He was victorious as he entered his home zone. Explorers measured such things precisely: aether quality, light filtering, and experience gains – all of which changed depending on the zone. He didn’t care for such definitions – Murkspire was in his bones, and he knew when its sphere of influence wrapped him.

  Black hair flecked with cream, a face that came to a point, Talon Koss smiled up at Eldrin’s Gate, two ancient titan trees bowed over the stone bridge. Their branches woven into symbols of power – their meanings lost to history. Koss’s heavily armoured boots drank in the swamplight, their enchanted soles silent, as he strode under the majestic portal, another symbol of his guild's power.

  Eldrin had ever been one to rely on shows of force and spectacle – district trees, his most incredible show of force, a constant reminder to the guilds who still reside there. The Keepers' spire, completed years after his death, was Eldrin’s last act of triumph, its height a constant reminder to all the other guilds.

  Talon respected his forebear; he owed him everything. He would repay what he owed, quietly, from the shadows. Nobody would ever know just how much Talon Koss owed Eldrin Mystweaver.

  He pondered all this and more as he looked over his personal retinue, his talon. They approached their district's lift; his excitement bubbled. Soon, he would have answers. He checked his combat robes, placing a gloved hand on his spellbook hooked to his waist. It thrummed with power, barely contained by the enchanted cover.

  The prisoner was trussed like a bog boar ready for slaughter and bound to the saddle of a mire salamander. The beast let out a trill, shaking its frilled head, as hands adorned in reinforced leather gloves prodded its flanks.

  Jade, the leader of Talon’s Talon, eyed her turtlekin companion. Jade smartly dressed, her sleeves rolled up and fastened around her elbows, exposing delicate tattoos of flowering water and reeds – a reflection of her swift nature. She checked her sleeve fasteners as she spoke to the trio’s tank.

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Haven–get it through your thick shell. Mire-manders are uneasy around lifts. If you send our prisoner stampeding over the edge, only to be smashed to death, before the boss has a chance to – entertain him. I’ll have your shell for a guardsman shield!”

  Thorn chuckled, adjusting her silver spell bracers, as she tucked her wings in tight against her grey-blue caster's robes. Haven fidgeted at the rebuke while clutching her shell pendant, a cherished family heirloom.

  Talon ignored his retinue; he trusted them more than any in the city, but he would never give any of them his complete confidence. They were competent and possessed a wide array of skills. They had made short work of tracking and detaining their captor – with a bit of help, of course – Talon smiled a duplicitous smile at that thought.

  As the lift halted in place and the rune barrier lowered, Talon stepped off, not bothering to look back. He spoke in a voice like a whipcrack, “I will interrogate our prisoner soon. I must see the Guild Council first. Make sure he is secure. I’ll not be embarrassed twice.”

  Jade took the reins from Haven, gently coaxing the beast of the lift, speaking over her shoulder, at her commander's silent steps.

  “Yes, Lord Commander.”

  Draven was apoplectic; he didn’t know what he was going to do!

  “Only three left.”

  Cursing his luck, he placed a rollie in his mouth; he hadn’t enjoyed one since the start of the battle. Draven, covered in gore, an enchanted duster stinking of troglodyte bile and faeces; if not washed soon, might never smell right. As he took a long, slow drag, even that was tainted, dreading the how and whys – inhaling nonetheless.

  “[Summon Circuleech], this is because of that snake; I know he had something to do with this.”

  Summons popped into existence, as Draven stretched them out of the air, one at a time, starting with a nasty gash along his neck.

  Thalgor did it again.

  He felt along his exposed skin for more cuts – to place his summons – as he wondered if he’d ever see Ren or DG again. He was in total darkness, sealed in the troglodyte’s throughway.

  His danger sense had flared, just in time for him to see Ren’s falling form. In a panic, he’d sealed himself in.

  Now he sat in total darkness, with no idea how to open the wall again. After close to an hour of scrabbling in the dark, searching high and low, he’d given up.

  As he worked his way down his legs, a dim light switched on overhead. Panic gave way to a chuckle as the familiar sounds of jets hummed to life.

  “How did you get in here, DG4?”

  A series of beeps and whistles and a flashing hull light. A pack landed at his feet, “Where did you–never mind, good work.”

