Chapter 3

“Who are you?”

“Vrraet.”

It was a dark circular room, not quite large or small, having only a few odd meters side by side until the domed top curved in upon itself. The rocky walls were damp and soggy, slick with everlasting humidity that, considering the conditions, would be surprisingly dry. Vines with glowing bulbs lit up from the surrounding trench of water, casting an ominous light over the chamber.

“You are not,” the first voice hissed back, oddly weak in the unfamiliar medium.

“I am.”

“That is a lie.”

There were three figures, none of them even remotely human as they filled the cramped space. Two of them were standing, hunched over as if they couldn’t quite bear the weight. Upon closer inspection, however, would reveal that what had seemed like armour were, in fact, scales and chitin, punctuated with webbed fins, tendrils and claws.

The third figure bore a similar set of appendages, though he was in quite a different predicament when compared to his fellows. Vrraet, as he knew his name was, found himself bound to a contraption of coral, vines and barnacle. Every limb was stretched to its extremes, unable to even twitch. He wasn’t sure how long he had been here and he had definitely not expected that he would be in such a position when he returned.

“I have no other answer other than the truth.”

“Vrraet was Bygail. You are not. Who are you?” The hunched figure asked again, and in his hands was a pointed prod, tracing threateningly along the exposed flesh of his prisoner.

“I am Vrraet, and I have always been Saighgair.”

He paused, for something about that statement wasn’t quite right. He knew that it was irrevocably true, his memories told him so as much as the skin he wore for he lives on so even in such dried environment. His scales felt dry, brittle even, though the chamber was perfectly humid, stretching the skin around his wounds as it shrunk and withered in the salty air.

But yet, something wasn’t quite right with something else beyond that.

“I know not why, but it must be true that I’m also a crafter. Every armament you bore carries my mark, I knew it so!”

“That would be impossible. Vrraet was Bygail. Cease your lies before I grow tired of such ceaseless fabrication,” the Saighgair paused its trailing blade, pausing alongside the more delicate ribs, “And this body you wear belonged to a Saighgair.”

“I only speak the truth,” Vrraet spoke, painfully aware of the point at his tenders.

He remembered, as much as he could, and tried to recall all that he understood of the predicament. It took some while before his captors were even willing to answer some questions, explaining why exactly that he was so rudely captured. The Sanctuary was in lockdown. By the Sgnirmah’s command, no less, no Iasgairean were to leave or enter the vicinity. It had been many days and nights but the Sgnirmah seemed to have had no intention at all to retract the order. Thus, the Saighgair could only sit and loiter, while the Bygail workers continue on their work.

It all began when the next council came into being and everyone realized that nearly half the seats were empty.

It wasn’t that the seats had always been ownerless, no. Every Saighgair present was absolutely sure that something or someone once sat there but had, for some reason, ceased to be. Who were they? What were they supposed to be?

However, even the Iasgaireans couldn’t be remembered, it didn’t mean that the seat’s own purpose was missing.

It was a simple procedure to figure out that the seat was meant for a War Leader. “Who was the War Leader?” Someone asked but no one could quite pin down the memory. It was as if an Iasgairean-shaped hole had appeared where something once occupied. No one could tell what was lost, only that something was missing.

Provided it was an Iasgairean, but that was simply natural. It couldn’t be anything else… right?

Thus, it was truly concerning that not even the Sgnirmah could quite remember. In that route, the majority of the Iasgairean suddenly found them rationing on kelp and krills.

Days passed by.

It was uneventful.

Mother Sgnirmah and her closest kins, the Stjernmah attendants, had sealed themselves away in their chamber, only allowing food-bearing Iasgairean in. It was as if they were… waiting.

It drove the Iasgairean restless. An uneasy calm gradually settled over the Sanctuary as the people swam about, aimless. No one protested much, not against Sgnirmah’s own command, or the fact that everyone’s too wary to even consider leaving.

But nothing much could be done.

So, the people sat and did nothing.

Waiting.

Waiting, and more waiting.

They waited and waited as food stores continued to dwindle.

And one day, something changed.

Unexpectedly, it wasn’t from within but from without.

All members of the Iasgairean was supposed to have been recalled back to the Sanctuary, even the furthest reaching herders were commanded to return to their homes, seasons be damned.

