The Tablet landed on the ground beside the bed with a thud, its projection flickering away just like both their pretensions of restraint. At first, it was no more than Zefaris acting out in an attempt to regain some sort of control, perhaps to try and establish dominance even, and her musclebound counterpart did little to impede that. She explored every trail of silver-inlaid skin, every inch of rock-hard muscle, and even as her hands went places she hadn’t intended them to, Zelsys maintained that aura of unassailable smugness, wordlessly goading her to try and break the facade, and… With her ring and index fingers in the right place and a thumb a little further up, a small motion elicited a brief twitch and an utterly uncharacteristic yelp out of the towering beast-slayer.

The facade slipped for but a moment and she was right back to that insufferable smirk, but Zefaris wasn’t blind or deaf. She heard Zelsys breathing more heavily, saw her face flushing red and her fingers briefly grasping the damp bedsheet as her nipples stood on end. She felt the wetness surrounding her fingers as she slowly worked them in a well-practiced motion, her gaze locked to Zel’s, their bodies pressed together.

“Come closer,” Zel commanded in a breathy whisper, chest heaving with every breath she took. Snow-white skin slithered against chocolate-bronze as she shifted in place, and soon she was staring into those silver eyes at point-blank. Silver Fog rolled out of Zel’s half-open mouth like smoke. Before she knew it they had locked lips, her lungs filled with Fog that banished what few inhibitions she had left and amplified the senses tenfold.

Every touch, every movement, every probe of Zel’s tongue in her mouth was felt more clearly than she had ever felt anything before. Zefaris lost herself to the Fog-breather when she felt the fingers of one hand in her hair, just as the other slipped between her legs.

The concepts of personal boundaries and even time itself melted away in their Fog-drunk, lustful stupor. As far as they were concerned the world was this room and them, and they took great care in exploring as they pushed each other over the edge again and again in a bizarre contest of endurance. Zel’s Fog-breathing eventually filled the room with Fog so thoroughly that merely breathing at all renewed the Fog-drunk state, and in their intoxication fingers gave way to tongues, legs locked around each other's head. By the end of the night, their mutual understanding of one another’s bodies was more thorough than many people’s understanding of their own would ever be.

He had done it. He had to weather some slurs and act far less patriotic than he was, but he had done it. Makhus had secured a rental contract of Riverside Remedies, and with money to spare from the down payment!

Stepping into the inn and turning his gaze towards their table, he saw first and foremost Sigmund’s bearded visage smiling back at him, mug in hand as the bearded historian continued to slowly and methodically inch closer towards drunkenness. He took a seat, silently drinking as he mentally checked out to get some of the stress of kowtowing to bureaucrats out of his system. They caught him up on the situation, though he was so mentally exhausted from even this short errand that he had to repeat the information in his head to make sure he remembered who would get which room.

He wasn’t exactly paying attention to the exchange that took place between Sigmund and Zefaris, but he got the general gist of it. “I’m gonna hit the sack a lil’ early,” he excused himself when he felt the liquor settling, rising to his head.

“G’night,” Sigmund rumbled. “I’ll finish this pitcher n’ do the same.”

Key in hand up the stairs he went, but something gave him pause when he passed by the room numbered four - the same number on the key that the barkeep gave to Zefaris. He briefly heard strange noises from beyond the door, and thought that the two might be fighting when he noticed thin, mostly-dissipated strands of Fog creeping under the door. Makhus stopped and listened, ear against the door, readying himself to bust in there to pry them apart in case they really were fighting.

There were certain techniques he could use without uttering a single word, and among these was a technique that had saved his life many times. “S.S.S.S. Arts: Auditory Enhancement!” he thought.

With just a small amount of Rubedo, he could hone one of his senses to a bleeding edge - one sharp enough that, even through a door as thick as this, he clearly heard noises that were rather clearly not the result of violence, or at least not of the combative variety. He did his best to wipe the memory of the sounds he heard as he quietly stalked away from the door and towards number five. Alas, he soon made the choice to take a bath when he realized he could still occasionally hear a moan through the solid brick wall.

