Twisting Nature’s Limbs

Wind comes whistling through the bare branches of the blackened trees. Blackened as though dipped in a puddle of tar, gleaming glossily in the daylight that filters through thick fog pervading the forest. In the heart of southwestern Bernwood, two moths flutter through the air. They spiral around one another playfully in the direction of musical humming that resonates and reverberates from the branches like tuning forks. At last, they alight upon the shoulders of their master.

[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eshDdE4QFQ ]
Delicate, pale hands draw the wooden needle through flesh and fur, pulling the final stitch taut. String crafted from the sinew of the very patients in the demon’s care, for in their new form there were plenty of leftover materials to be transposed onto other worthy projects. What once was a collection of individual badgers has become one of Raim’s works of art, joined in flesh, muscle and bone. Strawberry wood woven in a spongy mesh through their bones forms concentric ritual circles focusing the concepts of depth and protection into their bodies. It is as though their flesh is expanded through a larger imaginary space, a buffer between their vital insides and the exterior. Attacks would first need to navigate the fractal splinters before reaching something worth the effort. Badger brains are stretched through the greater body structure in a decentralized, octopus-like nervous system to control their dozens of razor-clawed limbs. Each claw is a Ruin-infused adder’s fang, capable of striking directly at a foe’s fighting willpower- a poison of the soul. Layers of eyes along the creature’s pronounced dorsal spine, one of two redundant nervous columns, allow it all-around vision.

Awake sweet nechahan,
Stretch muscle and bone.
Forth ye be drawn,
To guard Hell’s throne.
Ne’er seen on Earth,
Creation mine own.

With the final stitch made, Raim scratches the newly forged creature along the sides of its bear-like body, where he has engineered pleasure centers and reward systems. What God would deny his creations the joys of life? Not this one.
“Thy maker welcomes thee.”

Crawling beneath Raim’s hair, the moths pry into his flesh with their proboscises, attaching to his spine. They are owl-moths. It was their genus before Raim’s modifications, and he took particular inspiration from the moniker. Upon the center of their heads each bears a single owl’s eye, shrunken to fit their body size. Incredible night vision and far-sightedness, and operating in bonded pairs the moths do not sacrifice binocular vision. Together, creating and recording observable models of terrain and events in three dimensions. Small enough to survive outside of the mana-rich Temple, they make for ideal scouts.

Blue glow from the bubbling pond jellies illuminates the moths’ mottled brown wings as they transfer the memories of their sights to join Raim’s own. Experienced as though he were there. “So well done, shoher mine,” he coos to them, reaching back to stroke their wings with a finger. “Rest thy wings, and join thy kin in celebration.” At his bidding they withdraw their sharp tongues and take flight, to join a song of buzzing wings between the trees.

Standing from his beechwood workstool, Raim strolls past the glowing mana-pool where the jellies roil and froth. Tracing one along its filmy surface, he lovingly tickles it with his fingers. Efficient constructs pulled up from the substrate, microorganisms expanded into colonies that act as Mana Reactors, fueling the Temple. The bedrock of his mystical ecosystem. Magilli, as he calls them, can transfer mana very efficiently through surface contact, either to grant it to allies or to leech it from foes.

Even the trees curl their roots aside as Raim passes, and he touches their bark gently. The stalwart, silent sentinels of his home, obscuring with their fog and shifting the forest at their discretion to lead wayward mortals away and back from whence they came. Their intricate roots network an alarm system throughout.

Raim is on a path in the woods. And at the end of that path, is a cabin.

The path comes and goes as it is needed. As does the cabin. Formed from living trees that have joined together, furnished with bedding of soft blue moss and leaves. Just outside the cabin door, Raim’s Master awaits. He has a pair of carrots in hand, one for himself and one shared with the siuture standing guard over him.

A towering elk, whose face has been split into a bouquet of adders just above the jaw, which carry on into a mane down its back. Their many eyes carry Tragedy inspired by Medusa, petrifying those who gaze into them not with stone but with the swollen, overfed mass of their doubts and insecurities. Horns tipped like spears of yew, made to pierce the substance of spirits and souls. Each snake, stripped of its fangs for the nechahan, instead corrodes metal with its touch.

They like carrots.

“Master Griffith,” Raim greets happily, swaying nearer to stroke the siuture elk across its back. Serpents lean down to nuzzle his fingers. “Portentous news of our fortunes.” Behind him, the newly born nechahan crawls on its many legs, drawing near to snuffle at the witch boy’s feet for scraps from his lunch.

“What news, Raim?” In the better part of the month they’d had to prepare their lair, Griffith had had plenty of time to become acquainted with the subjects of the demon’s work. Though still uneasy with their appearances, Raim believes he is coming to see that their existences have been enriched with the greater capacity for joy and pleasure that the demon offers.

“An associate of mine has kindly agreed to help tip the scales,” resting a hand over his heart, Raim smiles softly. “He is a man of honor, strange honor though it may be. A valuable ally he will be against those who shall be lured by the siren call of this ritual mine.” The demon chuckles to himself, the sound of his laughter like the clucking of a raven as his Adam’s apple bobs. “I have provided instructions. I believe that they will see him to the hands of a Servant easily guided to our purposes.” One can always trust Assassin to do the job given, after all.

The elk sloppily extracts the rest of the carrot from Griffith’s hand, patience with smaller bites run dry. A stalk emerges from the earth and sprouts a pale blue leaf for him, and he accepts the proffered kerchief by which to wipe away the saliva. “Beneficious tidings indeed. I would much prefer to limit the blood we must shed.”

“Thine virtues art in agreement with mine, Master,” softly, the devil agrees. “I believe the time has come for us to reach out to the one below Oxford, that we may invite him into the fold of conspiracy.”

“Shall we meet him by light of day, or subtly by shroud of night?” young Griffith asks, uneducated in the ways of magi politick.

Truth be told, the politick of mortals likewise holds little sway over the heart of the demon. He would much rather they all be earnest with one another. “Neutral ground is best, and proof of our intention is better. Gifts in good will-” he hates the term good faith, “- and a suitable messenger.” Flexing his fingers, Raim eyes the tome at Griffith’s side. “A small excerpt from thy grimoire may whet the good scholar’s appetite, enough to come to the table. Or a lock, perhaps, of thy sisters’ hair.” Raim’s Master does not look thrilled by either proposition. Perhaps he will come up with an idea of his own. “The messenger, of course, I shall provide. Decide what it is thou offer, Master. I shall return when my work is done.”

Pulling himself up onto the siuture, Raim allows the serpents to maneuver him into a comfortable side-seat, and the beast marches him away with all the pomp and pageantry of a royal. Leaning back and closing his eyes, Raim hums a new tune, and the trees tune themselves in echo.

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Pub: 15 Dec 2024 23:29 UTC

Views: 121