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Chapter 59 - Epilogue
🕑 Added 2024-09-30 00:19:56 +0000 UTCA hunter chased his hound, Ryul, through the woods, a crossbow bouncing on his back, following the sound of the creature's excited warbling. He saw glimpses of it bounding between the trees, stopping every so often to sniff the air with its trio of nostrils. With a round head surrounded in fuzz and large amber eyes, the snelp looked almost comical. Only the semblance of a snout managed to poke through from its mop of fur. Yet its ability to track a scent was unrivaled. By now, the kental that the hunter had shot would be succumbing to the tranquilizer. All they had to do was stay on its trail.
Sure enough, the hound led him to an opening in the trees and it darted up a large hill, its spherical head vibrating with its chattering. The kental, which stood at the apex, stumbled for a few steps and collapsed. The hound ran circles around it sniffing excitedly. Then it stopped, cocked its head at something the hunter could not see. But just before he reached it, Ryul turned to look at him. The hunter blinked. Had he just seen something go into its nostrils? It had almost looked like a wisp of smoke. No, he was just seeing things. He praised the hound, lifted the kental over his shoulders and propped it over his wings.
“Come on boy. Let's go,” he said.
At first, his hound simply stared at him with an odd look in its eyes, but then it began to follow. Odd...usually Ryul would run in circles until he tired himself out after tracking game. Instead, he walked by the hunter’s side with an uncharacteristic calm. The hunter scratched his head and entered the woods. A grin spread across his snout. This catch would feed his family for several days. Ryul trotted by his side, regaining some of his bounce. It was around evening when the hunter returned to his home, a humble dwelling in the middle of the forest. He called out to his son and had him start the fire in the smoker.
“Yon. Where is your mother?” the hunter asked as he hung the kental from a hook and drew a blade across its throat.
“By the river with Sant,” Yon said, shoving a few logs into the smoker.
The snelp sniffed the air and paced around the dwelling before sitting next to the wood pile and watching the father and son work.
“Is Ryul all right?” Yon looked at the snelp, who cocked his head. The father glanced over at the puffy creature, shrugging.
“Probably tired,” he said.
“Ryul, come here!” The youth slapped a wing against his thigh.
Ryul...The Puppeteer thought, must be this vessel's name. Ryul is dead.
Nevertheless, “Ryul” trotted over to Yon and subjected itself to his affections. The Puppeteer did not know their language yet, but recognizing some of the roots, it would learn. Until then, it would use the inborn instincts of this animal to inform its imitation. So, it chattered with excitement at the scratching, ran circles around the wood pile, then zoomed off to chase a few falling leaves. Then it came back to watch and listen to the creatures.
These woods were far from Crefield, and they were isolated from prying eyes. The entity was only a sliver of its former self, so it had to be careful. It doubted any of these creatures had any lore capable of threatening it. Though when it tried to pass through the Stillwater, it sensed something was different, a presence that shackled the marshes. That was new...anything that was capable of doing that was a power to be respected, perhaps even feared. Things had changed...things had truly changed. So, it had taken a route around the Stillwater, traveling at speeds none of these creatures could fathom. Now, it would wait in these woods while figuring out what to do next.
But...it was free. That had been the Puppeteer's plan all along. Its main mass, wounded and necrotic from the battle with that cursed woman, had been trapped in the rift. The part that remained unscathed could fit through and do its work, but its range was limited. It was tethered by lore to its ensnared mass, and it could not sever its bond of its own accord. All it could do was sacrifice bits of the necrosis at a time, turn them into a black mist that the Puppeteer sent out across Admoran. It used its storms to learn about this era. The process was painful, and it would have taken decades for all of the mass to be fully expended.
That is why it led Girashnal's pet to Crefield. When they first touched, the Puppeteer had been given only hints of the creature's power, but it knew exactly what it was and what it could do. If its companions knew what this "paradox" was truly capable of, they would cast it into the deepest depths in Admoran and seal it away. If they knew what it was eventually going to do...well, perhaps they would simply end their own lives. Nevertheless, the Paradox was the only thing that could close the rift and sever the link, freeing the Puppeteer from its dead mass. In being victorious and saving his comrades, Vincent Cordell had unknowingly freed the entity from its bondage, albeit leaving it as a whisper of its former self. Therefore, he both saved them only to and damn them. No matter. As long as only a remnant remained, that's all that was needed.
