Published at 14th of October 2023 4:59 pm

Chapter 27 – The Bug that Beheld the Watcher

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When Vanalath returned to awareness, he found himself standing in the middle of a dead grove. Twisted branches loomed overhead like the talons of a bird of prey, their blackened trunks the scorched bones of giants. There were few trees near the cottage, meaning that he had traveled quite some distance in his madness. Nearby there stood a tree that had massive chunks gouged out of it, as if some beast had been sharpening its claws on the bark. Checking his hands told him that it was no animal. Some of his nails had chipped off, and his fingertips were raw and oozing black blood. The rest of his body had suffered numerous light injuries, scrapes and bruises, nothing major.

What had he been doing?

He felt at his side for his sword, but it was nowhere to be found. Without it, he felt strangely naked.

A twig snapped behind him. Turning, he saw a ghoul standing some distance away, partially concealed by a branch. He became alert upon realizing that it was neither Anamu nor Kalaki. Instead, the reanimated body of Orimo was gazing at him with cool eyes, a safe distance away.

<Are you yourself?> Orimo asked in the spirit tongue. He was as fluent as if he’d been speaking it all his life.

Vanalath inspected himself. He felt fragile. It wasn’t only the lack of a sword—it was a weakness born of the knowledge that he was nothing: a mere insect. This was a fact that he could no longer ignore. No matter how much more capable he had become, before whatever that thing was, he was powerless.

Only now did he realize that he had been marked. Ever since the ritual where the necromancer placed the Deathstone within him, he had been watched by that being—that eye. The reason why it acted now was unclear, but he sensed that it had been a rebuke. A simmering dissatisfaction bubbled just under the surface of his skin, the remnants of the “lesson” he received after giving in to his blind rage and striking down the necromancer. Whatever that eye was, it hadn’t been pleased with him for that.

<I am myself,> he replied. <Tell me what happened.>

Orimo stepped forward. <I can do that. But first, I need to know: will you attempt to strike down the mistress again?>

‘So she yet lives.’

Despite not knowing what to think of this information, he kept his thoughts hidden and replied, <That depends on her.>

Orimo nodded. <That is enough, then. I was sent to ascertain your state of mind, and to report back if you had recovered. It appears that whatever demon struck down the two of you afflicted you more severely, Vanalath. You have been out here for the better part of a day.>

Had he truly? Vanalath tried to bring up his memory recent events, but it was all a blur. There was just the cold terror of the eye, dominating his entire consciousness. Now, there was also a deadened feeling to his limbs that spoke of his exhaustion, making it easier to believe Orimo’s words.

Then, something he said caught up to him.

<What do you mean by ‘struck the two of you?> asked Vanalath. <Are you saying someone else was beset by that madness?>

Orimo blinked. <Our mistress, of course, though she recovered hours ago. She claimed it was some side-effect of the ritual that raised us. Though she… well. She’s recovered now. Speaking of the ritual, you have my thanks for preserving my spirit the way you did. I never expected to be able to walk these lands once again. And I should thank you doubly for upholding our pact. I looked, but did not see my daughter among the bodies. I take it she escaped?>

Vanalath nodded, not bothering to correct his misconception. As far as he knew, he had never even seen the man’s daughter. Perhaps she truly had been within the camp and escaped. If that were the case, it wasn’t like he intended to hunt her down, so he had fulfilled his part of the bargain with ease.

In truth, their pact hadn’t even crossed his mind until the man mentioned it, though the agreement he’d formed with Orimo had been the triggering event that had introduced him to the eye for the first time. No, though he kept calling it that, it wasn’t a mere eye. A glance at his status was enough to tell him the name of the being to whom that eye belonged: the Dread Sovereign.

He forcibly pulled his mind away from that bog. Continually thinking of it did him no good, so he distracted himself by listening to the hunter.

According to Orimo, the other hunters he killed had been returned to their former bodies as newborn ghouls, though they weren’t capable of speech. Vanalath recalled the spirits that had been painfully dug out from within him during the ritual. Orimo must have been among them, as had the other six or seven hunters he had killed.

Then, his curiosity aroused by Orimo’s temperament, he inspected his conversational partner. Vanalath remembered something similar had happened to Kaipo after the first ritual he’d taken part in, where Vanalath had been merged with the Deathstone. Then, he had dragged the boy’s spirit out of the Deathstone as a side-effect of preserving his own spirit. After the ritual had completed, he brushed against his corpse, unexpectedly reanimating him. Was this the same thing that had happened to Orimo and the others?

There was a distinct difference between Kaipo and Orimo. The boy had been horrified at his new form, while Orimo appeared… perfectly fine. Could this be attributed to simple differences in personality, or something else? The hunter had been the fiercest opponent he ever faced, but as a spirit, Orimo seemed rather ambivalent, and that seemed to carry over to his ghoulish form. What made the boy so different?

