Infamous Goose
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1.11 If It Is Death
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 02:19:17 +0000 UTCLysander burst out of the tunnel, skidding to a halt on a ledge overlooking a massive cavern and, for the first time, beheld the salamanders’ village. Huts of stacked stone ringed the walls, forming a circle around a pool of water in the very center. The roofs were thatched, made of wood and what looked to be some sort of fungi – it was hard to tell in the dim light of the glowstone. Two fires burned in the cave itself, one in a tunnel to the right, which seemed to lead upward toward the surface, and another at the base of a stone wall fencing off another, larger tunnel that clearly led deeper beneath the mountain.
Large patches of mushrooms grew in the corners of the cave, ringing giant pillars of stone. He momentarily wondered if they farmed the fungi before movement caught his attention.
Salamanders scrambled about in the village below, nearly two hundred of them by his rough guess. Elderly and children, as well as a large number of regular adults, huddled against the walls of the cave – a few even hiding below the ledge he was perched on – while maybe ten more carrying baskets hid themselves amongst the huts. He could just barely make out bits and pieces of their whispered conversations, understanding only a few words of their language. Danger. Fear. Below. Lysander frowned, scanning the area for the spirit and crouching low on the ledge.
It was nowhere to be seen; in fact no spirits could be seen anymore. That dark feeling still twisted his stomach, a headache still rang between his ears, but the spirits themselves had vanished from sight. Though he did spot Orangey amongst a crowd of salamanders running toward the wall, spear in hand, while the oldest salamander he had ever seen pulled herself out of the central hut.
Her scales were stark white, visible beneath the thin leather cloak she draped herself in. In one clawed hand she held a staff of bone and crystal, leaning heavily against it as she slowly followed Orangey.
Lysander’s heart hammered in his chest, an echoing screech rising up from the back of the cavern. He watched, transfixed, as the salamanders lined themselves up on the wall, hunters and spear-wielders readying themselves, sparks and flames running down their backs and illuminating the cave in dancing orange lights. Lysander crouched as the old salamander approached the wall, then –
There was fire.
With a collective roar the salamanders spewed flame into the depths, the heat so intense it distorted the air. A horrendous scream rent its way through the cavern, setting the hair on the back of Lysander’s neck to standing on end and a shiver running down his spine. A shape thrashed in the firelight that illuminated the other side of the wall, a sinuous, dark form twisting in the orange glow – the salamanders screamed, and the wall was shattered.
What could only be described as a giant centipede burst through the stone wall, sending chunks of stone and salamanders alike flying as it screeched in rage and pain. Fire burned along its segmented body, dozens of its legs rendered useless from burns and heat. Salamanders scrambled about, pulling their comrades out of the way of the giant insect’s panicked thrashing, tossing its body this way and that, lashing out at salamanders and beating its own body against the cave wall. Lysander watched in horror as one unfortunate salamander was speared through the shoulder with one of its legs, its pained scream lost in the chaos.
His hands clenched, feet rooted in place as the carnage unfolded. A myriad of emotions swirled in his chest, including the desire to help, but also a healthy dose of fear at whatever that thing was. He had never seen anything like it before – no, worse than that. He’d never felt anything like it before.
The salamanders harassed it, one occasionally darting in to harass the beast with a spear and keep its attention focused on the warriors. Stones were thrown at it, clattering uselessly off the chitin, its massive body continuing to make a mess of the former wall. A few unfortunate salamanders were caught off-guard by its erratic movements, knocked flying with casual ease. But none of that was what Lysander focused on. More than anything, he noticed its raw hatred.
It snapped at the salamanders with a half-melted face, its eyes and antenna having long since popped from the heat. Its legs, sharper than they looked, sought flesh at every opportunity. Even half-dead and on fire, the centipede was not acting like a normal animal. For all it looked, it was seeking to actively cause harm – single-minded in its pursuit of killing, no retreat, no fear, no…nothing. And to make things worse, as sensitive to spiritual energy as he was right now, he could feel the taint that suffused it. Even from here it felt slimy, like oil or blood, seeming to rise up from the centipede’s chitin in the form of a black mist.
Something was very, very wrong with it, and it grated upon him in a way he did not understand.
The old salamander chose that moment to make her presence known, a few dozen feet away from the fight as she was. She raised her staff, a low thrumming sound emanating from her as she called upon the spirits to aid her. Lysander felt them move, like water swirling beneath his feet – the spirits of bygone salamanders rushed toward her staff, the tip igniting in brilliant orange flame. But no others aided her. They hovered around Lysander, little gusts of wind and tingles upon his skin as they slowly danced about him. Almost as if they favored him over the one actively seeking their aid.