Thus the sight of a figure haggardly swimming through the entrance was cause for alarm. Even more so when it was revealed that the figure bore the shape of a Saighgair.

It was terribly familiar, the visage, the form. It was as if something in the figure reminded them of a person they had met or known in times past but had forgotten. Was it a member of the crew whose purpose was to maintain the Sanctuary, or was it an emissary from a foreign colony?

If so, why was the figure so familiar?!

The sentries took no chances, however, and accosted the figure at once.

Upon closer inspection, it was revealed the Saighgair was barely alive. Its scaled skin hung tight against its frame, covered in lacerated gashes and wounds as if it was mauled by some great beasts of the deep. With hastily applied fish-skin bandages, the Sentries treated its wounds as best as they could before shrilling an alarm.

That was what Vrraet was told of his return, at least, before everyone realized the implications of such a thing. Then, when he next woke up he was already bound up in this chamber.

And it wasn’t the first, and doubtlessly, it wouldn’t be the last. The same troupe of Iasgaireans would march in, ask the same questions and seemed to expect different results, throw varied punishments until he was too exhausted to even answer.

It wasn’t that Vrraet couldn’t understand their motivations, it was just that the entire series of actions was just so… wasteful. He could be working to unravel this secret rather than sitting here, having his ribs carved on with a rusty stick.

That or being tortured by those you once lived with was rather discouraging.

Of course, the idea that an entire group of Iasgairean went missing was notable enough, but the fact that the memories, something so nebulous, could disappear into thin air as well…

Well, that was concerning.

The concerning part wasn’t simply how it somehow affected the memories of every single Iasgairean, but to completely change it all and no matter one thinks about it, it seemed as if it was removed. No amount of information can rediscover the names of those lost, not their visages or their achievements.

It was as if they were plucked out of existence completely, torn out. A hole was left behind but what once was there… gone.

Gone.

Aside from him, apparently, and even so it was all sorts of whacky. Even if Vrraet could remember his own name and purpose, clearly something had changed in how everyone seemed to believe that Vrraet was a Bygail.

Preposterous.

It was at this point the third figure, who had so far remained silent, spoke up, “Enough. The one which claimed to be Vrraet speaks of impossibilities. We shall know no truth in such a way.”

The other Saighgair hissed with discontent, tendrils writhing, “He will speak.”

“He spoke all he could.”

“This one disagrees.”

“Pain loosens memories, not strange magic,” he shook his face in what was a clear sign of exasperation, “It is clear that pain will not be effective. Besides, if he is what he so professed to be, then undue harm will only anger the great Sgnirmah.”

“... Very well,” the Saighgair finally said after a lengthy pause, his eyes swivelling back towards Vrraet, “You will reveal the truth in time, imposter.”

With that, the Saighgair set his spiked prod down, seemingly reluctantly. Even so, Vrraet felt a shameful sense of relief at the sight.

The second Saighgair picked up a smaller implement, one that resembled more of a stinger tied to a stick. Vrraet knew well what it was since he had designed the bloody thing. Without much ceremony, the pointy tip was jammed into his shoulder.

Even with mental preparation, he couldn’t quite fight off the oncoming wave of nauseousness that flooded him. Cold numbness spread out along his veins, creeping down his flesh like ice along the water surface in winter. Gradually, now and then, he found himself thinking slower, and slower, like fish trapped in viscous mud.

And slower.

And … slower.

Slower...

…

Then he was gone.

And he dreamt, once again, as he had done so every time sleep finally claimed him for the past days within this chamber, counting the drips of blood onto the serrated stone below.

He wasn’t a creature to believe in occult drivel, even if he was a practitioner of the art. Things have little meaning to themselves inherently except for the coincidental and finding meaning in such nonsense was to ask for trouble. However, even an ever-faithful Iasgairean such as him found his mind polluted with thoughts and images that he couldn’t quite rid off.

Vrraet, who dreamt no dreams, found himself plagued with a constant never-ending flow of nightmares that nicked at his tail every night when sleep finally takes.

He dreamt of strange things — things that he couldn’t quite understand. Forms shaking in the void, blood, undescribable objects that spiralled, enlarged and shrunk without patterns. Queer critters, translucent, scuttled along great branches of ivory, plantations of unknowable nature towered over him as he seemed to fragment, shrink and change.