  DG4 seemed to be developing some strange abilities, but Draven wasn’t sure. Spirit beasts could evolve; that was true, but still, only minor things. His mind wandered to Ren and what Thalgor – that good-for-nothing.

  Draven shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he fumbled with his rune-stick case, The Talon. Draven knew them well; there wasn't a soul in Murkspire who didn't—elite enforcers for the Spire, Talon's Talon.

  A shiver ran down Draven's spine before he banged his head against the stone, thumbing his finger runes, hoping against hope that whatever they were after, Ren would comply – a second escape attempt would be...As his summons finished up their work, he dispelled them one at a time, checking his wounds, “I thought a low-level master was after you, Ren, but – the Talon, what did you do?

  Draven popped some protein cubes into his mouth, chasing them down with water. He should have guessed at Ren's real trouble; his origins were too mysterious.

  “It looks like it’s you and me again, DG4, sorry about Ren.” DG beeped angrily at him, “I’m sorry, but – I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again. If we do, he may not be the same.”

  Draven pushed himself to a standing position, “I think we’ll need to head down the tunnel, unless–”

  DG’s hull lights grew as the dirigible spun into place over Draven's shoulder. Getting his first good look at his surroundings, he felt the walls tighten around him. This tunnel troggladite-sized – he’d have difficulty swinging his scythe here.

  The area where he stood was open to accommodate the false wall of the cavern. Using the light from DG, he scanned the rock for any signs of a switch or a mechanism. He couldn’t understand how the mutant beasts could have made something like this.

  He’d seen a meeting room once, on the upper levels of the artisans' guild. Panelled walls were depressed into seamless recesses, but that was the work of highly skilled crafters, using secrets passed down through generations. Here, the rock was seamless, and the trogglydes bore simple weapons and rotten shifts; “Mutants can’t have done this.”

  DG4 gave a low and foreboding moan.

  Draven put a stick in his lip, popped his duster's collar, and turned to face the only direction he could travel. He crouched as he started, the way winding before him vanished ahead. DG4 hovered low to the ground, jets thrumming quietly.

  Rune-sticks burned steadily, Dravens' only means of maintaining sanity. His back was tight, and his legs were burning. His sense of direction scrambled as he passed bend after bend. No marking or symbols to guide his way, tool marks on the walls were a constant reminder of what he might face at every turn. The air grew hot and stale once more as he descended deeper into the dungeon.

  Draven’s mind was on the edge; he’d stopped smoking, and even his collar lay flat. DG4’s cockpit lights dimmed, running in agitation.

  He came to a stop, crouching atop his heels. DG4 slowly turned to face him, “I’m sorry for making you, DG4. I had no choice – it was their last request.” DG's cockpit lights ran in reverse.

  Distant clacking like a thousand beetles in the night, a single long bray, a war cry. The silence of the tunnels behind them, mocking a promise of safety – until their dead end reached.

  “That sounds like there’s a higher ceiling from that direction, but also –” DG4 gave a short beep and whistle, finishing that thought.

  Draven glanced at the little dirigible, thinking that in a way, its creation had led him to this very moment. It was fitting then that they be here together, once again betrayed.

  The odd thing was, Draven felt alive now, more than he had in a long time. He couldn’t explain it; he hadn’t felt like this since – since when he and Thalgor were first oath-sworn. A sad smile crossed his face.

  “Our god sank for a reason, time to end this farce.” Rolling his neck, popping his collar, Draven ran crouched low; whatever was coming, he would die with scythe in hand, as his ancestors had.

  Thalgor had followed the Lord Commander and his retinue back to the city. He kept his distance, ashamed to speak and unable to look at Ren’s prone form. He’d done what he had to.

  “I thought we were free – I thought I was free.” If he ever saw Draven again – no, he was gone, trapped deep inside a nomad-ranked dungeon. Without the Lord Commander's help, he too would be trapped, lost to its dark recesses.

  The lord commander and his retinue had made short work of the dungeon mobs; most had stayed away, their levels deterring all but the–no, he didn’t want to think about those geometric – things. Memories of the four of them, standing around the cave art, playfully debating, if he’d known then, that that would be the last time, “If – when I see Ren again. I’ll apologise. He’ll understand.”

