rabble.
Dark thoughts rose within Urrins in pace with the smoke beyond.
He would not survive this. This travesty was too great, and the halls of power were sullied with this failure.
It would take the master himself to reassert order. Now that the Dogmother’s hounds had known the Pearlguard to bleed, it would take more than a few patrols to quiet them down. Sweeping executions and sanctified burnings would have to resume, and through the bitterness of the present, Urrins thought he could peer into the future and gaze at where his eventual fate would lie.
He read the contents of the letter and snorted. Requests for more supplies. More legions. More gas throwers. Demands to blow the channels running down between the rungs. Doom, doom, and more doom.
Perhaps he should open his throat here and be done with things. Or perhaps not. Better to go home and do it in the garden. At least his veins would nourish the soil there. The boards here were of genuine wood, and the Hightower belonged to the master–best not to sully the beauty of the brass and the soft brown of the wood with his darkening blood.
“Return orders, sir?” the boy asked, blinking.
Urrins sighed and let the letter fall from his hands. Folding his arms behind his back, he let despair settle and gazed into the flames. Something in him desired to burn. To touch the divinity that was light and understand what it meant to hold the master’s power without ever being stained by the darkness of being charred.
All his life, he had served faithfully, rising as warrior and scholar both, culturing himself on power, as one of his breeding ought to.
But how did any of it matter in the end? He was being failed by the soldiers below, and he was failing his master in turn.
Frowning, he eyed the boy and blinked. His thoughts turned from suicide to another avenue of escape. So many unqualified servants among them, so many prepared risen beyond designated rank. It was easy to see such a group causing mistakes and delaying much-needed assistance.
Perhaps… perhaps it didn’t need to be his fault. He chanced a glance at the head operator–the older woman directing her minions from place to place–most of them girls and children now from how many men were lining the final rung as auxiliaries.
It would be a pity to lose her. She was competent, but alas, old flowers were to be plucked or used. Such was fate. She would understand. She wouldn’t be so different in his place.
Turning back to the young scribe, he considered how he would engineer the shifting of this failure before the master arrived when something passed the corner of his eye.
It looked as if a moving fracture was traveling through the walls, leaving a trail that oozed bubbling red in its wake. The Hand blinked as he struggled to process what he was seeing.
Then, from the crack leaped a lashing bolt of blood.
Hand Urrins didn’t see his end coming. Nor did any of the scribes.
One moment, he was whole, the next, all that remained was a puddle of red.
And from it, the more veins continued to spread through the city.
***
“You are good, you are brave, you are good, you are brave.” Such was the mantra that left the Dogmother’s lips as she brushed the back of her dog’s head, calming it so she could light the fuse. Checking the ten pounds of flame-triggered explosive she strapped to its back, the former Hand peeked around the corner and motioned for her best men to be prepared.
A few structures away from the Light-Blessed Gardens were the central barracks of the Pearlguard. Her watchers had spent the past few days observing, waiting for the number of guards to wane before signaling her through the tubes.
This would be the moment. This would be how she broke Urrins.
Pulling her attention away from her dog, she sneered toward the hill of marble buildings crisscrossed by splashing canals. Somewhere out there, the man who stole her position–the favor she had earned from the master–was watching his fighters fail.
Sweeping her gaze around all that surrounded her, she fanned the flames of her hate and felt savage glee dampen the burning building in her fraying nerves. Before she was cast down among the night-tainted to be mistress of the fight pits and breeder of this city’s beasts, there was another life she once lived, powers she once held.
All of that was lost to her when Urrins deceived her.
She thought he loved her. And for a time, she loved him. But she was but a means to approach the master, and when his plan of building a new section collapsed–the newly created district along with it–he forged his failure into hers, whispering sweet nothings, and playing on her pity until she bore his blame.
The master did not kill his own blood. Lamentably, he didn’t even kill his spirit bastard, one bred of her aunt and that poor fool Duthi. But exiles and diminishment were not beyond him.
And so it was that the Dogmother earned her name thereafter. Just as it was that Urrins abandoned her, his honeyed words hollow in the end.
Now, fueled by more than a few years of resentment, and tired of watching the lung plague eat through the night touched–unblessed as they were–she turned her mind to reasserting herself, and reclaiming what was lost.
But now the pools were shimmering, and the master’s return was nigh.
