The cold sand hits his face as he’s thrown out of the Caravan. Shaky arms lifting him up, his own, no one to rely on but himself. His four legs push the rest of his body off the ground. The exile looks back at his former comrades standing in the doorway, their eyes dull with regret. He watches as the Caravan continues on.
The exile, racking his mind for his name, limps across the sandy wastes, leaning his weight on his un-sprained ankles. Limping, as he marches away from the greatest wonder of the world. A wealth of history and mystic arts: ripped from his mind by magic hands, fading as the Caravan moves away.
He desperately needs to write it down. Patting down his body, he looks for some sort of writing implement. The exile finds a knife in his pocket – he feels the rough fabric and remembers what he’s wearing: a heavy poncho, to protect from the bitter cold. Did he know this was coming? No, he couldn’t let himself get distracted. He felt for the knife, grabbing it. He looks down, his poncho up, his belly exposed. All the Caravan’s knowledge now nearly gone from his mind, except for one secret, colored by hate – the one emotion he has left as company.
The knife glides across skin like a sailboat, red tinged wake following its path. He douses the burning with the sensation of cold revenge. He drops his writing tool, reviewing his handiwork: a set of dark instructions, writhing across his flesh. With this, he marches forward with one goal in mind: to destroy the Caravan, within a year’s time.
I am a genomonster. I have a lean body, four legs, a short tail, and an angular head. My eyes are slitted, and my skin is a dark shifting blue.
My earliest memory is in a forest of hardy trees and red grass. I knew nothing beyond that world until I was displaced, transferred from chitinous hands to silver paws. Now I find myself in a wooden box, placed within its shaking mother box.
I am joined by my kin, all of us identical. We crawl and jump upon each other, and we venture out of the box to chase one another. The large silver fox animals always find us and place us back in the box. Maybe they are hiding us from the hungry animals that climb on the mother box.
One of my kin provokes me to chase. We run, the two of us skittering across the floor and walls. We play on the edge of the threshold, the one which the big silver animals come through.
And then the box suddenly lurches, and the two of us fall through.The sand cushions us. We look up at the towering box, part of a long chain of animals and boxes. Down the line, light spills forth from one of the boxes. An animal is thrown out. The silver animals watch for a moment, before the door closes and the light disappears.
My box-mate and I scramble out from under foot and wheel, fleeing into the desert. The winds bite at us like hungry birds. We dig into the ground to escape, our claws growing sharper as we do. In our newfound burrow, the wind ceases to scratch us, but our bodies still shiver. My box-mate expands in size, flesh growing softer while exuding a pleasant warmth. I curl up to them, and we fall asleep.
The cavern took a while to dig out. One month, approximately. The spider-folk from the nearby town of Thath made things easier, though. Studious lot, those people, and excellent at mining. And when the time came to kill them (they asked for payment), their corpses were perfect material for the ritual.
Rav-vana the Exile supplicated in front of the ritual diagram. It looked like a child’s drawing of a house, but mutated. Something that seemed to say ‘only foul things live here.’ Rav-vana bowed his head, so far down his horns touched the floor. It felt demeaning, but it was necessary for what he needed, for his revenge.
He emptied his head; the Exile couldn’t risk his emotions staining his request. At once, he began reciting the incantation, each syllable causing the room to grow colder. The eight-legged corpses slowly dissolved into dust, swirling and spinning into the center of the house, a meal for his guest.
Feathers grew within the stagnant room. They were a sickly greenish-gray. A mound in the center, sucking all the air into itself. It created an unnatural silence. A hateful quiet. A moment passed before the mound twitched; feathers parted way for three asymmetrical eyes. Pazunia, spirit of the lower winds, looked down at him.
Rav-vana raised his head slightly, speaking with respect. “O royal Pazunia, like the fire’s smoke, I call to you. Please hear my cry, for I weep at my weakness.” Vengeance quietly crept upon his tongue, “I desire one thing and one thing only: the destruction of the Caravan. Please, grant me your shadow so I may carry out this task.”