It had referred to itself as a legacy left behind by fools. If it had been given a name by its creators, the name was long forgotten, consumed by time. That was assuming it had been given a name in the first place. A string of numbers briefly resonated across its memories and disappeared. Where had they come from, the Puppeteer did not know. It knew what sort of creation it was, but over the millennia, memories of its birth were obscured by the hosts it absorbed and by time itself. Sometimes it was given hints, but they, like the numbers, vanished as soon as they appeared. Such things were fleeting and irrelevant. What was relevant was that the entity was free. Furthermore...the Puppeteer was not alone.
It had not lied when it told Girashnal's pet about the heralds' return. It was a convenient truth, one that would have the fools floundering as they prepared for dangers they could not comprehend. What it failed to mention, however, was that a herald was already lurking among them, and it had been doing so for millennia. It was in hiding no doubt, tucked away from any signs of civilization and from any prying eyes. Its presence could only be inferred by those who knew how to recognize the signs. One does not need to see a fish leap from the water to know that it had. One only had to see the ripples. The Puppeteer had seen the signs, and it knew without a doubt that the herald was out there. It knew this...and it knew which one it was. Of all the Black Heralds, it was by far the most dangerous and most insidious of them all.
Varalus the Philosopher did not engage in conspicuous battles. It preferred to bide its time and work from the shadows, whispering a word here or there. When the Puppeteer sent its storms across Admoran, it saw the herald's work: generations of shaping and prodding, lies fabricated with enough truth to string them together in a crude facsimile of coherence. It had spent centuries enacting plans, reworking facts into new fictions, supplanting others with falsehoods, and creating new paradigms for the sole purpose of laying a vengeful trap for their enemy.
The Puppeteer was in awe of its thoroughness and was eager to learn the language spoken by these people so it could infer the true scale of the Philosopher's work. Naikira would return soon, as she must. When she does, the snare will have already been set. The Philosopher would not even have to lift a finger. It could watch from the shadows as the comedy it set in motion played itself out.
The herald was undoubtedly aware of the Puppeteer's presence by now, but it would not reveal itself unless it had a good reason to. The entity could guess at the herald's location, as it had a few favorite hiding spots, but it would not go seeking the presence out. Varalus would find a way to contact it if it wanted to. Instead, the Puppeteer would do the same. It had its fun, now it would lay low, learn the language of these people, hide in isolation as it slowly rebuilt itself. It would act as this family's pet, play with its kids, eat their food and eavesdrop on their conversations.
It licked its chops as it watched the father and son cut the game into strips. The Puppeteer heard singing. It raised its head and saw the mother and her young daughter coming up the trail, chanting a poorly-sung folk rhyme. Two baskets hung from the mother's wings, each filled with an assortment of mushrooms. The daughter had her own basket, filled with mushrooms as well as a few rocks. The daughter's eyes reflected a faint, unseen light source.
That is unfortunate, the Puppeteer thought.
Sure enough, the child stopped as soon as she saw Ryul. A confused series of emotions played across her face as she recognized the animal, but also recognized something was off about it. The host was dead, but the entity was able to energize the sections of its brain responsible for memory. In this way, it was able to mimic the host's personality. It jumped up and ran over to her, vibrating with feigned excitement.
At first, she cowered, unsure of what her senses were telling her. But then she laughed, put her arms around Ryul's animated corpse and led him to the yard to play with him. The Puppeteer chattered with excitement and spun around in circles. It ducked low, waiting for the daughter to make a move, then it went bounding in a frenzy, running around their home several times. It wore Ryul like a mask, reviving the creature's spirit and memories to enhance its charade. Whatever the little girl felt, it could be ignored. This was their pet, nothing more.
Still...the only reason the Puppeteer had escaped unnoticed from the expedition was because the channelers were still reeling from the confrontation. Their senses had been overwhelmed. When one was stabbed in the gut, they would not notice a minor, lesser laceration. But this girl, she could be a problem. The Puppeteer would have to find a new host...but before then, perhaps it could have just a little bit more fun. It continued to play and cause mischief. It chased a few vermin that ran up the trees. It gnawed on its own legs. It amused the youths with its own antics until night came upon them.
