A thought-hiss pulled my head up, allowing me to take note of the mists around me unhindered for what felt like the first time since we had fallen from the bridge. Every so often, a cluster of spores tried to push their way through my mouth or nostrils; more often than not, they failed to take root entirely.

The few times that they did manage something hardly went better for them. Led by my persistent thought-hisses and [Spore Puppeteer], any attempts at growth by the encroaching spores were crushed mercilessly.

It was an oddly freeing sensation; odd in that I was both free of the Lesser Core’s influence and the most physically constricted I had ever been simultaneously. Even if I wanted it to, my scale-flesh would no longer coil without my spores’ influence. It made all my movements just a little bit slower, a little unsteadier, as I tried to adjust to the change.

With the vigor-infused spores infecting my body, it was almost like when I lost myself within the [Little Guardian’s Totem] of one of my Spore Puppets. Physical reflexes became nonexistent. No more did I absent-mindedly adjust my coils to maintain a grip, or automatically flick out a tongue to taste the air. Everything took more thought - or, more accurately, a thought-hiss.

Now that I was no longer focused on protecting myself from the Lesser Core’s corruption, I noted that The Grateful One had traveled through the mists at a decent pace. If it hadn’t been for my awareness of the [Little Guardian’s Totem] she was closing in on, I might not have noticed even that. The spore-mist was thick and cloying around us, forebodingly so.

Even if I hadn’t been able to simply taste it in the air, it would have been easy to see that this section of the many-nest was steeped in the Lesser Core’s power.

I dove into the refuge that was my mind-nest, leaving a few more thought-hisses for the spores that infested my body. From there, it was a simple matter to find the particular thread that I needed, tracing it from end to end.

My vision shifted.

I was walking through the mists, limping. Shambling. One of my legs - again, proving their inferiority to a proper tail - wasn’t working right. Injured, I supposed. My vision bobbled about as it nearly buckled time and time again. Still, it seemed to be getting better; the [Little Guardian’s Focus] was still healing the Coreless, though the process was slower than normal. Slowed by the innumerable spore-roots infesting the body.

The constant shards of [PAIN] that appeared with every new step was a good indication that it hadn’t been entirely fixed. I did my best to ignore the [RAGE] and [HELPLESSNESS] as well. I couldn’t fix those; not right now. Still, it was good to see that the Great Core’s disciples were only lost in body and not in mind. Their faith held firm.

One hand was held before me, clinging to a long rod of darkwood that ended with a tip clad in ore-flesh. Mana-light spread from that tip, filtering through the mote-like spores and creating a corona of bluish green around itself. The rod moved forward again, skidding across the ground and planting itself down heavily.

That was enough to know the perspective I was riding, the one that The Grateful One was moving towards.

The Coreless’ view shifted slightly, turning to the side as his head cocked, showing a Little Puppeteer. I hadn’t seen a live one before. Even then, I hadn’t seen one quite like this before; it was obvious that my guess was right. The Little Puppeteers in this area were stronger than what had come before, mutated by their increased level. Its outer flesh seemed to twist and writhe in the same way that the mist-spores themselves were doing, forming temporary shapes that could almost be mistaken for various figures.

Every few seconds, it pulsed, with each pulse sending out a great puff of spores into the surrounding area.

A pool of mana-water rested beside it, the mana-light that it gave off almost entirely hidden behind a thick film of dead spores, floating plant-flesh, and debris.

Nearby the constantly-pulsing Little Puppeteer, a number of other Coreless shambled about; unlike my own Coreless, these ones were thin and emaciated, appearing closer to skeletons than anything else. All but dead.

As if to confirm that fact, the mist swirled again, and I noticed a second Little Puppeteer that had sprouted from the nearby corpse of a Coreless.

I pulled myself back before I became mired too deeply. A brief wave of mental fatigue swept in, forcing me to take a few moments to reorient myself. Once it passed, I quickly checked on the [Little Guardian’s Totem]s of the other Coreless.

Thankfully, none were near enough to interfere.

The Grateful One walked ever closer, and I knew that the stolen Coreless was only a short while away.

I let my tongue flick out in anticipation, exulting in the Lesser Core’s inability to punish me for it.

My spore-roots had quickly crushed the attempt.

Pain lanced through Rowan’s leg, yet it never even twitched. The broken and traitorous limb just stood stockstill, waiting for the rest of his body to move again. He wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn’t let him do that either. It was all tied up, the muscles constricted between the uncaring tendrils that itched beneath the surface of his skin.

It was enough to make him go mad, if it weren’t for the chance of rescue.

The [Little Guardian’s Totem] around his neck was a warming touch, a comforting balm that helped to soothe that madness. Something that whispered sweet assurances in his ears with every pulse against his skin.

Even so, the sheer rage was getting to him. Rowan didn’t like the feeling of helplessness, of having his autonomy stolen whole - not one bit.

His equally traitorous hand moved forward, planting the butt of his spear securely against the ground. It was surprising how securely it was planted; like his body remembered how to hold a spear, even when it wasn’t Rowan himself that was controlling it.

He would have preferred that it didn’t. Yet another pulse of pain, followed by another of warmth, sent him forward again.

His head turned, view shifting with the motion, and he caught sight of his captor. It sat on the edge of a deep fountain, one that had seen far better days. It was hard to say what the sculpture that burst from the center was meant to represent; between the everpresent spores and general degradation, it could have been anything.

His captor pulsed, sending another wave of enslaving spores and water vapor into the air. Rowan’s body breathed them in, though it hardly mattered anymore. He hadn’t even managed a twitch in minutes, let alone any sort of real resistance.

Still, he tried again, furiously attempting to dash forward, or throw his spear, or just do something that he had chosen to do.

He did nothing, just staring blankly at the source of his current nightmare. When the mist swirled and revealed another, his stolen body still did nothing.

It just stood there, one of many guards for his enslaver.

Until, when it eventually swirled again to reveal a determined-looking Elara, it finally moved.

Rowan’s spear whistled as it cut through the air with surprising speed, the motion almost what it might have been if he had chosen to do it himself. That gap between his own skill and his captive body’s was enough for Elara to turn what might have been a fierce impalement into a near-miss, letting the spear thrust into the space between arm and body.

She clamped her arm down and latched on tight, trying to twist the spear out of his grip before his body could fully retrieve it, but another captive rushed her. The girl let go and danced away, moving with preternatural grace.

Recovered, his spear thrust again, its glowing tip stopping mere inches away from the snake on her shoulder.

The snake hissed, the sound stabbing itself into Rowan’s ears.