Pazunia glared down at the kah-rehm, then stared off into the darkness. “The temper of your heart speaks to me. I will grant you the power you desire. Now open your body, for my boon to perch within your bosom.” The spirit’s form burst apart, heavy wind shooting out into Rav-vana, violating every hole on his face. It carried the stench of shit, corpses, and trauma. The Exile tensed his muscles, staying his ground. Vomiting would be an act of rejection, an offence. He chanted at himself, to remember why he was doing this. For his own honor, for honor, for honor…
I am a genomonster. My skin is a dark shifting blue, and I am twice the size of my box-mate. I used to have legs, but they atrophied and receded to make room for my egg sac.
My other half has been busy building a tunnel network. This is to provide safe hiding holes when exploring the surface, as well as find those burrowing feathered animals to eat. We have eaten two of the feathered animals, with most of the nutrients going to the eggs.
There is a rumbling, not here but above. I see my other kin, running down a tunnel. It collapses on it, who then digs out of the buried portion. There is too much commotion above, and our burrow will not hold. My kin and I look at each other — we understand.
My other falls to the ground, writhing, convulsing, their chest splitting open, light blue organs spilling out and spreading across the floor, spreading up the walls, through the tunnels, reinforcing the burrow, the Nest.
The eggs begin to hatch. They are ready, out of necessity. I open my sphincter, and they roll out, cracking apart as they tumble. Some come out on four legs, others on two. They look up at me.
A portion of my flesh softens: tender food. The newly-hatched bite into me, my meat imparting into them the instincts I have learned in the desert. We will survive.
“Rav-vana! I’m overjoyed to see your return,” the village elder spoke. “How long has it been? Ohhhhh, my boy, you must tell me everything about your travels.” The two made their way through the quaint town, the clinking and jingling of horn accessories ever present as they passed by the townsfolk. Rav-vana’s lips twisted into a scowl.
“Don’t look so jealous now,” the elder chortled, “it’s not their fault you left before you could receive your hallmarks.”
Rav-vana realized the hatred on his face was fully visible. “Forgive me, Ta-hala, I’ve been very distracted as of late.”
“Then tell me of them, child! I wish to know all about your time on the Caravan.”
The younger kah-rehm froze in his tracks. All those… feelings. The injustice. Blackened veins emerge across his skin, green froth at the sides of his mouth.
“Rav-vana?” The old man’s query broke him from his moment. Wiping his mouth and covering his face with a hood, the Exile continued forward.
Making their way into the town-house, the two sat down. Despite the awkwardness, the elder was still jubilant. “Please do share! Ever since I heard the stories when I was a boy I’ve been curious as to what it’s actually like.” His eyes were full of stars.
Deathly calm, the young man spoke, “Well, as you know, I’ve always had an eye for the sorcerous arts. Alas, there weren’t any opportunities to study them in the town.” As he spoke, a grain of sand exited his mouth, flying upon the wind. “This led to me departing my way of life here to study among the people of the Caravan, who’re known far and wide for their knowledge of the mystic world.” The sand drifts out through the window, into town, into someone’s lungs.
“Unfortunately, I can’t recall much of that knowledge; due to certain actions, my memories were wiped by one of the other mages. I kept the memories of my emotions, though, along with my experiences during the Caravan’s many stops. And what I recall is that, for a time, I was captivated by the wonders of the Caravan.”
As the kah-rehm speaks, elsewhere, the sand moves deeper into their insides, finding purchase. Then it spreads out, grey mineral growing like mutated coral.
“I was in awe at what I learned — I felt a rush from performing new spells. But eventually, that wonder faded. And I was left with the same dull feeling from home.”
Bodies lurch and twist, screams devolving into unnatural howls. Panic and bloodshed run through the town like a torrent.
“However… at a certain point, I discovered something. Something which gripped my mind with curiosity, but also fear. I pursued this thing, drinking deeply of everything it gave, like ambrosia of the gods.”
Parents devouring children, children devouring parents, and infants growing into mutated beasts.