No answer was forthcoming, and after a moment, he glossed over the question. The weak didn’t interest him.

Then, Vanalath remembered something else, and he interrupted Orimo.

<Since I upheld our pact, I take it your side of the agreement still holds. You told me you could train me.>

Orimo laughed, and it sounded like something was caught in his throat. <Eager to get started, are we? Before that, I need to report your condition back to the mistress—wait. That’s strange. I don’t feel the compulsion.>

<Compulsion?>

<Yes, until just now, I had the urge to return to the mistress and report like she commanded me… oh, I see now! I can ignore her orders so long as I’m fulfilling our agreement. How about that? Teaching you takes priority over the mistress’s orders. Hah! She won’t like that.>

Rather than share in Orimo’s mirth, a sour taste filled Vanalath’s mouth. It didn’t surprise him that this contract took precedence—after all, hadn’t it been presided over by the Dread Sovereign itself? No matter how he tried, his mind always returned to that subject. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to see Orimo.

<Go on,> said Vanalath. <I want some time to think. Return to your mistress.>

Perhaps he saw something in Vanalath’s eyes, as the ghoul didn’t protest.

<Hm. If you say so.>

He wisely didn’t comment on the fact that Vanalath referred to the woman as “your” mistress, as if absolving himself of her influence.

Before he left, the hunter retrieved a sword that had been strapped to his back. He placed it on a tree stump.

<This is yours.>

Then, he paused, inspecting Vanalath.

<You know, I don’t mind it so much,> he said. <Being an undead, that is. There’s less hesitation in me, no voice of Temperance guiding me down a path of its choosing. I’m freer than I’ve ever been, in a way, though I obey the mistress. I know that I am no longer the person I once was, but I don’t care—because I’m free. Not my body, but my mind. I’m free of that Mountain-cursed Brand.>

Vanalath looked up at him. <Weren’t you leaving?>

Orimo hadn’t budged, his eyes fixed on the wight’s forehead.

<But perhaps, this freedom is the most frightening thing of all,> he muttered.

Then, he turned away.

- - -

Alone at last, Vanalath sat down and thought.

So. He cut the necromancer’s throat, and according to Orimo, she recovered. Had it all been an illusion?

Had she even been attempting to kill him? That was the only way he could interpret the ritual. He’d only been saved at the last second by the voice, which he now knew belonged to the Dread Sovereign. It had protected him. But then he had recovered, arisen, and tried to strike down his former mistress. At that point, the roles reversed, and the Sovereign punished him. Like a dog who had disobeyed his master’s command, without even knowing what that command had been.

Inspecting his status failed to elucidate matters.

<Oculus of the Dread Sovereign>

You have attracted the attention of a greater being. Show the Watcher new sights and be rewarded. Show the Watcher nothing at the risk of losing its interest.

What did that description mean? New sights? Losing its interest? Was he some sort of performer, told to dance before a crowd?

Before his anger could get a hold of him, he swept a hand through the words, forcing the message to dissipate.

It pained him to admit it, but the only way he was going to get answers was by interrogating the necromancer. Orimo apparently had no idea what had truly happened during the ritual. The hunter thought the madness had been a simple side effect.

But even if he went to her, Vanalath couldn’t imagine himself returning to the necromancer’s command like before. To choose to be controlled was something he could no longer accept. Not after a betrayal like that, and certainly not after learning of the Watcher far above, who sought to manipulate him in its own way.

In the end, however, he would only know what to do after seeing the necromancer. Since this was the case, Vanalath put these other deliberations aside. Something else was pressing him at the moment.

You have qualified for a rank up.

Select a class.

[Squire], [Assassin], [Berserker], [Duelist]

Paths. The phenomenon which had occurred twice before once again reared its head, only this time, Vanalath was able to read the words. Reading wasn’t strictly necessary, as he still had the sense of what these paths meant without knowing the direct meaning of the words.

What he saw discouraged him. Namely, it was the fact that two of the choices had been repeated. The final choice seemed to always be a repeat of his current class, but when he ranked up the last time, he knew that the first three options had been new. He didn’t choose [Squire] earlier, and he wasn’t planning on doing so now.

He craved that dangerous dance, that narrow tightrope over the chasm of life and death. In this regard, [Assassin] appeared to fit the mold. That path was a delicate balance in its own right, but it had a problem. When he looked at it, his head wasn’t turned forward. Rather, he was looking back.

When Vanalath turned around, he could see the route he had walked so far, beginning with the flexible yet disciplined path of [Swordsman] and moving on to the similar yet more dangerous one that represented a [Duelist], where he stood now. According to the memories of his second class selection, there should have been a vast road ahead of him, but he couldn’t see it. Not in any of these options. Even now, looking at the [Duelist] class showed him only the steps he’d taken so far, and beyond that… it was just a great blank wall. If he chose it, he would only be walking the same, safe route. It was growth, in a way, but it was horribly limited.

