UnfathomablyCute
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Chapter Thirty-Two: Any excuse for a murder.
🕑 Added 2023-05-29 17:16:17 +0000 UTCNaomi’s POV:
My sweat-slicked hair sticks to my neck as I follow the ruptured earth the worm-like Fathom leaves behind. It’s not a hard path to follow now that it’s traveling above ground, but I’m not sure I’ll manage to catch up to them if I have to keep vaulting over mulched trees and rent houses.
My power muffles the tinkling sound of glass shards as I step through the bent remains of a window, the armor of my ascendant form enough to ignore the sharp edges. Normally I’d try to avoid going through the collapsing houses, but it seemed the better option than crossing the pulsating hill of flesh on either side of it.
“Hooman makes foolish decision. Str’xuirer questions wisdom.” My contractor hoots, her mockery apparent from her perch. I try to glare at her, but she disappears before my gaze can reveal her form. I’m sure her nagging would be less annoying if I could actually look at her, but having her constantly in my peripherals makes the whole situation worse.
“I got it the first, second, and third time you said it, Strix. Repeating the same thing doesn’t make me more likely to listen; in fact, I’m far more likely to do the opposite out of spite.” I say quietly, checking to make sure my speaking didn’t destabilize my powers..
I see her head tilt out of the corner of my eye, her feathers fluffed out. “Hoobris is unbecoming, unworthy of Str’xuirer’s love.”
"Well, maybe Str’xuirer should have found someone else to contract with, if I’m so unworthy.” I say, and immediately feelings of hurt wash over my tongue, her tangy emotions leaking over through our contract. I try to swallow my saliva, but it does nothing to remove the taste or my guilt. “Sorry… I shouldn’t have said that. I’m really on edge, but I know you’re just trying to help.”
“Hoorrid Naomi bully Str’xuirer! Hoo! Str’xuirer only want to protect! Naomi goes home now!”
I sigh, ducking beneath a partially toppled tree, my tired knees screaming at the squatting motion. “I—hng—can’t, and you know why. I don’t even know why you’re fighting me this hard about it.”
I blink, and she appears on the branch of a withering tree, just slightly out of my field of view. I don’t bother trying to look at her; I know there’s no point. “Who cares about corpse? Not worth, already dead. You? Alive. Still worth.” She says, nodding to herself in my peripherals.
Blinking a few times removes the water starting to form in my eyes. “They took him for a reason, Strix, and I refuse to believe you don’t see that. The Fathom aren’t stupid, they wouldn’t reveal that many cards without something major to gain from it.”
I pause, not trusting the look of the tree ahead of me. Its bark is slightly discolored, but that’s not enough to explain away the uncanny feeling it's giving off. Despite my rush, I crouch nearby, waiting for it to act. Both relief and terror hit me at once as I watch two of the knots in its bark blink, wooden eyes revealing themselves as it unfurls.
The branches reveal themselves to be limbs; each stick a tiny appendage that lets it pull itself out of the ground. Rather than roots, a crocodile-shaped maw emerges from the dirt, snapping irritably. I’m not sure how, but it knows it missed out on a meal, namely, me. I gently pick up a stone, letting my chthonic energy envelop it as I keep watch on the Fathom for any sign of recognition.
Feeling relatively safe, I fling the stone to my left, my powers draining from it before it cracks against a tree around ten meters away. Before I can even look back at the creature, it zips after the sound, a cacophony of snaps and splintering wood assaulting my ears. Not willing to wait for a better chance, I make a break for it. The ground is untouched as I sprint across it, any sign of my passing smoothed over by my abilities' effects.
Causing this much noise isn’t exactly a great idea, but I’m not sure how well my power would have worked on something so instinct driven. I’m also a little less confident in my powers after Brooke broke through them, but was definitely a little overly reliant.
“Hoorifying! Spooky! Naomi snack! Must go home.” Strix Hoots from on top of a flipped minivan. My eyes are naturally drawn to her, and I get more of a glimpse than usual of her far too long wings wrapping around her torso, reminiscent of a straight jacket. I’ve never seen her fly—or move, for that matter. She just disappears from my line of sight, apparating elsewhere with that frustrating head tilt.
“Give it a rest, already. I’m not willing… I’m—He deserves better, okay?! After everything he gave up and did for us, there’s no way I’m leaving him to whatever disgusting mutilation they have planned for him.” My voice cracks as I fight back my tears, not at all ready to talk about any of this.
My shoulders drop as I feel her sadness flood over our link, the nearly tasteless flavor of dejection arriving in the back of my throat. It’s like a mushy blueberry; you’d think it would be full of flavor and juiciness, but instead it's chewy and bland.