“Then, like a strike of lightning, there was shock. I had been found, and I was cast out. My knowledge was stolen, but I managed to preserve one secret by writing it on my body. Just enough to aid me in my plan.”
Rav-vana was met only with a low moan from the elder.
He chuckles, sneering down at the elder, “What’s that, Ta-hala? I’m not sure I fully heard you.” He kicks the old man to the ground, the glassy-eyed zombie not putting up a fight. Rav-vana peels a strip of flesh from the elder’s exposed belly, wrapping it around his horns.
“I think what you meant to say was: ‘Congratulations on your new hallmark.’”
I am the Watcher. I have a round body, dark blue skin, and I hover in the air above the Nest. My back is covered by a reflective shell that protects me from the harsh sun, and I am always facing the ground. I have one large eye and a large mouth. Tentacles sprout from my face, ending in eyeballs.
My job is to watch and protect. I hang in the sky during the day, stopping other animals from digging into the burrow, or predators chasing my kin. At night, I lower into one of the Nest holes to eat and rest. My kin bring me things to sate my hunger.
It is daytime now. I hang in the sky, watching the nest. Two of my kin have appeared, dragging the body of a four-legged feathery animal. The two of them have dark blue skin, digitigrade legs, and spikes on their backs. Their job is to hunt.
I suddenly notice movement off to the side: a serpent slithering close, hidden by sand. My kin do not notice. But I am the Watcher, I do notice. Red-hot light shoots from my noticing eye into the snake. It spasms and flails before retreating. My other kin do not know what happened. But I do. It is my responsibility alone.
“Hold position!” The tzic warrior yells at the top of her lungs, before being plucked into the sky by the zombified griffon. The battle had been progressing like this for a while now: scithi infantry positioned around the hive palace, bone shields blocking even the sun’s rays from entering. Then the mad warlock will send its beasts to claw at their defenses, an army of crag-infested kah-rehm accompanied by flying monsters. They kill the horde, replenish their ranks, and start again.
One of the warriors, as she stabs at the bloodthirsty griffon, wonders if this stalemate will end soon. She has faith in the priests, for their plans are built from God’s designs. But will she see that plan through in her lifetime?
The flying beasts rip at the shields on the balcony. The warrior stabs through its wings, but in the distance a shadow silhouettes the sun. The mad warlock, Rav-vana, hovers in the sky before divebombing straight into the formation’s opening.
Past the armory, through the food storage, around the worker nest, leaving behind a trail of toxic fumes, Rav-vana the Exile laughs with a horse cackle and a throat too small. He arrives in the Queen’s chamber with a thunderous landing, the pulped remains of scithi knights lying below his body. Staring up at the cowering priests, Rav-vana rises as his bones snap back into place. “Hello. I’m a foreign tutor, looking for my new student. I met her once before, around a year ago in fact. She should step forward, right now.”
One of the priests moves past the crowd, separating from the rest like a volunteer sacrifice. She recognizes the warlock’s face and remembers a young kah-rehm sorcerer who passed through their city with the Caravan. They had engaged in a friendly bout of magical showmanship, motivated by a philosophical argument: faith versus enlightenment. At least, she thought it was a friendly bout. The kah-rehm’s aggressive smile said otherwise.
“Yes… yes… you remember me?” The Exile hobbles over slowly, “Remember our fight? Remember how you cheated?” He spits the last word out like a bitter flavor. “I remember clearly. You claimed your magic drew directly from your god’s grace, and yet all I witnessed was you performing the same motions sorcerers have used for ages past. You’re a charlatan!”
“Where is your deity?” His eyes search about the chamber. He blasts away the curtains. “Ah… there it is.”
The dark wizard flies into the corpulent god, causing it to ripple and explode outwards.
The speed at which he returns, and the shock of seeing her god die in front of her forces her down. As she looks up, all she sees is the baleful smile of the monster, tearing a strip of flesh from her thorax.
I am a Hunter. I have four legs ending in paws, a pair of wings on my back, a scorpion tail, and a face like a Man. I have dark blue skin, a mane of hair around my face, and sharp teeth. I cut and bite and stab through all other animals. The sands and the valleys are painted red wherever I walk.