  Thalgor didn’t think he would. He didn’t really know his companion too well. He was beginning to think Draven was right–well, not starting, a part of him always thought Draven was right, “I’m a snake.”

  His satchel hung limp at his side, the top flap left open carelessly. His sandals dragged on the ground, carrying him across stone bridges, water lapping at the arches below, reminding him of his surroundings.

  The world had faded away; he didn’t think he could come back – this time. He stepped up to a faint hum pressing at the edges of his hearing, a shimmer of light, and the hum of an invisible boundary. The ground fell away before him. Thalgor could have been standing atop the Skycoil Mountains; he’d have been none the wiser.

  A ripple in the air, silence; telltale signs the lift had halted. Thalgor's body responded automatically. He stepped off, drifting to his destination. He was almost there. He hadn't known where he was going until he found himself on a doorstep–her doorstep, if anyone could make this matter, she could – this place would.

  The door swung wide, his eyes fixed on the floor, three long toes like a clover trailing up into a long, slender leg – scaled skin and elegant lines. She’d spent her life behind a cart–feathers stained in tea–yet her grace and beauty best described a dancer, contained in a queen. Feathers ruffled slightly, his gaze unable to meet hers.

  “Thalgor! How are you? Come in, come in. Have a seat. Let me get you some tea. Where have you been?”

  Churi fluttered to her other foot, gliding down the hallway, talking over her shoulder, as she led the way to her dining room. She had noticed his expression, or lack thereof; none could avoid it. Churi was a vendor – they knew people, regardless of their class or level; vendors were there for those in need – it was their calling and their creed.

  She knew why this orc had come, even if he did not – carried in his tone, posture, and gate. Churi pulled out a chair, her wing draping around its rounded back. Thalgor plopped down, as he stared absent-mindedly at her Celadon vase, resting where it always did, in the centre of her table. He loved seeing it, knowing how much pride Churi took in it. He knew what it was — a relic. He’d never pointed that out to her; he didn’t see a need, as she loved it so.

  The sounds of a fire crackled softly in the room. Churi returned, placing a cup of cobalt liquid before him; spinning its zani straw, so cobalt and cream swirled like smoke. He smiled, a genuine smile; to many angles of attack, Churi knew what she was about.

  “Thanks, Churi, I – it's been a while.”

  His hands swallowed the glass; he brought the straw to his lips. It was nonsensical, spiralling and zagging – its twists and bends, plotted by one of the school's children, Pryuuks' way of giving them some small purpose. Thalgor didn’t think it was a small purpose; in that moment, the simple joy was a balm to his tainted soul. Churi’s melodic voice. He looked up from tracking the rollercoaster of creamy cobalt. “Business has been bustling, I’m not sure why – it doesn’t matter, I can’t complain, we always need the coin, of course.”

  A door slammed somewhere, footsteps, an army of them. Thalgor started to curl in on himself, reflexively – eyes downcast. Children – those are children.

  Churi noticed – she gave no indication. Thalgor spoke, his voice small, innocent, “H-how are things? I haven’t been able to come since you first arrived.”

  She raised her head gracefully, neck stiff, stately – lightly ruffling her feathers, gliding to the window. Churi adjusted their runes; a low hum filled the air as the room’s light changed, its tones becoming more comforting. His question unanswered, the silence carried a weight, one he could not bear, “It must be nice – Pryuuk’s new school, I mean, it's so modern, and close to home, just a door away.”

  Churi lifted a leg, tucking it into the folds of her plumage. She adjusted her neck and beak into an S, the latter tipped down, in a regal expression, her crimson eye band, like a crown. Thalgor fidgeted, shifting his eyes back to the Celadon. “I umm – I don’t know what to do, Churi. I let some people down. I didn’t have any choice, this city–the guilds, well, you know how it is.”

  Churi’s laughter trilled – haunting, in the soft-lit room. Thalgor played with his straw, nervousness accentuated by her laughter, “Did I ever tell you where my Celadon came from?”