Yet, despite the strangeness of such a vision, it also seemed familiar. It was curious, however, that he realized that he hadn’t had a single vision about what transpired on the day he was set to perform his experiments.

None of his years, lives and experiences had much to offer in terms of knowledge, staying silent throughout his torment. Even with his impeccable memory that he was certain that he had, he couldn’t for the sake of his life remember the contents of the events that had landed him in such a predicament.

But one thing he could remember, one thing that he doubted he could ever forget.

A shape — a line, all made of sharp angles until it curled in upon itself.

It was a curious thing. Simple, but fascinating in a way he couldn’t put into words, how it burrowed into his mind like an incessant leach, unwilling to let go. In every dream, it was there, taunting, waiting. It was an open invitation, a rope, a mysterious link to a convoluted past that had magicked its way in and out of existence.

He found himself walking in a strange land this time.

Far from the water, far from everything that he knew. He knew he had found something, or perhaps it had found him? Looking down, he found his feet firmly planted upon sand and dirt he had not known. In his hands was a trident, ready, dripping with seawater.

He continued forward, stepping.

Up top, the moon was shining down.

The beach was silvery in the light, glimmering with the irradiance that simple sand could not achieve. Pebbles, dried up husks of seaweed batted at the rocky shore, piling up alongside the sea foam and dredges. Tall trees that he could not recognize towered over him, sprouting like humongous monoliths that stared down coldly. The frosty air stung at his moist skin, burrowing in as the oncoming snow of fall lightly drifted down.

Had he been here? Why was he here?

On the debilitated shoreline, he found himself staring from the stone outcrops. The water below washed slowly against the rocks, splashing rhythmically. In the little pool before him, however, the sea was calm, lazily circling in stagnation. In the reflections, his own visage stared back, eyes wide.

It was him, right?

“Who are you?” he found himself whispering, transfixed. Crouching, the snow bunched-up around his feet, he reached for the surface. At his touch, the water rippled, not answering.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, he leapt, dived, plummeted. The water that was so close seemed to stretch impossibly far as he tilted forward, falling through into nothingness as the wind rushed past him, carrying him away.

He plunged, finally, after a lengthy fall, into the sea. The pool that was scanty deep unravelled itself as he found himself amidst a forest of kelp, trailing upward and around him as he was continually drawn deeper and deeper into the darkness below.

As he fell, tugged in the same fashion a fish was hooked on a string, the never-ending pillars around him changed. From the fabric-like leaves of green, it gave way to shades of black, grey and whites, as if everything was turning into stone. Even so, the leaves grew larger and larger — or was he shrinking? Strange clusters began appearing upon calcified kelp, barnacles and barbs, each getting closer and closer as he travelled down into the depths.

As suddenly as it came, he found himself stopping, suspended in the dark. Above him, the glimmering moonlight was so far away it couldn’t even be seen anymore, leaving him stranded in a well of barbs and pain that he somehow knew with utter certainty. Unknown sounds murmured in his ears as he gradually sunk, catching his attention on their barbs even as he found himself tearing away faster than he could think.

Then —

A glow.

Slowly, it crept into his perception, so lightly that he wasn’t quite sure it was just a trick of the eyes until it formed shapes. Below him, in a distance impossibly far away, he saw it. Against the darkness, shining like a star, was the sign that he had seen over and over again.

Abruptly, he found the strength within himself to swim. With what was originally uncertain paddles gave way to full-powered thrusts of his tail, he sped downward. Even with the option to return, to ascend from the darkness, he found himself inexplicably drawn into this strangeness he could not explain, seduced and enraptured by the design.

It was a shape, a curl, a serpent coiling upon itself, yet he knew that it was far from what a simple shape is. No, he glimpsed at a mere reflection of something much greater, much more. What it appeared to his eyes was merely the surface, that he understood beyond anything else. Yet so, he didn’t relent as he pawed at the water, his limbs growing colder and colder as he reached deeper and deeper.

He had seen it before, once a memory that he had failed to keep within his brain, that he had no doubt. It was a cancerous curiosity, a violent hook on his soul that kept his eyes turned to the dark, unable, unwilling to turn away.