A long bath. At least long enough for the effects Auditory Enhancement to wear off.

Makhus quickly set the heat dial to thirty-nine, locked the bathroom door, shed his clothes, and sat in the bath. Even with the flowing water ringing out against the tub’s copper body, he could still hear them, just barely. And so… He took to singing to himself, reaching for the sponge and soap-stick to begin cleansing himself, both of physical and mental filth.

The first song that came to mind was one that had been drilled into every single Ikesian soldier through constant, relentless repetition during boot camp. “Here's the story of Ikesia, a land both fair and great...” he sang, rubbing the soap shavings into the sponge before he began to scrub his hands and forearms, moving up. “United by one wise man, an Independent State. This was much against the wishes of certain governments, whose leaders tried to break us down and make us all repent…”

Eventually, the steam that filled the bathroom and his own lack of focus on maintaining the technique allowed it to fade away much faster than it otherwise would, and he continued scrubbing away while quietly humming the melody of that song, just in case something loud enough to be heard by the naked ear happened. Something as mundane as this wouldn’t have phased him at all in any other circumstance, but the fact he had unwittingly eavesdropped somehow made him feel filthy, dishonorable even.

The sun was high up in the sky. The townsfolk milled about on the street. Makhus and Sigmund had been awake for a good three hours now, invigorated by the first time they had slept in proper beds in a long, long time. The two men were busy running errands, buying cleaning supplies and taking the first steps to preparing Riverside Remedies for re-opening.

Meanwhile, in room four…

Zelsys slowly, ever so slowly drifted into consciousness. Confusion briefly washed over her as she felt the touch of skin that clearly wasn’t her own, the weight of another’s head on her chest, the feeling of another’s legs tangled with hers. The spark of waking flickered into a flame. She remembered, and a smile crept onto her face as she reached up to run her fingers through that platinum hair.

She’d been wrong to call the one-eyed markswoman a coward. Zef stirred and let out a half-awake groan, slowly, ever so slowly reaching her hand out from under the covers and towards her face, briefly stroking her cheek. She wound her hand back and Zelsys braced herself expecting a slap, but it never came.

Zefaris just reached behind her head, pulling herself up by the bed’s headboard to plant a sudden, aggressive kiss on her lips. Once the brief moment of surprise passed, she melted into it, closing her eyes once again.

“You win,” the cyclops uttered when she finally pulled away. “My legs are still numb.”

Zelsys couldn’t help but chuckle at that, still running her fingers through that off-white hair, jokingly asking, “You sure you won’t need me to carry you to the bathroom?”

“Fuck you,” Zef said jokingly.

“Fuck me yourself,” Zel responded.

“Later. Don’t you have a beast-slaying contract to fulfill?”

“...I do,” Zel murmured, scanning the room for any sort of clock. There was one right on the wall above the window. Eleven thirty-seven. “Oh. It’s almost noon.”

She had intended to depart very early in the morning, early enough to kill the beast shortly after sunrise, but in hindsight… It probably wouldn’t be too much of an issue to do it in broad daylight.

She shifted into a more upright sitting position, stretching. Her trousers were in a crumpled mess by the bed, but it was no bother - the half-wrapped roll of bandages that she used to bind her chest waited on the nightstand, and she used it precisely for its purpose.

First a new pair of makeshift underwear to hold her over until she could find a tailor, next the chest wrappings, then the long process of braiding her hair. By the time she was halfway through the first braid, she felt Zefaris shifting, soon followed by the feeling of her fingers in her hair. She said nothing, silently working on the second braid. Once the braids were finished and bound together, the markswoman just sank back under the covers with a quiet utterance of “You’re welcome.”

Next came her trousers, boots, the arm-harness, the cleaver in its holster… The Tablet. “Where’d I…” she wondered, and the memory instantly sparked into her mind. It fell off the other side of the bed, and indeed, there it was. It came alive at her touch, showing the exact screen it was on when she last let go of it.