“Hoopeless Naomi, created with too much heart, but weak weak form. Will lose-die, you know this?” She says, and I do my best to ignore the insults weaved into her sentences. They aren’t insults to her; they’re just… how she sees things.
I heft myself up a strong looking root, crawling myself onto its large—and horizontal—trunk. “Yeah, I’m well aware I’m not built for that kind of thing. I don’t plan on fighting, if I can help it. Best case scenario is I find out what-slash-where they have planned for him, go back home, and New R’lyeh sends someone who can actually bring hell.”
Hearing me actually have a plan seems to cool her engines a bit, especially one that doesn’t involve me entering combat. I shake my head to dismiss the subconscious thoughts of her being like my mother, not wanting any of the weirdness or pain that comes with that line of thought.
I’m about to comment on her silence when I notice that she’s no longer on her branch, or anywhere else for that matter. “Stri–” I start before a low hushing sound echoes from inside my head.
“Hoostiles. Can sense Str’xuirer. Not Sense Naomi. Cautious.” Strix whispers mentally, her voice sounding strained like it was at the funeral.
I feel her lending me her senses, my hearing and sight becoming far sharper and dying the world around me into grayscale. Small animals light up like little bonfires, their heat visible to my thermal sight.
Understanding how serious the situation is based on Strix’s reaction, I drop to all fours and focus on empowering my chthonic ability. I can just barely make out a conversation from ahead of me, the words harsh and alien.
“Not… my attention? …Master... displeased.” the voice says, and I recognize it from the funeral. A bit of subdued elation rises in my chest at the annoyance in its voice.
Needing more information than I’m able to get from this range, I—with the utmost care—begin to crawl towards their location. My Chthonic energy drains at a rapid pace, the cost of straining my abilities like this almost unsustainable.
“Despite the diluting of your horde’s power over the centuries, you are still descended from the spawn of Yog Sothoth, are you not?” The Fathom asks, its almost amicable tone hiding a cold fury. I can’t see either yet, but I assume the screeching sound of suction is the other Fathom’s response. “You are? And quite proud too?” it asks, its voice shifting to a guttural scream. “Then why are you INCAPABLE OF TRANSPORTING A BOX OF FLESH?!”
I nearly drop my concentration at his roar, the sound rupturing one of my oversensitive eardrums. Lightheadedness hits me before the pain, and I push myself up the rest of the ridge, leaning against a tree where I can see the interaction. I resist the urge to pull the mask part of my outfit down, the noxious air counteracting any relief I’d get from breathing easier.
The shrieking sound from before sounds out again, and I pinpoint it to the Fathom that looks like a hula-hoop with flesh stretched over it like a drum. The mouth on the fleshy drumhead opens vertically, whatever language it's speaking made entirely out of the howling of wind going into its maw.
“I do not care about the honor of your ancestors; why is that your every other word? I—no! If you—STOP YOUR INCESSANT SCREAMING, YOU PETULANT WORM.” The fathom screams, his previous human disguise abandoned. It’s a solid four feet taller than before, and lengths of disgusting pustules run along its muscle-like frame. It pants in anger, the almost human-like emote creepy and off-putting. “The container's material is irrelevant; I was guaranteed that you would be able to transport it to my master. Is this no longer the case?”
The hula-hoop fathom shrieks back, but it’s no longer as loud or sharp-sounding. Something like fear creeps into the howling wind.
“Then it is a shame the Vanguard got to you after my departure.” It says, gripping the other Fathom’s mouth and tearing it down the middle.
I’m thankful Str’xuirer stopped sharing her senses, I’ve no doubt the piercing scream raking over my ears would have knocked me unconscious if she hadn’t. Nearly torn in half at this point, the fathom’s suction is reaching me at this point, and I have to grip the tree to not be pulled towards it.
The rip in its flesh reaches the outer edges, and a groan like the bending of metal sounds out. “Your horde shall miss you dearly, but I’m sure they’ll be thankful that your death voids our contract and the debt they would incur.” The pustuled fathom says, his voice crisp and clear despite the agony-filled screeches around him. A singular crack marks the crescendo of this act, then abruptly turns to silence as the fathom is ripped cleanly in two.
Bile rises in my throat at the gruesome sight, black blood and viscera spraying all over the ground and the remaining fathom. I wouldn’t say I’m used to gore, but I've seen my share of it, and something about this feels beyond anything I've been through before. Perhaps it’s how human this particular fathom feels, though—
The moss I’m sitting on separates from the ground, sliding me off of my ridge into the leaves below. The fathom turns instantly at the crash, my power shattering as it tries to make a far stronger creature forget so many things at once.
“Perhaps my fun excuse to kill him had an ounce of truth to it after all. What are you called, little morsel?” It asks, its multitude of mouths splitting into grins.
