Published at 14th of October 2023 4:59 pm

Chapter 37 – Deviant

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Now that we have discussed the standard evolutionary path of monsters, starting with lesser, standard, greater, and on to elder variants of the species, we find our focus moving on to deviants. For every piece of scholarship that exists on the subject of deviants, there are dozens of myths. Long have these monsters been seen as legendary, spoken of in the same breath as Sovereigns and Evokers. The fact of the matter is that deviants are simply variants of a more common monster species, as constrained to the natural laws as their brethren. In truth, a deviant is not necessarily stronger than another monster of the same Tier following the standard evolutionary path. A deviant evolution occurs either as a natural reaction to a change in environment, pressure from the collective (as seen in pack monsters), or more rarely, as a result of a monster’s individual experiences.

Deviants are not as rare as many believe. Some varieties are even well known, though they aren’t recognized as deviants. One example of an environmentally pressured deviant species is the sorlid, a variant of the common baugh. While baughs exist on all continents in most temperate climates, sorlids are a species specifically adapted to desert environs. Evidence of a shared species between these two monster types is demonstrated by this experiment: a Tier 1 or 2 baugh, transplanted away from its evolutionary niche—any moderate region with a sufficient population of prey animals—into a desert climate will see its next evolution transforming it into a sorlid. Thus, sorlids are regarded as a type of baugh. The inverse is not true: the reverse of this process does not bring about the expected result. Once a sorlid is brought to a colder climate, rather than evolve into a baugh, its subsequent Tiers will see it remaining on the sorlid evolutionary path. This holds true for baughs as well as all other monster species and their deviant forms. The base species can be changed, but once a deviant, always a deviant. In the case of the sorlid, this works against it, as it is poorly equipped for cooler climes. Whatever potential the baugh has in its base species to morph into a deviant is lost the instant it converts.

This and similar experiments have been replicated dozens of times, though it should be noted that a certain amount of time has to pass with the monster in its new environment before it fulfills whatever qualification is needed for its subsequent evolution to morph it into a deviant. The exact length of time varies for different species of monsters, but the requisite time generally falls between three days and a month.

Of course, if the monster fails to hunt enough prey to achieve an evolution, it will not change into a deviant.

Different types of deviants exist beyond environmentally motivated evolutions, however. The second type is more widely known: the ruler. Monster species that gather in large groups all have the potential to evolve into a ruling variant of their base species. Ruling types of humanoid monsters are called nobles, while ruling deviants of bestials vary in both terminology and morphology.

These deviants come about as a result of the collective pressure system. Once a large enough monster group is formed, the collective Shape circulating among the members of the group is forced to find an outlet, leading to the evolution of one or more ruling deviants to rule over the others. These monsters are typically stronger than the base form of their species, even one of equivalent Tier. Furthermore, their right to rule supersedes Tiers. A ruling deviant of Tier 4 can be seen commanding Tier 5 monsters so long as the higher-Tiered ones belong to the base species. These ruling deviants—as well as being creatures that will prioritize the survival of the group over all else—are thought to be more intelligent than others of their species. These two factors are likely the reason they hold a higher social position over more powerful monsters.

The third and final type of deviant is the most notorious, as well as the rarest type. These deviants have only a few reputable pieces of scholarship written on them, though this is not through any lack of effort on the part of the scholarly community. These monsters are the source of the “deviant” title, diverging from the base race of their species in unpredictable and dangerous ways. Often, their appearance is similar to the base form of their species (large exceptions exist). They aren’t necessarily stronger than the base form like ruling deviants are, though in some rare cases they are vastly superior in every aspect. The main difference between a true deviant and a base species lies in the possession of certain abilities that the base species does not have, making any encounter with one of these monsters one that is difficult to prepare for.

Thanks to this and other factors, true deviants are impossible to categorize in the same manner as environmental and ruling types. No one is certain what triggers a true deviant evolution, as they occur either seemingly at random, though it is likely they come about as a result of the monster’s individual experiences, similar to how Branded may obtain rare classes after fulfilling certain requirements.

Later in this book we will explore these deviants in detail, studying various examples of legendary deviants throughout history and the abilities they possessed, but for now, simply be aware of the three types.

Excerpt from ‘Forest of Claw and Fang,’ by Txhim Myeng.

Vanalath saw another opening and he leapt forward, sword sweeping at the rear leg of the Bronze. It cut deep, and the leg buckled. This was the fourth injured limb, leaving the monster without the strength left to stand. It slowly tipped to one side, flapping its wings to maintain balance, but failed and hit the ground with a pained squawk. Kalaki walked up, sticking a spear in its throat. The griffon, somehow hanging on despite the fatal wound, gurgled and snapped at him. Kalaki danced back before driving his weapon into it a second time. It fell still.