TECHNIQUES Fog-breathing Beast Butchering Arts

An absent-minded tap on the former as she turned to walk to the bathroom. There was a single unnamed technique in that category, with the option to give it a name glowing beside it.

Unnamed Breathing Technique Name Technique

The name flickered the moment she laid her eyes up on it, a brief wave of warm buzzing spilling through her hand when it changed.

Lover’s Breath

A small chuckle escaped her at that, silenced by a realization when she crossed into the bathroom. The tub was half-full, most of the bath salt phials were empty, and the ground was still littered with the wilted poppy flowers that she had stuck into her braids on the way here. “Explains the lack of residue,” she thought, allowing a smirk to spread over her face while she browsed the Tablet’s Fog Storage in search of a toothbrush. It wasn’t very far down in the alphabetically sorted list.

x74 Ikesian Dental Hygiene Ration

She retrieved two, placing one at the edge of the sink for Zef to use later before she took to brushing the taste of morning breath and sex out of her mouth, the taste of bitter mint soon overwhelming both. A part of her wanted to explore the town, to visit whichever of its shops were still open and maybe buy something, but she quickly snuffed it out. She would have more than enough time to do all of these things and more - once the payout and the beast’s Azoth were safely in her possession.

What if another beast-slayer tried to snatch the quarry out from under her nose? After all, the posting could very well still be on the board in plain view. A roll of the shoulders, a splash of water on the face, and out the door she went, taking care to not make too much noise as she made her way to the ground floor. The inn was half-filled with a nearly equal distribution of the old and the young, and both groups shot her strange looks when she passed by to head to the bar.

Shopping and exploring the town could wait, but hunger could not. A knock on the counter and a call of “Ey, barkeep!” was all it took to call the humanoid manifestation of positivity out of the kitchen, his smile shifting ever so slightly at the sight of her.

“Late sleeper, huh? I take it you want to have breakfast ‘fore you deal with the beastie,” he accurately predicted as he dusted his hands off on his apron.

Zelsys gave a nod, asking, “What’s on offer?”

“I’ve got meat pie and mashed potatoes with gravy sauce two gelt a portion, or fish chowder one gelt a bowl,” he offered, his eyes glimmering with a strange knowing spark. “Drink of the day is cider, got couple barrels in just this morning. Same price as ale.”

She couldn’t help but stare him down for a little longer than was normal, nonverbally questioning. He broke after just a few seconds of this little staring contest, reassuring that, “I ain’t hear nothing. Thanks for helping me find a leak in the insulation with that Fog of yours, though. Now what’ll it be?”

A small chuckle escaped her at that. “I’ll have the chowder and a mug of cider,” she chose, reaching for her Tablet and retrieving two coppers. Her breakfast arrived as quickly as the barkeep could power walk in and out of the kitchen, and to no surprise at all, the soup was obviously just the main course from yesterday recycled. He swiped the two coppers off the counter, and left to attend to other customers.

Upon actually eating a few spoonfuls, Zel found herself pleasantly surprised by the fact that it actually wasn’t as she thought at first. It had the same type of fish and similar herbs, but that was where the similarities ended. The cider was as any good cider should be, fruity, light, and refreshing, what little alcohol it contained barely noticeable. In a few minutes she had banished her hunger and left the inn, with the intent of making her way down the street towards the very gate through which they had entered the town.

However, something distracted her. When she stepped out onto the street, she heard a somewhat distant voice bellowing out to what sounded like a small crowd, down the street in the same direction she was going. The source of the noise soon came into view - a heavily scarred, rugged looking Ikesian man, sat atop a suitcase with a five-stringed acoustic instrument in his hands. Not quite a banjo, not quite a sitar, and not quite a lute, but rather some strange elongated amalgamation of the three. He idly plucked away at the metallic strings, noodling a melancholic melody as he adjusted his tool’s many tuning pegs. At his feet, there sat a large drum that reached up to his knee, a steady pounding rhythm emanating from it with each tap of his foot.