Then, before he could reach it, he felt something snaring him. Looking back, he found that his feet were bound, and so were his arms. Thrashing in sudden horror, he screamed the scream of one who lost something most precious, unwilling as he felt his himself pulled backwards.

Away from the light, away from the shape that was the truth, the light, the one true thing, the queen —

“SPEAK.”

Vrraet’s head snapped up.

He was no longer in the dark.

Pillars of stone loomed over him, in a circle. Sand, ones he was familiar with, surrounded his knees that were folded. Stacks of ancient slabs stacked in rings, rising higher and higher as they radiated outward until they formed something akin of a theatre, populated not with the Iasgaireans as much as by their absence. Surrounding him were three unfamiliar Saighgairs, each armed to the mandibles with spikes, tridents and protective measures, all conspicuously aimed towards him as they stood with vigilance. Further up high were the diminutive forms of the Stjernmas, the closest assistants of the —

Vrraet didn’t realize that he was awake until he felt his the oh-so-familiar pressure of her presence, the few words washing away the memories of his dream, in the same way, a rogue wave could tear away everything living from a shoreline. Up above, coiled around a massive glowing crystal, was the Sgnirmah. Her soul called to his, beating him into submission as he struggled to even raise his head.

He was in back in the council chamber.

His mind swam, tumbled and recollected itself in a haphazard fashion, churning as he struggled to make sense of his scenario.

No, this wasn’t a dream, and he knew it well. He had awoken from his night terrors into the tangible, ever-so substantial reality of the waking. He was in no wild kelp forest, he had not breached the surface, he most certainly wasn’t swimming down towards the sign —

Stop, focus.

His limbs were bound, as expected.

The Sgnirmah, her massive proportions coiled languidly among the crystalline ceiling, pulsing with life seeped into the water like fresh blood, tinging it in ripples of tangible power. Yes, this was his matron, his life-giver.

But yet, why does she feel so distant?

Her eyes glimmered.

“I GAVE YOU A COMMAND, CHILD. SPEAK AND EXPLAIN YOURSELF,” her voice boomed out, deep and echoing even as it seemed to originate from all around him, sourceless.

With a startle, he came to remember that he was in front of the Sgnirmah herself. His voice, much hoarser than he remembered, stutteringly began a reply but only managed a wheeze as his body struggled to remember how to even speak.

Eventually, he forced himself to gather enough words, past the phlegm and the clotted blood, to speak with an upward-craned neck, “Mother-mother Sgnirmah. This one - Vrraet, grovel before your presence.”

There was silence in the chamber for a moment as he genuflected shamelessly before her.

“VRRAET…” The Sgnirmah mused, dragging out her words as she considered all the nuances of the name, “THAT IS THE NAME OF A BYGAIL I ONCE KNEW BUT HAD FORGOTTEN. AND YET, YOU ARRIVED, BEARING HIS NAME AND CARRIED THE FLESH OF YOUR SIBLINGS.”

“My queen, this one —” his jaws spasmed as he attempted to speak, “This one is none other than Vrraet. This one knows not why he knew himself as a Saighgair while- while my brood mates believe me to be Bygail, yet it was clear that Saighgair makes poor researchers.”

“INDEED.”

“This one - this one deeply professes his thanks for your mercy and leniency,” the words were jumbled, foul-tasting through the mandibles. Even so, he couldn’t find it in himself to speak, as if it was all that mattered, “This one knew he had set out to test a new… weapon design when the incident occurred.”

“AND YOU LEFT THE SANCTUARY ALONE?”

Vrraet thought hard.

No, he had definitely didn’t leave alone, but what was he to say?

Over the past few days, he had quite some time left to himself, trying to piece the pieces of it altogether.

“N-no. This one is certain… yes, the Saighgair! The Saighgair hunting party. Yes, that must have been it!” his mouth moved unbidden, “The Saighgair hunting party that had gone missing! This one must have been with them — this one’s last memories, this one’s disappearance and reappearance must have been linked together!”

His head swivelled to the side and stared at the nearby Iasgairean, who looked away with an uncomfortable expression on his tendrils. Vrraet spoke with vehemence, “I had returned — no, set out with a trident, no? Where is it?”