  The question eased his nerves, “Your vase, of course, passed down from your mother, and hers before, and so on, you never mentioned specific, but –”

  Hi-pitched chortles came in fits – laughter from her nose slits. A long, slender wing reached around to cover her face; runelight shone through the folds – she looked like a system’s blessed spirit to Thalgor in that moment, “You always did love artefacts, Thalgor. Even now, I can hear the excitement in your voice – I was referring, of course, to how it came to be, in my family's possession.”

  Thalgor sat straighter, ears perked up; the promise of knowledge related to an artefact’s origins had him reflexively reaching for his satchel. Churi folded her wing back, clasping her hands before her, as she continued, her laughter in check, “It was a gift from Celestra Wingwatcher – from Eldrin’s time, in the days before the first City Trees.” Thalgor slurped his straw, on the edge of his seat. Churi held her pose, a queen, with stories of legend, “She told my ancestor the Celadon had been her greatest discovery, found when she was still nomad rank, known only as Celest.”

  Thalgor’s eyes were glued to the vase; he only had more questions now, “Umm – what does it do?”

  Churi smiled, indicating the vase with her beak, “I first picked those lilies on the day Pryuuk and I were promised.”

  Thalgor gulped, his voice filled with reverence, “A preservation – such things are –”

  Churi strode over, all business now, to collect his empty cup. “The Keepers continue to push their Watch in both size and levels. It has the other guilds worried – it has us, the small folk, worried as well. I hope you're being careful, Thalgor."

  Thalgor nodded, setting his jaw. You don't have to worry, Churi, you're safe. "Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself. Are you sure everything is alright? Business is picking up? That's good, they must be over their grudge with you then." That takes a load off my mind. I was worried the Guild Council might push harder. Feeling more like himself, he stood. It was time to return to the Spire and see about Ren. Excusing himself with a bow.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Churi fluttered her wings, one last time, majestic and glowing in the window's light, “Your presence is always welcome here, Thalgor. Please, come again soon.”

  He smiled, calling his goodbyes down the hall as he closed the door; she hated it when he left it open. He didn’t want her angry with him the next time he saw her; it would be sooner, he resolved, and on better terms.

  Killing was easy, butchers did it every day, throat after throat, blood pooling hot and sticky. There was an art to it – swift and silent, so the prey didn’t know its death had arrived. Should there be a struggle, things would get messy, butchers knew it, and so did he.

  His true talents lie in a different area. He had his talon, if he needed a blade – or the guild's guard. No, he was terror. His work was complete, not with a blade across tender skin, but with his target on their knees – a film of despair in their eyes, excrement leaking down their leg, as they sold out their own children – death their only prize.

  Today was a special day; he had a human to work with. One hadn’t been seen in the Mire for centuries. Talon knew their flesh well, as he bore their guise, a gift from the system: {Creatro’s Guise}, his first ultra-rare, no simple illusion spell – he became the guise, down to muscle and sinew, their racial strengths, his own.

  Yes, Talon Koss was intimately familiar with humanity's talents, and soon –

  This human, from outside the Mire – they would be as well.

  Ren was enjoying himself – he looked around his new digs. No window this time, that sucked, but the lack of bathroom-straw in the corner was – “I think they might be planning to finish this quickly?" He was checking out his restraints, they’d doubled up this time – wrists and ankles. The material was luminous, almost otherworldly. “So cool, the stuff looks like it came off a spaceship. I wonder if they have spaceships here?”

  Yes, Ren was definitely having a good day. True, his death was, in all likelihood, imminent, and his chances of escaping were definitely in the realm of non-zero. Those facts couldn’t seem to keep Ren down; jovial would best describe his feelings at the moment. The robo-voice had delivered him some interesting notifications – its tone and speech patterns had shifted – again, he wondered if that was normal.

  Ren’s senses were sharp, a bit too sharp if you asked him. He could smell death and despair, hot and heavy in the air. The worst part was the sterile undertones, like someone had attempted to use rubbing alcohol and elbow grease to wash away the stench of a thousand rotting corpses. “My dog-like powers of the sniff – very un-chill right now.”

  Ren looked around the room, even lifting his sandaled feet, “Are there preserved corpses in the room with me? What is that smell?”

  It reminds me of all those troglodytes I butchered, "That was so cool! I was like some kind of – Um, what am I saying? I'm not – I don't."