Zel’s curiosity drove her to come closer, to mingle with the crowd and observe the street performer up-close. He wore a loose, beige-colored cotton shirt and patchwork, dirty-green trousers in the Ikesian military style, held up by suspenders. A single double-pupiled eye sat in his left eye-socket, its pupils the same unnatural emerald-green as pure Viriditas, while where his right eye had once been there was just a gaping hole of scar tissue marked by an unnaturally even cross-shaped scar, some sort of brass medallion in the shape of a rune plugging the hole left by the absence of the optic nerve. Though at first his facial hair seemed to be cut into a strange pattern, it wasn’t so - his face was, in fact, covered in perfectly symmetrical scars that forced his facial hair to grow in this pattern, as if his cheeks had been scored by a man made replica of a bear’s claws in a cross-hatched pattern.

The crowd was the expected mixture of young and old, of Ikesians and Grekurians, but there were a few standouts. A few fighting-age adults, all well-dressed and clearly well-off enough to have avoided the draft, and a few soldiers in uniform that stuck together and stood out like sore thumbs. Their skin was light yellow, their faces round, and their eyes tilted and exceptionally narrow - one of them looked like he was perpetually squinting. They carried clean, well-maintained wheellock rifles and slim, straight shortswords.

They chattered amongst themselves in a melodic tongue that she couldn’t understand, much to the audible annoyance of the Grekurian bystanders. The Ikesians didn’t seem particularly happy about these foreigners either, but they kept quiet, averting their gazes and mostly focusing on the performer.

After a few minutes passed, the performer seemed pleased with the tuning of his instrument and began playing a loose, but clearly practiced melody, taking a deep breath in the first few seconds.

“So go and kneel in wait, and join the herd...” the man sang, patriotism dripping from each word. His words resounded with a superhuman volume, echoing through Willowdale’s streets and shaking the cobbles under the audience’s feet, and the brass plug in his eye began glowing a faint orange as wisps of red Fog rose from the empty socket.

“You know a million sheep will be dispersed, by one dragon’s roar… By one dragon’s roar...”

The man’s voice seemed to snap, his face wracked with a cocktail of emotions. Anger, resentment, physical and emotional pain both, patriotism. His single eye snapped from face to face, burning holes into each and every bystander regardless of race as he continued playing, taking another deep breath before he belted out another verse.

“Either step aside for every god knows, everything will crumble under his blows! You think yourselves weak, pathetic and overrun, that all you’ve bled for is now coming undone!”

What was singing quickly became a shouting declaration, the man’s eye exclusively looking to the Ikesians who made up over half of the crowd. He took another breath and repeated the first verse, with twice the intensity as before.

“So go and kneel in wait, and join the herd! You know a million sheep will be dispersed, by one dragon’s roar, by one dragon’s roar!”

There was a brief break in the singing after that, his strange eye-ornament’s glow dimming as he muttered some sort of prayer. Another breath. Another roar-sung verse. The foreign soldiers were becoming visibly upset, as were some of the other audience members. In the former case, they were visibly angry and yelling, while in the latter, they seemed merely shocked by the raw intensity of the performance, or perhaps the performer’s sheer audacity.

He wasn’t saying it outright, but they all knew what he was really singing about, and who the song was for.

“Oh you go out there, and bow to none! And cause a stir, as if it were the last one. Curse them into hiding, these thieves who won’t believe the way we’re riding!”

Another brief pause. Another breath. Another repeat of the first verse, a part of the audience now joining in on the chant. The chorus of voices grew as the singer repeated that very verse, three times, four times, five times. By the time the noise died down, his chest was heaving with heavy breaths and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. The glow faded from the brass ornament, he recited that same prayer again, and in a moment…

The intensity was gone. He had calmed himself in an instant, as if taking off a mask. The breathing technique, the strange prayer… Something told Zel that he was using some sort of technique to entrance himself into such a performative state. But she wouldn’t have time to contemplate or question, for the foreign soldiers had had enough.