“It has been confiscated,” the Saighgair glanced up at the Sgnirmah, “The guards have it placed along with the other possessions the one-who-claimed-to-be-Vrraet had when he was captured.”

“It was a new weapon,” Vrraet said, a sudden, frantic energy surging through him. He felt that, somehow, it was of utmost importance that he must speak, “This one was working on new magic to battle the metal-clad vessels the land striders had. A ranged weapon that —”

He paused.

“A weapon that... “ He struggled for words, but the strange absence within his mind once again foiled his attempts at remembering what transpired, “Apologies, this one cannot remember. This one was set to test the weapon when this one… disappeared, lost. This one was to travel with the Saighgair that went missing.”

The more he speaks, the more he was certain that he was correct. The missing Saighgair, the rumoured lack of food for the winter. No doubt, the missing Saighgair was to hunt, as Saighgair was to. If there was anything but a hunting party, then it must mean that there was a one to begin with.

“AND YET, YOU RETURN,” the Sgnirmah mused, “AMONG MY MISSING CHILDREN, WHOSE NAME I COULD SCARCELY EVEN REMEMBER, YOU RETURNED WITH A BROKEN WEAPON, WITH A BODY THAT IS NOT YOURS.”

“I — This one does not know, mother Sgnirmah,” Vrraet found himself saying, “This one had only set out to learn — perhaps.”

Suddenly, he paused.

Could it be?

“This one’s weapon was designed to bear through the impenetrable metal plates through twisting its… existence, for we knew that even the slightest imperfection in the land strider’s craft will render them useless. The weapon — the design, it may be responsible for the incident.”

And before he knew it, he had already spoken.

He cursed mentally.

Oh, what have I done?

He had just incriminated his own crimes.

It was the most stupid thing he had ever done yet he couldn’t seem to force his own damnable gibbering mouth to stop talking for a moment. In the presence of the Sgnirmah, it was as if something was dragging each word out from his bowels, hooked onto barbed ropes and ripped out in absolute truth.

Vrraet wasn’t a fool. Clearly, it was magic, something that he himself as a practitioner of utilizing natural forces wouldn’t have access to. Furthermore, it wasn’t even a spell, the Sgnirmah asked and he answered. It was as simple as that.

And the worst part was that he realized he wasn’t thinking about, ‘oh, what have I done?’ for the context of having effectively destroyed at least a tenth of the Saighgair population, but rather a profound excitement within him.

The Sgnirmah regarded his impassioned speech for a moment, clearly considering something in her mercurial ways whilst her attendants and loyal soldiers waited nearby, nervous glancing between the two as if they couldn’t quite decide where their attention should be split.

The silence was cold, pregnant with tension.

Vrraet waited, eyes wide and tendrils frozen solid in fright as waves of indescribable emotions seemed to radiate out from his queen mother. The tangible link between them — the one he understood as their blood bond — seemed to shake in agitation as she continued to think.

In the emptiness, against the glowing crystal that lit up the room like a small sun, the silhouette of the Sgnirmah seemed especially inscrutable, unreachable.

Eventually, she spoke.

“BRING ME THE WEAPON, SENTINEL VA’AS,” she commanded, her coils shifting. Standing next to Vrraet, the Iasgairean that had replied earlier gave a sign of acknowledgement before moving away. Even as he did so, another Saighgair had taken his space, hoisting his own trident in the same threatening motion.

Then, they waited.

Time crawled on slowly.

In the dirt and sand, Vrraet’s knees began to itch in some painfully uncomfortable locations, though he made no move to fix it. His limbs started to feel numb, crushed under his cumbersome weight and under the imperious gaze of the Sgnirmah.

The other Iasgaireans weren’t even trying to maintain their guise of neutrality, their twisting tendrils clearly indicating their unease and disgust for him — even from those that he once knew and taught! In his past lives, perhaps, but it didn’t mean that he knew not of his Iasgairean siblings.

And they waited.

Vrraet found time to be contemplative.

What would happen to me?

Obviously, he was to blame. Magic is an unpredictable element that, when not properly handled, could mean disaster to all those involved, especially magic that involves concepts beyond the physical. A simple drilling tool designed to poke holes in metal could, somehow, explode into the total disaster.