  The candy. As Ren thought about the bloodshed, of killing huminoids, capable of speech and art. Their leader's spine popped beneath my heels, like crushed glass. He remembered intellectually the feeling, how it had been soul rending at the time. Now, he only felt joy. He was scared. At the time, he didn't want to fight the people, mutants though they may be. They hadn't even threatened him. Draven had just gone off half cocked. Why had he done that? "I shouldn't have taken the candy before the battle."

  Ren needed to escape, so he tried a skill, “[Electric Pace].” Nothing happened. Ren side-eyed the shackles, a sinking suspicion, “Hmm, definitely from a spaceship then.”

  Ren, eyes closed, arms limp in their shackles, relaxed against the wall. If his system-related abilities didn’t work, then he would just – the void was there, waiting. His core oscillating, felt – excited? He almost lost his concentration at that last thought. Ren was connected to everything – DG4 was there, just beyond, and he was safe.

  His core thrummed with power, eager to be released. He hummed a tune – it responded. Control came naturally to him. His mother had been teaching him the flow of music since before he could crawl. Music and energy, one and the same – she would have loved this place.

  He circulated energy around his body, increasing the vibrations – their pitch. Something odd was happening – the space chains stung his skin, as they resonated in time with his body.

  A gallows grin split his face.

  Which would shatter first, Ren’s bones or the chains?

  Ren awash in the void, chains cutting into his skin, blood leaking down his arms, his ankles – pooling on the floor. He needed more, faster, harder; his limits had not yet been reached. As he came up against them, the pain threatened to shatter his concentration. The speed of the energy coursing through him was nearly impossible to track; he was operating on instinct more than –

  As his entire body strained, pulling forward, a chain clattered to the ground, “Huh?” He leaned back, yanking the other chain from the wall.

  His eyes narrowed – kicking free, left foot first, then right. Releasing his connection to the void, his core slowed to an idle purr. Ren was free – almost; there was still a matter of the shackles and the limits they placed on him. He looked to the wall, where moments ago he’d been pinned—four empty holes encircled by glowing runes –

  Ren glanced from them to his chains...“[Electric Pace], [Super Anime].”

  A self-satisfied grin, Ren stood arms akimbo, “[Wrecking Ball].” It was time to do some redecorating in here; the vibes were all wrong.

  Talon had taken his time, savouring the tension, imagining the fear his prisoner was feeling; it was his favourite part – reality could never match it. He hoped today would be special – the day reality surpassed fantasy.

  He considered the techniques he might use, and more specifically, which ones would work best on a human’s physiology. They weren’t all together different from orcs or beastkin – but there were differences, not the least of which would be psychological.

  “Let's see, there's the Boggler’s Grin, the Croaking Noose, yes, although –”

  The Croaking Noose could get very messy after its last use – the cleaning staff had needed to be replaced, as they were unable to work for months afterwards. They were weak-willed, as servants are wont to be. Be that as it may, he would need something a bit more – contained, the Festerleaf Wrapping should do nicely.

  “Clean and clever – perfect, but I’ll need some components.”

  Talon made a detour, exiting to the servant’s wing – faded, muck-covered runes marked their floor.

  “Of course, the peasants can’t be bothered to clean their own filth. Lazy through and through.”

  The floor had few window or lamp, no trouble for Talon, deftly stepping around a patch of sickly yellow mold growing on the dimly lit floor. He found his enchanted boots didn’t react well with the stuff, a flaw in their creation if he’d ever heard of one.

  “Perhaps I should find a different enchanter to work with – a magical artisan might be better – Jade mentioned a young up-and-coming journeyman sandler…”

  Talon paused in front of the apothecary, rapping succinctly on the door's warped ashwood frame, as he mused on the pros and cons of sandals versus boots. The door creaked open after a short delay.

  “Lord Commander, how might this humble shopkeep assist you today?”

  Talon never liked this particular frogkin – not that he preferred any; this one was only a few hops from the swamp as far as he was concerned. Ignoring the Apothecary’s tone – for now, Camo Nettlethorn, as he was known, would answer for his crimes of cadence one day. For Talon, it was a short hop from mockery to outright defiance.

  Talon let out a low, raspy hiss at his own joke – Camo spoke up.

  “Lord Commander? Is there – riiB, anything on my face?”