She needed to see this war done. She needed to stand in control and with damages repaired, the city stabilized, and Urrins subdued.
And through her war dogs, at least one of these means would be fulfilled.
“Sniff. Sniff.” She held the guard’s clothes–stolen from his home days ago–for the beast to indulge. Once the scent was known, the creature yipped and leaned down next to it. “Good. Now–”
The world around her shook. A deafening crackle rumbled through the air. Crimson chasm opened across the city and cleaved buildings. A rising column made from spilling sinews erupted from the barracks–the central hub of gas and arms. Tiny bodies kicked and writhed as they were pulled by the rising edifice, an impossible energy pulsing out from it.
Along its vast trunk opened eyes behind what looked like fanged maws. Blinking, they looked through the horizon and narrowed in on.
+Dogmother. Impressed me. Want to talk to you soon. Have a use for you.+
The call was sibilant and sharp, and the woman understood more than she heard.
It was only when she looked down that she realized her dog had run off somewhere, and the ground beneath her feet was pulsing with glowing veins and blinking eyes.
It took everything the Dogmother had not to piss herself.
***
“On!” Haadruer, Blade-Bearer of the Pearlguard roared as he leaped over the flames. “Fucking on!”
The thunder of his heart was the only other noise accompanying the ringing of his ears. His sabatons came down on burning flesh and charred muscle, bones shattering under his weight.
His cohort sprinted after the fleeing heretics, trying to run them down.
Their bodies were of all sizes and forms, the pregnant and the heavy running side by side from the hissing flames and charging Pearlguards.
Whipping his great blade out, he strode first after the fools streaming into the alley, rolling his shoulders and shifting his grip. His blade was made for purposes like these, modified to be easy to manipulate and swing even in enclosed situations.
That made him feel prepared.
When he entered the alleyway, however, he stumbled to an immediate halt.
Blood–flowing within motion–was eating its way through the buildings ahead of him, opening along the ramps running up the rungs, through even the master’s glass above.
Prey forgotten, Haadruer turned and looked up, mind going blank as sinuous threads of ichor spread around him in a staggering instant.
One moment, matter was matter and shape was shape. Next, it was as if all that held physical form sprouted pulsing veins and arteries atop their exterior, like a sudden infection forking its way through the city.
Terrified cries came from the men behind him, and so entranced was he by the nightmare made manifest that he didn’t see the woman until it was too late.
A shadow fell over Haadruer, and for the first time since he stood in the presence of the master, he had to lift and greet the stranger.
Looming over him stood the tallest, largest woman he had ever seen.
At least, he thought she looked like the woman. Her jaw was too hard, her eyes shone a shifting red, and the skin of her face was only a half-blessed bronze. The armor she wore was of the purest white, ever-quivering, so clean he could see his own reflect in its featureless sheen. Her hair swung in a coiled series of knots from the back of her head, and for a beat they just looked at each other, him gawking, her sneering.
Then, she spoke the first words he would ever hear from an outsider. “Jaus. Keep fuckin’ forgettin’ how small you flats are.”
Snapping from his trance, he brought his blade up to ward the giantess off. “Back, night-touched. Away!”
She sneered at him disdainfully, as if she was regarding a bug that buzzed too close.
Her arm blurred. His blade shattered into pieces. She stumbled back, seeking retreat–and for one of his brothers to take his place–but found himself about to slam into a pane of glass.
Yet, just as he was about to strike his own reflection, he tumbled through and found himself adrift in a place of shifting edges and ambient light. The world around him was reflection and glass-like in design, and the sheer oddness of its expanse made his mind quail.
Suddenly, impossibly strong fingers buried themselves into the nape of his neck, and he heard his armor–blessed by the master himself–crack and give between sinking digits.
“No,” Haadruer thrashed, not used to being so weak, so easily handled. “Let go! Fucking release!”
“Come on,” the giantess simply said. “Stop thrashin’. Damn embarrassing’s what it is. Lucky I decided to snatch you instead of the rotlick. Got someone for you to see. Heard you might be the one who chopped the head off a certain concubine after your master was done with her.”
Confusion and terror mixed in his stomach. “C-concubine? What?” Then, a memory came back. One from a few years ago, and he thought had an inkling of what was being said. “Itheri.”
“Well,” the giantess clucked. “Looks like the ghoul burned the right mem-data into me after all.”
***
“How much longer will this last,” Ivory groaned.