“This is ridiculous! Bold-faced political provocateur!” the yellow-skinned soldiers yelled in anger, their words crystal-clear and surprisingly devoid of accent. A few of the people in the crowd gave them dirty looks, but none dared intervene - at least, none of the Ikesians. Surprisingly, one of the Grekurians did, a musclebound, immaculately-dressed mountain of a bronze-skinned man.

“Shut your mouth, cat-eater,” he growled. “Willowdale is a sovereign city-state under Grekurian protection, and unlike your feudalistic hellhole, we don’t persecute artists here.”

The soldier that spoke out loudest spat at the Grekurian’s feet, uttering an insult in that sing-song language of his. The Grekurian stepped up, towering over him by a full head. He said something in the very same language as the foreign soldiers, grinning as they shrank back at the realization that he understood their insults.

“Try something,” he continued, courtesy dripping from his words like poisoned honey as he bent down to stare the soldier in the eyes at point-blank. “I’d love to see you locust-men give us political justification to liberate some of those tribes you’ve been using for slave labor.”

One of the three barked something in their native language, and though she would have otherwise been more than happy to participate in such commotion were she directly involved, Zel chose to slink away before she could be made to involve herself. A brisk walk towards the town gate quickly took her out of earshot of the argument, and to the gate. There weren’t any guards on this side, and so she just approached the small door and tried to pull it open. It wouldn’t budge. A couple good bangs made the eye slot slide open, a pair of pale blue eyes squinting from the other side.

“Haven’t seen you before, mind explainin’ yerself?” the man on the other side questioned, but his counterpart quickly shut him up with nothing more than a hushed whisper.

“She’s the one that beat the daylights outta the governor’s son!” the other one muttered, half excited and half fearful. They shut the slot and opened the door, nervously waving her on through. If she remembered the briefing correctly, she’d have to walk a few dozen meters down the road, and then step onto one of the dirt roads that connected the fields…

Uncertain, Zel took out her Tablet and used the record function to refresh her memory. She had, indeed, remembered correctly. Whilst she walked, she took the time to check the other category of techniques. This one held more than the Fog-breathing category - three in total. These too were unnamed, and their names too flickered in.

Staggering Shot Beheading Saw Heartbreaker

She didn’t even bother trying to check the techniques’ details, as the names alone were enough to infer their moments of creation, though she did wonder how exactly destroying the Necrobeast’s heart would translate to creatures whose hearts weren’t inside tempered alchemic flasks.

In fact, she was just curious how using techniques would work in general, how it would be any different from doing whatever action created them. Zel’s mind continued to wander in this direction for a short while as she herself wandered down the road, only broken out of this trekking trance by the realization that she had nearly passed the dirt path she was supposed to take.

Through the fields she walked, her path flanked on either side by dried-up canals - now full of poppy flowers and the scraps of war, from discarded shot-through helmets to war knives too damaged to have been salvaged. The thought of bringing a few poppies back for Zef crossed her mind, to see the cyclops’ reaction. She wasn’t even sure if such a thing would get a rise out of her, after last night. Then again, even if it didn’t, she would be able to use the poppies as a jumping-off point for something.

Daydreaming about all the ways she could tease the markswoman turned out to be a rather easy pastime to get lost in. Zel shook her head to banish this train of thought, as she was nearing the field where the beast was supposedly seen most often. At first glance, the field looked completely normal - a solid perimeter of maize, stretching so tall as to tower even above her head.

Stepping into the field, though, revealed a far different image. She found herself in a small, near-perfectly circular clearing of stomped down stalks, reddish-brown splotches of dried blood staining the dessicated yellow. Small gaps in the corn led into two other clearings such as this, and after briefly considering walking straight into the corn, she chose to follow the one to the right. Her gut told her it would be unwise to step into the thick of the maize.