No level up came this time, but he felt Kalaki and Anamu growing through his connection with them, their presences swelling as the hollows inside them began to fill.

Kalaki grew a little further this time, and Vanalath sensed that he had finally reached the peak of the second Tier. He glanced over at the spearman. If the past was any indication of the future, he would fall unconscious any second now. Currently, the ghoul was holding his spear and staring at its bloodied iron tip.

His two Peons had done most of the work in this battle. There wasn’t much fight left in the Bronze by the time Vanalath arrived. He had entered late, covering for Anamu who was acting as distraction for Kalaki and as a result received the most wounds. Vanalath’s own injury was slight compared to the juvenile ghoul’s array of gouges and broken bones.

Vanalath looked down as the light faded from the griffon’s eyes, realizing the new problem at hand. With Anamu in this state and Kalaki on the verge of evolution, neither of them were in any sort of shape to fight the Gold.

As if on cue, a shriek blasted across the plateau, echoing off the cliff faces until it sounded like the voices of ten griffons, rather than just one. Vanalath glanced up just in time to witness the sight of Rellika hurtling to the ground. Just before she turned into a smear on the cold stone, she twisted in midair, impossibly righting herself and landing on her feet with a resounding crack. Dust drifted up around her as she stared up at the Gold, which looked none the worse for wear despite the minutes-long battle that had just taken place.

Just what could he accomplish if Rellika—a warrior stronger than him—couldn’t land a scratch on it?

But, perhaps there was something. Ever since killing the first griffon, he felt something inside him, broiling and restless. An untapped resource that was, inch by inch, awakening. He needed to settle his mind, to reach out and grasp it…

Before he could do exactly that, the two remaining griffons shook off their attackers, leaping into the sky to join the Gold. The first was a Bronze, and the second was one of the smaller, darker adults. The latter sported many wounds, including a few arrows that protruded from its flank, but none of the injuries were fatal. Orimo launched a few more arrows in its direction, but the creature avoided them.

The three griffons rose into the sky, gaining height until Orimo could no longer reach them. The Gold surveyed the plateau, and Vanalath sensed its eyes roaming over each of the fallen griffons: seven in total. Its next cry was a bitter noise, and in unison, the monsters turned tail, retreating to distant peaks.

Just like that, it was over. But Vanalath wasn’t still. The feeling of something boiling inside him didn’t fade after the griffon’s retreat, and he pursued that sensation, latching onto a thread that led somewhere deeper. He followed this tendril deep into his core, where the miasmic cyclone endlessly swirled.

The world around him seemed to darken as his mind divided. A part of him was still standing on the plateau, flanked by his two Peons, but a second part of him had tunneled deep before breaking through and emerging in another place.

Where had the thread taken him? He glanced around, finding himself once again in the realm of spirits, in that reverse world of black and white and countless grays. It was quieter than it had been the last time he visited. No ghosts muttered, no dead men stood nearby, blaming him for their deaths.

His feet found purchase on the smooth rock, and after gaining his bearing, he strode towards a translucent griffon that had curled up on the ground some distance away. As he approached, the creature climbed to its feet, but otherwise was completely still, even when Vanalath was mere feet away. Its gaze placidly rested on him, pale eyes betraying no hint of emotion.

The spirit of the Bronze he killed bore no signs of its injuries in this world, though it occasionally flickered, wounds appearing and disappearing quicker than he could blink. The injuries were all ones he had inflicted on it himself. Some of the humans he had killed bore their death-wounds with them to the grave, unchanging scars on their spiritual psyche, but not this creature. The griffon’s death was traumatic, but not so much that it defined what this monster was. Still, the memory of its death was present, judging by the persistent flickering of its body.

Vanalath wasn’t sure how he knew all these things. The knowledge simply came to him as easily as breathing. He could see that the griffon accepted its death, again in stark contrast to most of the humans he had ended.

Standing so near it, Vanalath was able to get a sense for just how large it was. In the heat of the recent fight, he’d been more concerned with survival than study. He was tall himself, but he barely reached the neck of this beast. He was forced to crane his head just to meet its eyes. He reached out with a hand, and the spirit moved at last, stepping back and unfolding its wings as if it meant to take off into the sky.

<Stop.>

It stopped, which surprised the wight. He hadn’t truly expected it to listen.

<Follow me,> he said.