It is night now. Some animals sleep during night, others sleep during day. I sleep when I am done hunting. I am not done hunting, so I break from my pack and travel to the mountains for more.
The mountains have my favorite: reptiles with hard backs, and tails like mine. They like to hide in the dirt and wait for animals for them to crush and eat. They think they are invisible, but I can smell them. I follow the scent up the path.
I find my prey, but it is already dead. Its body is flipped over, disemboweled and hollow, still being eaten by the thing that killed it. The other predator pulls its head from the corpse and stares at me, dim light reflecting off the wet from its face.
I do not understand this. I am the Hunter. My shadow casts death where I walk, and bones rattle in fear of being crushed between my fangs. How can something else hunt my favorite prey?
It leaves the corpse and charges toward me. My feet retreat me back using instincts I didn’t know I had. It is much bigger than me. The other predator stops, stands on its hindlegs and roars, its skin lighting up with the colors of a stormcloud. My body wishes to run, but I force it to stand its ground. I am the Hunter, a warrior of the Nest, and I will prove I am the strongest beast here.
I leap, ready to bite at its neck and stab venom into its flesh. The predator slaps me away, pins me to the ground, and rips open my belly. My nose becomes clogged with blood… but not before I smell something new: my pack leader.
I look up to see it, climbing up the cliff. It is larger than the other predator, with dark blue scales and wings much bigger than mine. The last thing I see is fire crawling from the back of its throat.
Great balls of fire swim through the sky and collide with flying crafts built from web and bamboo. Foul spirits of choking air dance among the ground combatants, spiders and flowers fighting zombies and brain-eating bears, all crushed beneath the tracked treads of a moving fortress. A thick, black box, drawn by giant crab corpses, themselves animated by balls of snakes, which in turn are possessed by malevolent spirits; a matryoshka doll of forced occupation.
Within the fortress sits a mangy figure: Rav-vana the Exile, his flesh decayed in spots, bones showing through. Atop his head rests a tangle of rotting meat, symbolic of his conquests. He grips a staff made from the corpse of a tzic god. Bones creaking as he stands, the Exile makes his way to the viewing window, eyes on the settlement.
Born from a union of the spider people and the floral shisk, the two-hundred-and-eighty year-old city of Eight Petals became a cradle for strange science and magic. Flying machines, alchemic teachings, psychic abilities — all are found here. Giant trees and other plants are made into buildings, all surrounding a lake formed by a dreaming water spirit.
The arboreal buildings now grow and stretch into each other, a twisted form born to defend. Its snarling visage glares down at the black box, rearing a massive appendage of roots to slam down upon it. Rav-vana blasts it away with a single spell. The mutated townhomes nothing more than a smoldering corpse.
But from the ashes rise another protector, a psychic manifestation of safety and warmth: the Mother Spider. Chitin made of light, limbs decorated in floral drapings, the Mother takes one step on the battlefield, creating a shockwave that blows away the Exile’s forces. Rav-vana contemplates: he’s never properly dealt with mental forces before. Magic is unreliable against such abilities, but he knows like abilities require like response.
The beast living within him informs the warlock that such powers are available to him — for the right price. Rav-vana smiles. He’s already exchanged portions of his body for strength, so what’s one more? A cluster of his grey matter burns away, leaving an empty pit for other things to nest. From the hole, a colorless fog seeps, growing greener as it towers over everything. Its form sharpens: a shifting mass of spider legs and palps, carrying the mind-stench of alcohol and tense dinners.
As the reflection of paternal abuse slams down on the symbol of motherly protection, Rav-vana the Exile uses his newfound telepathy to relay one message to the town: ‘This is what you get for looking at me weird.’
I am a Drone of Squad-M. I have two legs, two arms, and a great mound of hair on my face. My skin is dark blue, and my hair is a different shade of teal blue. I carry a pickaxe with me, because I am in Squad-M.