  Talon’s human tongue flicked out, wetting his lips. He was enjoying the frog's discomfort. Camo’s yellow blotches had visibly paled as he croaked out that last question. Talon cocked his head before speaking.

  “I’m going to need Festerleaf, as much as you have on hand, sage moss, and two phials of bog dragon's blood – and that Festerleaf better be fresh.”

  Their fear could be – distracting, at times, Talon mused, his speech interrupted as he stared unblinking, before continuing.

  “I’ll have your hide if there's another repeat of the Kettering incident.”

  Camo’s neck ballooned as he licked his eye, observing the Lord Commander’s predatory stance.

  “Any particular breed of bog dragon, riiB – milord.”

  Talon lowered his chin, deliberately.

  “You know that doesn’t matter, Camo. Any more superfluous questions, and you won’t be able to hop right for a month. Charge it to the Guild Council, I’m about their business.”

  A huge vein pulsed in Talon's neck. Camo’s eyes were drawn to it like a fly on a lily pad. The frokin’s neck bulge collapsed as he croaked.

  “R – riiB, superfluous, mi Lo –”

  Talon saw himself biting the head off the frog, the spurting of green blood, and the tearing of the patterned flesh, the last sounds he would ever have to endure from this –

  Camo, the weight of Talon's aura bearing down on him, hopped back one time.

  “I’ll get right on it, Lord Commander. Wont be a moment.”

  Talon, Lord Commander, [Eldrin’s Chosen], left the servants' quarters eager to live out his fantasies; even as a new fantasy spawned in the corners of his mind – that insulant Apothecary was next. Talon paused as his eardrums quivered; his facial form flickering, defensively. “What is –The prisoner!" Dropping his sack, the contents spilling onto the ground, phials rolling and powder spraying, he bolted up the stairs, two and three at a time – fingers flat and his arms pumping,

  “OH, no, you don’t. Not aga –” The spire shook – Talon stumbled, leaning into the stairwell. A look of surprise crossed his face, his chin lifted, his body frozen.

  A thing of action, Talon, shook his head, spinning his spellbook to his back hip – steps fell away beneath him, a combat dagger ejected into his palm, “[Haste], [Enrage], [Eldrin’s Gift]!” The walls blurred into a stream of tiles and rune-marks. Talon’s patience was gone. He would have answers, and he would have them now.

  A wood-iron door – just ahead. Talon leapt, legs outstretched; heels first – a battle cry on his lips, “Keepers Wrath Upon You!”

  Wood and iron splintered, the door flew away – landing on the far side of the room. Talon rolled behind it, up on one knee, his hands wide, dagger ready to strike – he lifted his gaze, a snarl on his lips.

  A distant speck on the horizon, seen through a human-sized hole, like the twinkling of a distant star.

  The Lord Commander raged; a certain frogkin Apothecary hastily packed their bags.

  As Ren crashed through the lower canopies, arms and legs wide, a flying squirrel, teeth bared, a child's smile, he congratulated himself, "AM SHOO KOOL." His words came out barely intelligible. Ren laughed at himself. He sounded like he was talking into a fan! As the swamp rushed up to meet him, Ren attempted to activate his levitation, "SHOOPA ANEENA!"

  Ren had a single thought before he impacted the water: – Oops.

  A cluster of murk toads, known for their armoured hides and sturdy constitutions, lounged on a slimy log somewhere in the Shamanic Pools. This particular log had existed for centuries, a well-known spot – the baddest toads around, routinely gathered and vegged; enjoying a mana-rich frock of willow reeds, capable of producing the juiciest blood fly larvae this side of the Stonecoil Docks.

  Princes of the pool, they relied on teamwork, communication, and sheer force of will to hold down Log Force One, as it was colloquially known. Bud, the meanest of the team, experimentally extended his tongue’s bulbous tip, loosening up the ol’ slip and grip; Cyclops, their lookout, licked his eye – he always kept it as moist as a tadpole’s tail. Stumpy – who could hear the vibrations of a larva’s head breaking the surface, at a dozen tongue lengths – cocked his head; his companions, trusting his ear-holes, swivelled their eyes in his direction.

  The coast was clear. Whatever it was, it had not to do with them. Communication and teamwork were essential, and trust was absolute; the great game was at hand.