It curled up in the corner of the parents' room because that is what Ryul would have done. The father came over to stroke its snout. The Puppeteer gave him a few affectionate nibbles before laying its head down. It closed its eyes and listened to the father and his mate converse, picking up little bits of dialect with familiar roots. The male told a joke and the female snickered. Their words became less frequent until silence fell.
The Puppeteer was patient. It waited until it was certain everybody was asleep. Then it got up, suppressing Ryul's instincts. If one were to observe the animal, they could perhaps see that it had changed, a sentience that surpassed the creature's intellect inhabiting its eyes. Its movements had purpose. They were methodical, unfitting for the energetic form from which they came. It stood on its hind legs, leaned on the bed and began to snap necks, starting with the husband. His body twitched, but not enough to wake his mate. Claws clicked on the floor as the entity walked around to the other side of the bed. Soon the wife joined her husband in death. After that, it went into the son's room and did the same. They were quiet, quick kills. Not a single of its victims had felt any pain.
It went back into the parent's room and began to assimilate the father's vocal cords, quivering as the snelp's throat changed shape. A few of its tendrils spilled out onto the bed, but it sucked them back in. When the transformation was complete, it went to the daughter's room.
It triggered one last transformation, sculpting its face so the eyelids shrank back into their sockets, allowing the manic orbs inside to bulge ever-so-slightly. Then it widened the jaw until it was capable of smiling. Finally, it brought the respiration to a slow until it became as still as a lifeless statue. Now all it had to do was wait. Hours passed and eventually, the sun began to rise, painting a strip of light on the ceiling that slowly descended.
***
“Sant...”
Sant stirred in her sleep. She had been dreaming about the glowing forest of Rekul, but her father’s voice interrupted her reverie. She grumbled and turned over with a rebellious whine in her throat. Her arm flopped over the side of the bed.
“Leave me alone,” she said, “I don’t want to get up. It’s. Too. Early.”
“Sant...”
She grabbed a wing and pulled it over her snout in defiance. She hated being woken up, hated it more than anything in the world. She just wanted to go back to sleep and return to Rekul, where the leaves glowed and the calops flickered. She’d made a friend in that dream, a talking landrider who liked to eat candy. She wanted to go back, play with him and ride on his back again.
“Saanntt...”
“Hmmf...” Sant grunted, “stop...”
She heard her father approach the bed, his claws clicking on the floor. Something warm and wet slowly dragged itself up her arm. A tongue. She pulled her hand in. Wait...what?
She sat up, raised her hands to her eyes and wiped them clear, then she looked around the room. It was dark. Dark except for the single beam of sunlight that poured through the window. Dust motes danced and tree shadows fluttered across it. She followed the beam and froze. It painted a stripe of light across a pair of eyes near the wall.
Claws clicked. Ryul stepped into the sunlight. All the fur had fallen from his snout, leaving it both pale and sallow, with a grin stretched across his countenance. Bones shifted beneath his cheeks and his jaw sunk, his mouth dropped open and the throat swelled. But it was the eyes that froze Sant with terror. Their sockets were shrunken and emaciated, making the bronze orbs bulge. Sant couldn’t speak. Tears gathered on her cheeks, she wanted to cry out, but all she could manage was a whisper. She covered her eyes and hid behind her wings.
A deep moan filled the room. It sounded like her father, but it was coming from the snelp’s body. Ryul leapt up onto the bed and pounced on her. His paws shredded at her wings, tearing through their membranes like tissue. Screaming, she tried to escape, but he had her pinned down. His face, shifting, melting, and morphing, stretched itself wide. His maw opened and it clamped down on her snout, teeth sinking into her nostrils. Squealing, her hands drummed on the side of its face as it bit down. Ryul pulled and thrashed until he ripped out a chunk of her sinuses.
Sant, having awoken from a dream, spent her last moments in a nightmare. Her shrieking filled the woods as the Puppeteer continued its savage evisceration, painting her room with splashes of blue. When it was finished, all that was left was a mass of green-blue flesh that vaguely resembled a young child. It wrested itself back under control. Its fun was over, now it had work to do.
To be continued…