[Assassin], instead of continuing on ahead of his current position, required that he backtrack. It stood in the same position that both [Duelist] and [Squire] did. He was already beyond these choices. Choosing it, then, was a regression, which Vanalath refused to allow.

That left [Berserker]. However, this was no progression along his current route, but a different style entirely. Though it was undeniably further along its own path than the other three options, he didn’t like this choice for much the same reason as he didn’t choose [Feral] when he was first selecting his class, or [Warrior] when he had the option to. [Berserker] wasn’t weak. Rather, it was quite strong, but it lacked the element of control he had been pursuing.

And now, with his anger running wild and the presence of an incomprehensible Watcher above him, he wanted control more than ever.

All of the options diverged too far from the path he had already trodden down. What had changed since last time? When he first glanced at the [Swordsman] class, he had been astounded at the sheer expanse of choices. And when he chose [Duelist], had he not been promised an extensive path that tested him severely but rewarded him with strength when he proved worthy? What had happened to that?

What else but that he hadn’t proven worthy? When he selected [Duelist], Vanalath had chosen a path that had more difficulties and dead ends than any other. He knew instinctually that choosing it was risky—that was one of the reasons he had been attracted to the class in the first place. Now, it was biting him in the rear.

One final factor made him realize that he had reached an obstacle: the familiar feeling of a dam waiting to burst didn’t appear. Vanalath sensed no pressure building in his mind, no urgent need to select a path. The option to choose was there, but with a push of his will, the glowing characters faded to some obscure corner of his consciousness, where he was aware but not bothered by them.

That’s how it was.

Vanalath stood, approaching his sword where Orimo left it on the ground. He picked it up, tested its weight, its balance. He took a few practice swings.

Then, he smashed it into a tree. Shards of bark and dead wood exploded out, showering him in debris, but he didn’t stop. A second swing sent the tree tumbling over, and he moved on to the next.

For the next ten minutes, sounds of violence echoed out from within the grove, interspersed with rumbling booms as timber kissed the earth. Then, there followed a period of silence. A tall figure emerged from within the trees. He was coated with dust, wiping down his sword with a heavy cloth. Then, he stopped, his eyes falling on two waiting figures.

Separating themselves from the dead trunks they had been leaning against, Anamu and Kalaki stood before him. Vanalath sheathed his sword and continued on, and the other two fell into step behind him without a word. Twenty minutes passed by, and the cottage came into view. Gradually, Vanalath’s steps slowed, then came to a stop. He hesitated, and was annoyed to discover that it was out of fear.

It wasn’t fear of the necromancer, nor of death. It was fear of the Dread Sovereign—that entity that showed an inexplicable interest in their fates. Vanalath couldn’t deny that a part of himself wanted to walk away at that moment, leaving the woman and her undead to their own designs.

But looking away wouldn’t make the problem vanish. There were too many questions that he needed the answer to. Far too many.

He walked through the ranks of ghouls, who made no move to stop him. They stared at him with their yellow eyes, silent and unmoving. The door, repaired at some point, creaked open, and Vanalath was met with Orimo’s wry smile.

<She’s inside, waiting for you. Could you wear some sort of face covering before coming in?>

There was some rustling behind him, and Anamu proffered his mask, but Vanalath declined it.

<No mask. I wanted to talk to you, Orimo.>

The hunter’s mouth twisted like he’d bitten down on a sour fruit. <Me?>

Vanalath nodded.

<I see. I suppose that is fine, but the mistress had been expecting you. Could you come in to talk?>

He hated that he still found himself faltering. With a growl, Vanalath strode in, pushing past Orimo.

<Ah, your face—>

<No mask.>

Upon entering the cottage, he was met by the sight of a woman stooped over a short table, on which were arranged various bones and small clay jars. Several of the container’s lids were ajar, revealing colorful powders, along with other substances. One held a black, tar-like liquid, into which she had dipped a brush just as Vanalath ducked through the door.

The woman’s hair covered her face, shrouding her features. As she set the brush down, she lifted her head. Vanalath was struck by the strangest feeling as more of her countenance was revealed.

Her skin was a healthy, golden-brown color, and as she wiped her brow that shone with sweat, a terrible dichotomy emerged. As he looked into her eyes that were as intensely dark as he remembered and she flinched away from the sight of his bare face with a pained sigh, Vanalath somehow knew. Her chest, rising and falling as air passed through her lips, failed to hide it from him.

This woman was dead.

<Vessel of Death>

You are the vessel for the Deathstone, the miasmic seed of Eogan. As you are the first vessel to draw upon its powers without being devoured, there is no information on its effects.

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