The griffon rustled its feathers before laying back down in what seemed a clear refusal. Vanalath inspected it for a time longer. Why listen to one demand and ignore the other? He tried a couple other commands before concluding that a different approach was needed.

He spent some time wandering the ghostly realm while his body in the real world was approached by Rellika. She looked exhausted, but the worst she had suffered were a few scratches. She maintained her warrior’s bearing as she glanced over the three of them. By now, Kalaki had begun his evolution and was lying comatose on the ground. She pursed her lips as she inspected Vanalath and Anamu, pulling out a pouch from a small satchel at her waist.

“This is the last of the dust,” she said as she rubbed a handful of powder into Vanalath’s shoulder. “So do try not to get so heavily injured after this.”

She moved on to Anamu, applying the last dregs of the substance to the ghoul.

“Will they return?” Vanalath asked, nodding his head in the direction the griffons went.

“Likely not,” replied the necromancer. “Griffons may not be that smart, but they know a losing fight when they see it. Killing those Bronzes sent the deviant a message. The reward isn’t worth the cost for him. Well done.”

She strode off, seeing to the post-battle arrangements.

The next several minutes were spent sorting the corpses: both theirs and those of the griffons. Rellika allocated the bodies in poor condition as food for her undead, though she ensured that the two Bronzes, as well as two of the unevolved griffons, were preserved whole.

The ghouls fell upon the monster flesh with something approaching glee. Vanalath joined them, somewhat more reservedly. He didn’t need to eat the flesh of his enemies to gain strength like the unbranded ghouls did, but he still required nourishment.

As he ate, he continued his negotiations with the spirit of the griffon.

<Don’t you wish to hunt? To fly?>

The griffon snorted. It hadn’t been dead long. Perhaps, given enough time, it would come to miss the experiences of life, but if he left this place now he felt that it would be a show of weakness, and weakness wasn’t tolerated in the world of monsters. There had to be something he could use.

He followed the griffon’s gaze at it settled on a point in the distance. There was something over there, a sight Vanalath hadn’t seen before. He first saw it as a shimmer in the air, much like heat waves coming off the ground. It wasn’t an illusion, but a figure.

As he approached it, he began to pick out individual features. It was another griffon spirit, but this one was far fainter than the first. That’s why he didn’t sense it earlier. It was the other Bronze, the one Kalaki killed. This griffon stood in place, unmoving, eyes vacant and unfocused. Like the first, it flickered, occasionally revealing the wounds that had been inflicted by Kalaki’s spear. But this one was different.

He reached out a hand, and it didn’t react. When he touched it, he felt a tiny spark leap between his fingers and the griffon. He shivered as a connection formed. There was a tiny mental struggle that couldn’t be called a fight. The resistance ended before he was fully aware of it.

He instinctively understood that this spirit was under his control. But it was weak—painfully faint, like a leaf blown on the wind. The creature hadn’t been completely realized in this place. Only a tiny piece made it here. Not enough of it existed for it to possess a will of its own, so it was just fragments of experience, a static image overlaid on this dead world.

He knew why this had happened. He hadn’t killed this griffon. He had contributed to its death, but his claim on it was weaker than it otherwise would have been. He controlled it, but there was little he could do with such a faint spirit. He turned back, to see that the other griffon had plodded nearer, closing the gap between them. It examined the echo of its comrade, an inexplicable sadness in its eyes.

<Does it pain you to see your friend here?> he asked.

He hadn’t meant to speak. He’d nearly forgotten that in this strange world, thoughts rose to his lips unbidden. He steadied his mind, determined for it not to happen again. As he did, he realized that something was a little off with that question. The word “friend” didn’t fit. Monsters did not have friends. Neither did griffons.

He focused on the thin tether between him and this spirit, trying to extract any information he could from its faint presence.

Ah.

<You do not wish to see your nestmate like this.>

The female griffon, the substantial spirit, lowered her head. Spirit Speech shattered whatever language barrier existed between them before.

<I can set him free.>

She glanced up, more sharply than expected. Impressive, he thought, that a dead creature could be moved by emotion.

<There is no need for him to suffer like this,> he continued. <I will perform this favor for you. Accept my rule, and I swear he will be liberated.>

Vanalath knew she would accept his offer. Though he could only glean fragments of personality from the faint spirit he had just dominated, he knew their honor made these creatures predictable. It made them strong, too—but predictable.

The griffon didn’t take long to. She strode forward, pressing her head against that of the other griffon roughly. Though it looked at first like the more substantial spirit would phase right through the ephemeral form of her mate, they interacted as two solid beings. The female rubbed her neck against her mate like a cat might, before turning and pacing up to Vanalath. The male hadn’t reacted to the gesture, but continued to stare at nothing.