Not to mention the memory wiping part.

Or, the fact that everyone seemed to believe he was a Bygail.

That was obviously false. I am Vrraet and I have lived my life as Vrraet.

However, a nagging voice inside him couldn’t help but to think about how everyone, even after his return restored their memories of him, it was of a version that thought of him as Bygail. What if he was wrong? What if he —

As an Iasgairean of rationality, he couldn’t possibly dismiss the probability that he himself was wrong. At the same time, however, the idea that he was utterly mistaken and had been afflicted by some sort of magical malady of his own design was deeply ironic and worrying.

He had been getting on with age, after all.

Had been.

He looked down.

His arms were toned, practised muscles bulging under thick, scaly skin. These were his, he knew, having looked and used them every day in his life. In fact, one could say he was a model Saighgair at his prime! Fully grown and ready to tackle on hunts and raids, there would be little that can stand against a well-armoured Saighgair.

Then why in Sgnirmah’s name did he think he was getting on with age?

His mind scrambled.

No.

Evidentally, this was —

He wasn’t quite sure what was real and what wasn’t anymore.

A sound of some distant scuffling caught his attention. His head whisked up to the side, looking for the source. Off to the side, beyond the mighty pillars holding up the chamber ceiling, a Saighgair swam in. Sentinel Va’as, he remembered, and in his hands was a kelp-wrapped object.

Even through the murky water and the distance between the two, Vrraet could already feel the family hums of power emanating from the artefact of his design. It was faint, unrefined, but potent in ways that would baffle even those initiated in the arts.

Hurriedly, the Saighgair approached the centre of the chamber.

“My queen,” he began, “This one’s retrieved the weapon. Shall this one unwrap it?”

The Sgnirmah gave a motion of affirmation.

Bowing his head, the Saighgair tentatively began peeling off the wraps off the trident.

Bits by bit, the golden lustre of the weapon began shining through, the light of the massive crystal above reflecting off the gleaming surface, casting luminous rays of yellow arcs across the chamber.

Even the Saighgair guards nearby inevitably found themselves drawing closer for a more detailed look. The trident, even in its now decrepit state, was still a piece of art. Its prongs now bent in the formation that invoked the images of branching corals was something unseen before — not even the strange, metalworking abilities of the land striders could quite match up to it.

It wasn’t how Vrraet had originally made it, the lines of magic conductive stone and arrays were all ruined, but it could definitely now serve as a beautiful statement against folly.

The trident itself was not the most important bit, however.

It was the little bead of stone, gem-studded, positively radiated power.

My masterpiece.

It set tightly at the hilt, embedded within. Its rune-carved surface was made by slowly shaving away with his own claws until they bled, sacrificing some of his own lifeblood in order to achieve this magic.

He glanced above and found that the Sgirmah too, had taken her eyes off him and focused upon the gradual, almost sensual reveal of the weapon.

Hands shaking, the Saighgair Sentinel hoisted the weapon up high with both his hands. Then, suddenly, the weapon flew out of his grasp, as if tugged on by some invisible hand. Swept away by the current, the trident hovered up high, directly in front of the Sgnirmah.

With lazy motions, the Sgnirmah turned the trident in every direction, glancing through the holes carved into its surface. Eventually, her gaze settled upon the little stone in the hilt.

For a moment, no one spoke, daring not to interrupt the Sgnirmah from her newest inquisition.

Then, her eyes glanced back down at Vrraet, her voice rumbling softly, “YOU PROCLAIM TO BE ITS MAKER?”

“... Yes, my queen.”

Vrraet had no strength to deny it, not now.

There was another pause as if the Sgnirmah was considering something.

And when the moment was over, she swivelled her giant head around at the various Iasgaireans surrounding the room and gave an order that Vrraet didn’t expect.

“LEAVE THE CHAMBER.”

…

Struck silent, the Iasgairean were frozen at the strange command. Clearly, even they hadn’t quite expected this from their queen. However, as Iasgaireans, they will never disobey, thus they gradually shuffled into action.

With strange glances back at the Sgnirmah and the bound Vrraet at the bottom of the chamber, the funnelled out of the room.

“STJERNMAHS, WAIT BEYOND THE DOOR UNTIL I RECALL YOU.”