  No sooner had they returned to their assignments – there it was again; this time, all three cocked their heads in unison, a silent nod of understanding. Rotating on their log, feet lifting, they waddled in place – something was coming.

  Five eyes swivelled, movement in the lower canopy, sounds like a dying wyrmback; a missile broke through, headed straight for their home pond. Surely their eyes deceived them; a bald orc was frog-hopping from the sky, belly first – insanity!

  Mire toads knew well the dangers of the belly flop; it was their signature dive. Five eyes tracked Ren, chains flailing behind him, as he shouted into the wind – right up until the moment he impacted the water, with a sound like the first peals of thunder.

  History was made that day. Young toadlings would pass on the legends of the Fabulous Flop, long after the last of the willow reeds dried up and the blood fly larvae gurgled no more.

  A single oversized bubble rose to the surface of the Shamanic Pools. It held its form before it was joined by its smaller companions, who popped and rippled on the surface like a geyser of pain and suffering. Blades of hair soon followed, once proud and strong, a testament to decades of cartoon legacy – now, flat, sad, beaten, and humiliated. Today would not be their last; they refused to give up, propelling their owner towards the shore. Their efforts rewarded, as it was occupied this day, a gaff reached out to snag Ren’s prone form.

  Ren was wondering if they had aloe vera in a swamp. And if the system or a skill – or, if anything, even a mythical troll god might be able to enhance the plant. He was pretty sure he was going to need aloe – grown in mana from heaven and purified in fairy tears, their civilisation long dead and forgotten, its final purpose to cure his cherry tummy flesh.

  No, it didn’t matter; he’d never recover from this, it didn’t matter the mana power, or system shenanigans – his life was over. He was just going to lie here and drown to death. The problem, and he realised there was more than one, as he was pulled like a wet towel across the surface of the water – he didn’t need to breathe, he was sure he did, just not that often – apparently.

  Ren didn’t care. He was going back to the Spire, he was going back and apologising, he shouldn’t have run, he –

  “What is it, Honey?”

  “I think it's a dead Orc child, sometimes, they have pink skin like that, at birth.”

  “Then why is it so big – and, are those mithril chains?”

  “I don’t know why, my delicate flower, but we should be careful, mithril is the only metal that floats, he must be prisoners of –”

  “Ohh nonsense, Lyle – here let me.”

  There was pain, glorious, all-consuming pain. Ren had known pain, laughed at it, cried for it, even revelled in it – at times.

  But this – this was different. Bearkin’s paws, like well, bear paws, were padded. That pad was squishy like things that went squish. The thing about pads, as any pet owner knows, is that they are a real one-directional kind of thing. And if you, for instance, do a very beastkin sort of thing, and try to pick someone in need up out of a pool where they are lying face down and drowning to death, then those pads might pull in the wrong –

  “AHHHHHHH!”

  SHIING!

  [The Beat Must Go On - > The Beat Must Go on II]

  “Did he just counter level?”

  “My little bundle of sugar yams, what – what did you do?”

  Mirabella Grizzlewood chuffed at the implication, tossing the unconscious and oversized baby orc over her shoulder, like a sack of bok rice, chains in tow, dragging in the mud.

  “Shush, Lyle. I dare say this little guy has been through it. You know my motto, ‘Always be prepared for a shamanic ritual. ’”

  Lyle growled, shouldering his gaff; he knew exactly what that meant. He was going to be scrubbing all her best totems and prayer beads late into the night. He showed his fangs in a smile, thinking about how attractive she looked dancing around her totemic circle, “I’ll get the scented candles, dear, this one stinks.”

  Her appearance was commanding as steam rolled from her mouth in the crisp aether. Totems around her, ancient and proud – a gift from mother to daughter, handed down through the centuries.

  Busy noises of the swamp played in the background, an orchestra of the small and slimy – Shamanic Pools bathed in steam – muffled sound here, while amplifying it there. Eyes from high in the trees looked down, their whites glowing in the fullness of the night. The air was still and heavy, sweet with decay and thick with heat.

  Mirabella was kitted out. She stood inside her ritual circle, its totems glowing like the last embers of a fire. She lowered her head, with a chuff, –gout of steam – rolled around her headdress, a duskwings skull. Arms at her sides, florets hung down – stilled in the aether.