A smaller clearing, barely five meters across, bone fragments strewn about on the ground. In the center there sat a large flat-topped rock, upon which there sat a large bone, picked free of flesh. Zelsys didn’t have much knowledge of human anatomy, but even she could tell this was a femur. Some whole bones could be seen strewn about on the ground The maize stalks around it were worn down to the dirt, as if someone - or something - had spent much time sitting in the same spot. For no reason in particular, Zel took hold of her gun’s trigger lever and reached for her cleaver’s handle.

There was no gut feeling, her instincts weren’t screeching, but still, she wanted to be cautious. Clearly, this was where the beast ate, but why would it have a specific clearing for eating? It was just a mindless beast, after all.

Back to the larger clearing and through the other opening in the maize. Another circular clearing, smaller than the first but larger than the second, perhaps ten meters across. There was much blood splattered across the ground, dry to the point of near-blackness. No corpses. Either the beast was less lethal than the barkeep suggested, or it left nothing more than bone fragments behind.

Perhaps it ate those too, just more slowly. Zel’s gaze darted from one end of this clearing to the other. Something was off - the crickets were silent. Then, the Fog rolled in - a reddish-silver haze that sat low to the ground, the metallic stench of blood filling her nostrils. By the flow of the Fog, the source would have to be… Directly behind her.

There came a barely-audible rustling of corn, followed by equally silent footfalls, and somehow, she still didn’t get that gut feeling, as if she wasn’t in any immediate danger. Soon, she heard the beast’s heavy breathing, its teeth clicking and drool dripping as it murmured to itself. Maybe it hadn’t noticed her yet. Maybe, she could get the jump on it by pretending she had fallen for its ambush.

It murmured and murmured, approaching with slow, deliberate steps, perfectly even, perfectly silent even on a floor of sun-dried maize. Zel took a breath, filling her lungs as quietly as she could in an attempt to not arouse any suspicion. Fortunately, the Fog sat low enough to the ground that her inhalation didn’t visibly disturb it. She felt the invigoration that always came with a breath of Fog spread through her body, her senses amplified to the point where she could make out what the beast was muttering. It wasn’t just the meaningless chattering of teeth, but rather a barely-audible monologue.

“So hungry, so cold… Need to eat… Eat humans... Quincy said he would send dinner…” it rambled to itself in a comforting tone. It spoke as if it were trying to convince itself into following advice that its animalistic urges pushed against, audibly trying to hold onto scraps of humanity with splintered fingers.

The beast’s inhumanly hot breath washed over her like a curtain, the smell of blood so intense it nauseated. Even still, she felt no fight or flight instinct.

“Oh, there you are,” it said warmly. “My apologies, my eyes aren’t quite what they used to be. Eating my eyelids was a regrettable decision, I must admit. Did… Did Quincy send you? The barkeep with delicious fingers?”

Its words bubbled from its throat in a bizarre manner, its tongue clearly not suited to such refined speech, and yet there it was, speaking as cordially as any well-educated citizen. Unable to bear it any longer, she exhaled and whipped around, taking a step backwards as she raised her gun to the beast in preparation.

It was… A person? Or, it had been a person, at some point in the distant past. The creature’s distended, skeletal form loomed in place, nearly stone-still. It had snow-white skin covered in patchy, deer-like fur, huge patches missing on its unnaturally long arms and legs, clearly chewed off. Its hands had no skin whatsoever, its fingertips stripped down to the bone and sharpened into talons.

What struck her most about the pitiful creature, however, was its head. A pair of antlers crowned it, and it had matted, blood-encrusted brown hair hanging between them. It had no lips, likely having chewed them off, and its bright green eyes stared unblinking from their sockets, the whites bloodshot and yellow. Even its ears were just bloody holes.

“Ah… Hello? Did Quincy send you?” repeated the beast, this time with genuine concern, cocking its head.