“What are you waiting for? Go,” he whispered to the spirits, and the flame on the old salamander’s staff surged in response. A great gout of flame burst forth from her, the thrumming reaching a fever pitch and bathing the centipede in heat. With one last ear-rending screech it fell twitching to the cave floor, burning brighter than even the glow stones. For a moment all that could be heard were the moans of the injured and the roaring fire on the centipede’s corpse. The old salamander looked at her staff, head cocked to the side, while the others began to cheer, raising their spears to the ceiling.
The few salamanders who hid amongst the huts rushed forward, carrying with them healing supplies and buckets of water that they tossed upon houses ignited by the fighting. The injured were carefully pushed toward them, seven in total, while the few remaining uninjured hunters circled around the dead centipede. Orangey was among them, poking experimentally at the centipede’s head with his spear, careful not to get too close to the flames that still encased it. Lysander crouched lower, shifting from foot to foot and wanting nothing more than to run down there and figure out what was going on. Or help – he had good practice with tending wounds, having done enough dumb things in his own lifetime to warrant some skill with healing implements. But…he couldn’t. He had to stay put.
He stared blankly at Orangey and the old salamander, the two discussing something and gesturing at the giant insect. There were so many questions that needed answering…
A violent twitch broke him out of his reverie. With a frown he looked about, casting his senses out to try and hear or see anything. But sounds in the underground echoed too much, the light from the blue stones and the fire were messing with his vision, and everything smelled like earth and smoke…no.
There it was.
Lysander stood the moment he felt it, that same oily black feeling that had been driving him insane the past few solstices. It was moving closer, stronger and more agitated than before – he grit his teeth, every fiber of his existence grinding against whatever it was – then, almost as soon as he noticed it, it was gone. In its place came another horrific screech echoing up from the depths.
The salamanders froze at the sound, all heads snapping back to the tunnel entrance.
There was no time to scramble. No time to run. And Lysander felt frozen in place.
The same creature as before came barreling up from the cavern below, fresh and uninjured and twice the size as the dead one. With speed belying its size, the great insect charged forth, insectoid legs drumming out a rhythm of death upon the cave floor, snapping up an unfortunate salamander with one toss of its head, bisecting it with a snap of its black mandibles. The hunters were momentarily stunned, only Orangey rushing forward without hesitation, spear at the ready. Screams echoed from the healers, who scrambled back – a mistake, Lysander knew, as the centipede’s antennas twitched in their direction, its attention firmly grasped by their movement.
It raced over the injured salamanders, stabbing one who was too slow to move with its front legs as it chased after the healers, heading directly for a huddle of unarmed salamanders. A brave young one, head no taller than Lysander’s chest, stepped out of the huddle, sparks running up and down its back as it prepared to breathe fire. In one hand it clutched a little knife.
Lysander was moving. Fear filled his heart, doubt raced through his thoughts, but there was a coldness in his veins that quenched all those emotions to be replaced with grim determination.
He leapt off the ledge, landing lightly on the roof of a hut. The wood creaked dangerously beneath him, but before it could crack he was off, leaping from one roof to the next in the same running lope that let him sprint across treetops. A hum built in his chest, rumbling from the back of his throat and filling him limbs with magic. A wind caught his back, the heavy weight of stone sitting in his chest as steadfast as ever. And time slowed.
The centipede charging.
The young salamander breathing fire, too soon, flames too small to catch it.
Screams.
Wood cracking beneath his feet.
The centipede rearing away from the flames, mandibles open, ready to snap.
Airborne – and Lysander struck down upon the giant insect like an arrow from a bow. His hands wrapped around its mandible mid-jump, wrenching its head to the ground from the force of his charge and leap. He tumbled, hands slipping on the blood-slicked mandible, slamming into the side of a hut with a grunt of pain. His vision swam even as he scrambled to his feet, whipping his knife out and meeting the centipede’s eyes.
They were black as the night, sitting right beneath the large antenna that twitched constantly and locked onto Lysander with a feverish intensity. Its head alone was easily the size of his torso, with mandibles hiding a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth gnashing against each other. It was a still moment, neither moving as they sized each other up – then the centipede screeched, rising up like a snake coiling to strike, only for a thrown spear to bounce off of its head, distracting it.
“Here!” Orangey chirruped, racing forward with sparks flying from the top of his head and arms waving. For a brief moment Lysander could see another form layered over Orangey’s, almost…ghostly, but then it was gone. The centipede turned toward its new target, already primed to lunge – Lysander darted forward before it could, racing beneath the centipede’s sharp-tipped legs to tackle Orangey out of the way. The centipede struck a split-second later, slamming into a hut and collapsing the ceiling upon itself.
“Get off - what?” Orangey yelped as Lysander disentangled himself, leaping to his feet once more. The other hunters were rushing forward, spears at the ready, but they were few. Only half of those who had started were battle-ready, maybe ten in total and – a horrible idea occurred to him. What if there were more of those things? What if - ?