The Squads are differentiated by scent. Squad-B patrols the surface of the Nest and smells like caution, Squad-Q takes care of the less intelligent kin and smells like providing. Squad-M’s job is to mine for resources and smells like work.
I am returning from depositing ore in the refinery, where Squad-N will turn it into tools for the Nest to use. As I walk back, I pass by the Council’s room. They are all standing around a table, arguing passionately. One half of them are tall, burley, with tusks jutting from their mouths. The other half are shorter, thin, with pointed ears. The Council used to have a uniform appearance, but changed after splitting on the ideals of expansion versus advancement.
A sudden tremor breaks me from my distraction. Something is happening on the surface. I climb the tunnels.
The Castle of the Exile shifts and breaks continuously. It is a crumbling exemplar of ruin. Made from the remains of towns and cities he’s destroyed over the past year, its architectural style is always changing. Buttresses that don’t match the rafters break off and fall, before returning back to the main mass like a gravity well.
On the tallest tower of the Castle, in one of the few functioning rooms, Rav-vana the Exile looks over his latest creation: a large, black crystal, humming a vibration that repels other sounds when too close. Built from the frozen corpses of spirits, the crystal would be used to unleash great tragedy.
The warlock smiled widely, most of his teeth gone, and the few that remained were each rotten in different ways. Faded robes cover his wizened body, depicting scenes of horror and chaos with him as the centerpiece. The rotting flesh tied around his horns had now come to resemble a decaying tree, so mangled and old that even death itself feared to claim it. It hung between his horns like a cradle, for a baby. His baby.
He heard a caravan would be passing by here today. One which seemed to be quite significant.
I reach the surface. Instead of being met with the blistering sun, all around me is covered in shadow. I look up to see the cause: a giant floating clump of stone, pieces of it falling to the ground, then returning to the mass.
I look over at the patrolling Drones; most are continuing to survey the horizon, and a few are smashed corpses. While not a part of my work path, I decide to climb the great rock. There may be useful ore inside, and if I don’t find any on my own, I’ll inform my Squad of the anomaly so they can help.
I find a grounded block heading back up and catch a ride.
Rav-vana pushes over a table, spilling fluids and trash to the ground. Hopping upon his four legs in a crude dance, “A hurngah derngah binga longa beto boko loco loco.” It was no spell, only the death rattle of the dying neurons spasming in his brain.
What was so important about this caravan anyway? Rav-vana couldn’t remember the last time he saw a caravan. He couldn’t remember which towns typically saw caravans. He couldn’t remember the last town he’d been to. He couldn’t remember any of the towns he’d been to. He couldn’t remember why he went to towns if he knew everything hated him. He stops dancing. He couldn’t remember what he was doing. He couldn’t remember what his goal was in the first place.
For the first time in months, Rav-vana has a brief moment of lucidity.
As I climb the rock, I find a more sophisticated structure on the top of it. Along with noises, high up.
My hands grow suction pads as I continue, aiding my climb. I make my way through a window at the top, finding a strange dancing creature, and a black crystal. It is not something I have seen before. I don’t know if the creature is dangerous or not, so I decide not to take the whole crystal with me. However, it would be good for the Nest to know if this mineral is useful or not.
I take my pickaxe, and gently hit–
And so the crystal explodes, destroying the Castle and its inhabitants. The debris falls to the ground, killing all the genomonsters on the surface and crashing further into the underground Nest. Black smoke spreads out from the blast and sinks, sinks, into the hole. Made from zombified spirits, it tears into the meaty walls, picking clean the flesh and bones of the genomonsters. When the spirits have their fill, they dissipate back into nothing. Leaving behind no sign of life, no sign of survival. Only a pit full of debris.
The people of the Caravan can make out an explosion in the distance. Too far away to be felt and too brief to worry about.
A pair of Yaka on the Caravan comment, “What do you think that was?”
“Dunno. Maybe it was that one sorcerer that’s been attacking settlements.”
“There’s a sorcerer attacking settlements?”
“I mean. I don’t know. It’s just something I heard one time.”
The Caravan continues on.