He held his hand forward when the spirit was standing before him. This time, she allowed him to touch her feathery mane.

When Vanalath pressed his palm into the griffon’s feathers, it was a wholly different experience than with the male. He immediately knew that conquering this spirit by force was impossible. He could sense her mind, strong and steady as the mountain she had once called home. She was no more powerful than Vanalath, but successfully subverting a spirit required the dominator to have far greater force than the target. Strength of spirit was what Orimo had called this phenomenon, which he thought was a good way of thinking about it. It wasn’t mere willpower—it was existence itself. The spirit and mind as a collective.

For the third time, Vanalath found this knowledge coming to him without prompting, as if he’d always known these things. But how had he learned to control spirits? This couldn’t be from memories of his previous life. Rather, it was something else, an inherent skill. It was a little like instinct, though instinct didn’t come in the form of knowledge.

The mountainous presence of the griffon stepped aside as Vanalath’s will encroached on her domain. This was to be different from his agreement with Orimo. This spirit wasn’t a teacher or even a comrade. It was a slave.

Pact Successful.

Vanalath flinched as the voiceless words pulsed around him. His eyes flicked skyward, where he saw the galactic, unblinking eye of the Dread Sovereign. The chromatic whirl that seemed to consume the sky, gleaming with all the colors this world did not, was the same as before. He steeled himself as recollections of an unnatural, mind-shattering terror brushed at the edges of his consciousness. Nothing more came, however. No other words were spoken, no enigmatic riddles or sensations followed the announcement of the pact’s completion. The great eye seemed inert, as if its owner were asleep.

But even asleep, the eye did not close.

He turned to his griffon spirit. The pact was complete, but it could still be ended if he did not complete his part. He may not know how he knew these things, but that didn’t mean he would question his knowledge. It felt right, listening to these instincts.

In the physical world, he finished his meal and watched as the ghouls—at least, those who hadn’t fallen into an evolution coma after eating the griffon flesh—gathered up all the bodies they could carry. Though Rellika seemed to think they were safe, Orimo wasn’t certain. He thought the Gold might return. According to him, there could be up to a dozen griffons that hadn’t accompanied the main force today, and though they were likely all unevolved Tier 2 threats, if they returned with the Gold and the remaining Bronze at their head the fight would go poorly. As a result of his urging, the ghouls were now getting ready to move with all the food they could bear.

They lost nearly fifty ghouls in the fight, and though many others were evolving, their overall numbers were reduced greatly. At the same time, a third of their forces—forty or so—were now evolved, while only ninety remained lesser ghouls. In addition, Rellika seemed to have plans for the four griffon bodies she had preserved, so Vanalath expected any decline would be short-lived.

Back in the spiritual world, his hand passed through the misty form of the male griffon, which began to dissipate as the two monsters watched on.

His physical self exhaled. He felt something leaving him, passing from his core to his lungs, and from there to the surrounding air. A pale, shimmering mist issued from his mouth, quickly fading away. He was left feeling slightly emptier. His awareness of the spirit world suddenly faded. Two worlds merged into one, and he was shunted back into his body. Despite that, he still sensed that bond between himself and the griffon. That hadn’t vanished, though he could no longer see the spirit.

Something about his deliberations on his internal world made him pause. Something within him had unexpectedly changed recently, growing without his realization. He could tell instinctively. The System hadn’t notified him of any growth. What was different, then? Something that wasn’t quantifiable, perhaps. Or…

He pulled up his status with a thought, scanning it for something. Under his innate abilities, he found what he was looking for.

<Rule of the Grave> (Lv.2)

The ability was listed at level one before. It increased without any notification. Was this because it was innate? What was the difference between normal and innate skills, anyway?

Rule of the Grave was clearly related to spirits and the pacts he formed with them. Right now, he could feel the presence of the griffon spirit inside him, clearer than ever before. But how did he use it? Would he need Rellika’s aid, having her raise the griffon like she did Orimo?

A noise pulled Vanalath from his deliberations. Kalaki, the newly evolved spear-ghoul, rose to his feet. Kalaki’s pale gray skin was stretched tightly across his lean muscles, which almost made him seem younger, though the narrow white beard that stretched to his chest arrested that notion. He returned Vanalath’s look, standing solemnly with his spear at his side.

He was now Tier 3: a greater ghoul, much like Anamu and Orimo. Vanalath felt that perhaps he might begin to expect things from this Peon of his.

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