  Outside the totemic ring, the swamp waited, baited breath – suddenly, like a striking snake, she flowed like water. Florets streaming after the movements in her arms – up on one leg, arms to the side outstretched, she held her pose, florets dangled – Mirabella was a hunting raptor.

  She dove, the spirits of her ancestors cried out, Mirabella jumped and kicked, scissoring her leg paws in a fan overhead, claws out, the talons of a beast – skidding to a halt, claws rending the earth.

  A roar split the night sky, Mirabella’s snout raised, the shadow of a duskwing cast upon the ground. In the centre of it all, Ren lay prone, chains rattling; he twitched in agony – internal organs ruptured, like rotten fruit, dropped on stone.

  Mirabella soared and she dove – flipping and kicking, pausing to shake the ground with her voice – the aether around Ren condensed – his chest glowing with the light of a sun.

  Mirabella came down on all fours, cracking the ground, foam and spittle flying from her maw, lips peeled in a dragon's roar. Ren’s eyes shot wide, his body lifted as if by an invisible string. Other worldly chains sprang to life, looping and snapping – a pit viper's ghostly visage overlaying their mettle.

  Mirabella gasped, collapsing onto her belly. The chains swayed, leaving after-images in the air. Stopping, they fixated on the power burning in Ren's chest. They struck. Ren jerked, arching his back as fangs sank into his core, draining their essence – strands of toxic emerald light into Ren.

  Ren was aware of it all, [The Beat Must Go On II], holding his mind in place, as the ethereal beast wrapped their mithril body around him. Unconsciousness was denied him as he was constricted and splayed out – until the luminous metal broke his skin, flaying him like some macabre experiment as every inch of organ, bone, and skin was wrapped in mithril.

  The worst was yet to come, as Ren's core overflowed with power, creating a feedback loop. The chains, unable to contain the power, began to melt, their mercurial form bonding to Ren in gouts of sizzling flesh and organ, as his bones cracked, they too drank in the liquid metal of legend. The viper’s body dissolved, leaving only a head, eyes still glowing with spirit mana, as they injected the last of it, a tiny chink in Ren’s core, broke, and like a dam, his core erupted out in a shower.

  In the moment of deepest despair. Core shattered, body shredded. Time slowed for Ren as he wept. The light had reached his eyes; he knew what had happened. But he knew what came next.

  The drop.

  It was just over the event horizon.

  Not today, a gallows grin split his face; he lived for moments like these.

  Ren's mind slipped into the void; he needed time, an infinity would do. These pieces of his core spinning off into oblivion were of him, their sounds his own. Ren's decks shimmered into existence, his fingers flicked and twisted as they crawled across his board, their gestures alien and swift.

  Entropy reversed, as if time moved backwards, shattered core fragments

  Ren was soaked in sweat; the mithril chains were gone, their material absorbed into Ren's organs and skin. His eyes, incapable of tracking the flow of time, the pieces of his core, closed. Entropy reversed, Ren's core reforming in the air, drawing back into his chest. Somewhere in the background, a totem cracked, with a sound like thunder.

  It was over. Ren collapsed back onto the table, his body whole, his soul intact. Lyle blinked from his butt, and Mirabella smiled, her chin on the ground.

  Ren rolled off the table, projectile tar shooting from his mouth, oozing from his pores, from his every – orifice.

  On the upside, Rens' pink belly was cured

  I love this story and its world. I'm in it for the long haul, trying to improve every day. Please rate, follow, and comment — it truly means the world to me.

  You can support my work on my Patreon listed below. I’m only asking for a one-time donation at this time(a baby one, barely enough for a cup of coffee), as I get on my feet. But you can join for free either way, and gain access to the story's private Discord channel, and eventually vote on future chapters. I will reward those early members who show faith in my story and my will to write with a lifetime membership to my storytelling.

  https://patreon.com/prometheusrites_?utm_medium=unknown&utm_source=join_link&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=copyLink

  It would bring joy to my heart and fill my fingers with strength if you would post your fan art to my Instagram, with a link to the story on RR!

  https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/133810/rhythms-of-fate