“Yes. Quincy sent me to end you,” she admitted, making no effort to hide either the Fog that poured from her mouth with each word, or the caution in her voice. The beast laughed a sad, sonorous rumble.

“No, no no no,” its head swayed from side to side. “You were to be my meal, so that this curse of mine doesn’t overtake me. But alas...”

It sniffed in her direction, then coughed and spat a bloody loogie in disgust.

“You are not edible.”

“Oh?” Zel raised an eyebrow. “How come? Are you not a man-eating beast?”

The beast gave a slow, cautious nod, “Unfortunately so. The scent of man is intoxicating to my appetite, it brings out this cursed form’s instincts and strips control from me, sooner or later. I thought you had taken actions to hide your scent, but now...”

It took a small step towards her, leaning in for another whiff. It retched, then audibly swallowed something.

“I realize that your scent is not that of man,” it said, disappointment audible in its voice. “You reek of primordial mercury and alkahest, of alembics and elixirs. Human or not, partaking of your flesh would spell my doom.”

Zelsys could no longer resist the impulse that tried to twist her face into an irreverent grin. From deep in her chest there rumbled a hearty laugh, gouts of Fog spilling forth with each bark. She pushed the trigger lever far enough to hear the first click whilst she excused her outburst, “I apologize for laughing, but… Surely you understand why I find it rich when a cannibalistic beast questions my humanity.”

Another slow nod, “Yes, I do. I also understand that only one of us can leave this field. If I am to be honest…”

The creature sat, crossing its legs and placing its hands in its lap in a strange, contortionist manner that looked very limiting. “I wish for death, yet my survival instincts won’t let me. All I can do to keep my beastly self at bay is play along, try to moderate the urges. This is no way to live,” it pleaded as a flicker of humanity flashed through its eyes. For a moment, they looked like the eyes of a scared young man.

“The moment you strike at me the beast will take control, it won’t let go until you’re dead and I’ve fed. It’ll take me some time to get out of this position, you should be fast enough to take off an arm. Don’t bother with my head until you’ve crippled me, my body will keep moving for long enough to kill you.”

It explained what it thought to be its weaknesses in such a pleading, calm voice that it made Zel want to ask more questions. After all, the beast wouldn’t come out unless she struck the first blow.

“Who were you before this?”

A blank stare. “I was a soldier,” said the creature as it turned its gaze aside, rambling on. Waiting for the first blow. “A dead man walking, fated to be among the thousands cut down by some Grekurian hero’s magic sword. In my time at the academy I learned of the Fog, in my free time I sifted through old stories and found the grains of truth hidden in the fables. I read between the lines, did the rituals, ate a man alive while he screamed and begged for his life. In the morning I was a living weapon, ready to lay waste to the Grekurian invaders. Three days later, they took the capital. The war was over. I fled through the countryside, indiscriminately killing and eating anyone whose skin was darker than snow...”

The beast trailed off, and while it did, Zel listened, but she also prepared herself. First the exhalation. “Lover’s Breath…” she uttered with the last of her breath, mentally focusing on her most vivid memory of the night before. Her assumption turned out to be correct when she found herself breathing heavily, ropes of silver Fog flooding out of her and lust gripping her body - lust for battle, lust for victory, but lust nonetheless, even without a carnal framing.

This feeling was familiar. This was the same exhilaration she felt when she faced down the rot-bear, she was alive. Although she allowed herself to slip into a battle-trance such as this, Zel was fully lucid, her mind racing as she speculated on what the beast could possibly do and how to most quickly eliminate it.

Its head snapped towards her, its eyes shuddering in their sockets as it visibly struggled to stop itself from lunging. “O-one more thing, ple-ease,” it pleaded. “Tell Quincy I’m sorry.”

Zel gave a nod, digging her heels in as she trained the gun on the beast’s chest. “Staggering Shot...” she uttered, hand utterly still even whilst her quarry lost control, untangling its spindly arms and lunging from the ground.