She waved a goblet out, motioning for one of her serving girls to fill it as she stared glumly at the ceiling.
Smoke drifted on the wind and ash settled down even in the inner courtyard, painting the garden an unnatural white. The servants were doing all they could to keep the master’s greenery from being soiled, but they were losing the battle.
Really, the Pearlguard needed to handle these matters and get done with the war already. It’s been almost of month of gas and water rationing. She needed a proper bath. The ceiling was alight again–how was she supposed to make herself presentable as a concubine when the master returned?
Did they think it was easy holding the “master’s” attention, the lecherous prick?
Every year, his choices grew paler and younger, and Ivory aged despite herself.
Last night, she even plucked a white hair.
Patting her womb, she breathed a sigh of relief.
She might not be the favorite forever, but her place in the highest houses was cemented with the child she bore. All she needed now was to ensure that–
A drop of red spilled down on her. Ivory blinked. Suddenly, lines of red were spreading through her personal mansion like creeping veins beneath the limestone, causing her to sit up and squint, waving her fanning servants to step aside.
Beyond the opening of the courtyard, she saw chasms of crimson tear across the dome of their enclave, and strange flashing distortions pulsed through the air.
Faintly, a presence brushed over her, its weight like her love’s, but stronger by far.
Ivory choked momentarily, and barely heard the clamor sounding from the outside.
What she didn’t miss was one of her personal guards being thrown so hard his flesh flattened, leaving him caked along the steps beside her, viscera spilling from his ruptured face.
Servants started to scream. The sounds of desperate combat pulled Ivory’s attention back toward her atrium–through shattered doors. There, standing in the light was a creature aglow in the like, its body made from blades of hissing metal, each constantly shifting, pistoning, gleaming. It dragged the mangled body of a guard with all the effort it would take one to bear a pebble.
Instinctively, Ivory darted behind her nearest servant girl while her hands went to her stomach. Thought and rationality were lost to her now. She needed to escape. She needed to–
“Aunt.”
Ivory froze. The voice was coming from the metal figure, its hammering against cracking wood. It sounded familiar. Too familiar, just like…
“Oh, by the light,” Ivory moaned, holding the servant tight to her.
How did the metal creature have the voice of the hound? Was it some kind of demon?
It came into view again, and servants scattered, abandoning her mistress–and her shield–to whatever fate would follow.
“Wait!” Ivory screamed. “C-com–”
Her words died as a cage of blood formed around the courtyard the moment the last servant fled. Immediately, the centermost section of her home went from a leisurely garden to a bleeding cage.
Held tight in her grasp, the serving girl began to weep, and Ivory wasn’t far off herself. The only other person present was the metal demon, and it had come to a stop just a few strides away from Ivory.
“You’re my aunt. Aren’t you.”
Again it spoke and sounded just like the girl.
Ivory swallowed. “I… I…”
“Why did you tell Hand Urrins about my mother and father? She was your sister. You knew what the master would do.”
The question graced her like a falling whip and she felt sick beyond the pregnancy. “I didn’t… you can’t be…”
Her words were interrupted by a droning pressure hammering down upon her thoughts.
“We can talk once you’re calm,” the demon said. “No need to hurry. The declaration will come first. You’ll understand after that.”
Ivory swallowed. “Declaration?
And ethereal flames came alight in the veins around them, sinuous threads echoing as Ivory was bathed in the uncanny sensation that was a thoughtcast for the first time in her life.
***
Across the city, on every level, warriors stopped fighting, and people huddled in corners, trying to flee spreading blood.
There was nowhere the infection hadn’t spread. Nowhere anyone could run to avoid it. It was in the air, in the flesh, in the stones and light themselves.
Where once this city belonged to the Fallwalker, Yakozitrin, now a new power laid their claim, and so they spoke their first words.
But not as a conqueror.
No.
As a “liberator.”
+Enclavers. Slaves of Yakozitrin. Master’s dead. Never coming back. Taking this city for myself. Stop fighting. Or I’ll do it for you. Do whatever else you want. Don’t really care.+ A pause followed. +That’s all.+
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
And across the city, on every level, the people exploded into pandemonium.
Ghosts - [26,560,399]
Liminal Frame (V) - 21,036 THAUM/c
Comments
Alberto Sanchez
I liked this chapter. That's all
Demonlord
Thanks for the chapter 😊