The centipede ignored the hunters, whose fiery breaths were far weaker now and whose spears they couldn’t use unless they got too close, turning instead to the huddled non-combatants. A few panicked jets of flame had caught its attention, simultaneously setting a few huts on fire, and –
“HERE!” Lysander roared, layering magic into his words to make himself seem enticing; the opposite of the hiding spell he had cast. The centipede did not so much as twitch, tossing part of its segmented body to the side and stabbing a hunter through the chest with one leg, screeching as another jet of weak flame shot up from the scattering crowd of salamanders. For a brief moment the centipede seemed wracked with indecision on who to chase, head whipping back and forth and antenna twitching erratically. It was this briefest of moments that gave him the time needed to figure out the barest hints of a plan.
Too many people here. Get it away. Get to better terrain – up.
Up. Get it outside the caves.
“Up,” he croaked in salamander tongue, glancing at Orangey, who was torn between looking at him and the centipede. “HERE!” he roared again, rushing forward. He needed to give this thing a target to get it away from the salamanders. There was a magic that could do that. His father had used it once to make a point, forcing him and his sister to listen to his words after they’d done something stupid. He could only hope he remembered how it felt, and got it right…
Unfortunately, his own name did not carry the same spiritual weight his father or mother’s did. Which meant he had to use more than just that.
His next words came out as a roar, his chest rumbling in a hum as his feet pounded into the cave floor, snatching up Orangey’s thrown spear as he ran.
“MY NAME,” He bellowed at the top of his lungs. “IS LYSANDER! HEAR ME NOW, BEAST!” At this, the beast paused, his magic sinking into its insectoid brain as he issued his challenge. With a mighty heave he hurled Orangey’s spear, the weapon flying straight and true and sinking into a chink in its chitin armor. It screeched, but his following words drowned it out, his elfsong roaring to full effect in this briefest of moments.
“I see you, beast, you vile creature,
For all you hate and loathe.
Flee from me, I’ll be your reaper,
On this, I make my oath.”
The words hung in the air, reverberating with a power not even Lysander knew they could hold. He felt his magic settling, firming itself into a wall of determination – making him seem bigger and stronger, scarier than he actually was. The intent was clear. If the centipede did not kill him first, he would slaughter it. He was a threat. The giant centipede screeched, turning toward him, and he ran.
He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, shooting off toward the tunnel that led to the surface, the centipede racing after him. Vaguely he could sense the spirits around him, swirling about him as he sprinted up the cavern, the centipede dangerously close behind, slamming into cave walls as it went. Sweat beaded his brow from both the mad dash and holding his spell, breath coming in ragged huffs even as he continued to hum, the action helping to focus his mind and magic.
Instinct spurred him forward, spirits pointing him left and right, guiding him up and up – past salamanders hiding in niches, having heard the commotion below, past torches and side-paths, through narrow passages the centipede could barely squeeze through.
He rounded a corner, skidding across wet ground illuminated by a single torch, and spotted the outside. Beyond the cave mouth, the salamanders’ lake glittered in the afternoon sunlight, a few of the fire-breathing lizards scattered about just outside the cave entrance.
“Run!” Lysander chirruped between gasps, leaping out of the cave. His foot hit a rock and he tumbled head-over-heels, rolling a short way downhill before his feet found themselves again and he leapt to his feet. The scant few salamanders who were on the surface scattered, shooting him odd looks that were quickly replaced with expressions of fear as the centipede burst from the tunnel’s mouth in all its foul glory.
It hissed, rearing up the moment sunlight hit its face, twisting this way and that in surprise and agony as the light burned its eyes. Lysander started to back up a bit, intent on getting the great beast into the lake – perhaps he could drown it, if its focus was as narrow-mindedly upon him as it seemed – but that hope was soon dashed. His tenuous hold on his magic snapped, the shock of sunlight snapping the beast out of its haze, and the giant centipede, for one brief, terrifying moment, seemed like it would retreat back into the cave.
Then one of the few salamanders spit out a burst of fire at it, singing its antennas and setting it to screeching, its hateful gaze fixating upon said salamander.
Lysander grit his teeth, chest heaving and a wheezing hum barely touching his lips. There would be no more magic for a time. Which meant hunting a dangerous beast the old-fashioned way. His hand clenched around the hilt of his flint knife, wishing to Astraea he had his spear with him.
“I am Lysander,” he wheezed, scooping a rock off the ground and hurling it at the beast. His aim mostly true, bouncing off of the chitin just beside its eye and successfully drawing its attention. The centipede snapped its mandibles menacingly as the salamanders retreated, fixing its attention on Lysander, its body slowly uncurling itself out of the tunnel and into the sunlight. He spit to the side, and settled into a crouch, an uneasy smile gracing his lips. “And if it is death you want, it is death you will receive.”