That, however, was even more surprising.

It seemed the Sgnirmah truly wanted privacy, to even send her closest attendants away. The Stjernmahs, the queen-assistants, too found themselves herded beyond the exit of the chamber — perhaps the first time in their life that they were sent outside of this particular chamber. Always next to the Sgnirmah in order to cater to her every whim, these Iasgaireans have no reason to ever leave.

To be asked to leave — it was monumental.

Before long, the Iasgiarean had left the room. Tugged on by magic, the mighty stone doors of the chamber slammed close, each easily several times Vrraet’s height. With a resounding clang, the doors were shut, echoing throughout the massive Council Chamber.

Or to say, the Queen Chamber.

Now, all that’s left was the Sgnirmah and the lonely Saighgair, still bound, left upon the sandy floor.

Vrraet’s chest was cold. He’d expect his heart to hammer but it seemed that it was too frightened to even do so.

Languidly, the Sgnirmah stretched. He watched as her coils unwinded, unravelling to further reveal the crystal she had rest herself upon. Slowly, deliberately, her mass reached downward, trailing closer and closer towards Vrraet.

Suddenly, the movement was accelerated, diving, even, as the Sgnirmah seemingly plummeted into the sand. And where the head impacted the sand, it sunk, squashed, broken into slivers that reconsolidated like some living mud.

Vrraet wanted to cry out, perhaps in shock, but his mouth was too terrified to even manage a whimper.

So, he watched, unable to move away, as the spectacle began to unfold.

The rest of her body followed, trailing into the same pile, disintegrating into a mass of red flesh and ichor. When the tail finally the sunk into the goop, there was a pause of inaction as it all swirled around, seemingly indecisive.

Then, it moved, formed, the red tar-like material surging closer together, tighter, into a roughly Iasgairean form.

There was a torso, a tail, then clearly limbs and a head, each formed from the same whirling flesh. Then, it was as if drawn together, carved by some master Bygail, it tightened around a frame, flesh growing skin, scales, carapace. The gooey redness turning into taut muscles and the whisps reforming into fins and armour.

It was a tall figure, much taller than Vrraet himself.

Clearly Iasgairean, but much more. Instead of the hunched back of the Saighgair, it carried itself upright and strong, eyes gleaming below a mass of writhing tendrils, trailing down the back almost like a cape.

The figure, neck moved side to side, ironing out a kink in its neck.

It was as if a statue had come to life, so unreachably solid and real that it boggled the mind to even comprehend it. If Vrraet weren’t bound, he would have crawled onto the dirt and grovelled at the clearly demonstrated power.

Sgnirmah.

Queen mother, she who gave birth to them and she who gave life to them.

“Good, now we may speak,” the Sgnirmah spoke, her voice softer than it had ever been, “I so dislike this form, but I must say you intrigued me, child.”

She reached out, grasping the nearby by the handle, fingers clenching tight around the metal.

“Thus, I’ll allow you a chance, Vrraet,” she said, twirling the weapon a little bit as if it was a mere toy before stopping. With a lazy motion, she plucked the stone from the hilt as if the metal was made of soggy clay, her hand carving through it all without issue.

Offhandedly, she tossed the remnant of the trident into the sand as she slowly approached, inspecting the stone within her grasp. With another wave, the various vines and ropes that bound Vrraet suddenly ripped itself apart, falling to the sides.

And as she got closer, it truly revealed that she was, in fact, gigantic.

Leaning down to the suddenly freed Vrraet, her glowing eyes glaring deep into his soul, she spoke, “This here,” she gestured at the stone tucked in her palm, laying it out, “Was something that I had never seen before. Not in my years nor from my own ancestors. This is new and it is powerful. Your transgression towards your family that you had so unwittingly brought upon by carelessness was hardly forgotten. With your own actions, I had lost dozens of my own children — your siblings. Not even their souls returned to be, their Vessels laid empty. This is not a mistake that could easily be forgiven, but yet I will give you a chance.”

She paused, leaning back again.

“I myself only understood part of this design’s purpose,” the Sgnirmah said, “But it holds potential.

“I give you a task, Vrraet, to fix your mistakes,” she commanded, “ You shall recover your siblings, and most importantly, you shall learn, understand and develop this design.”

Vrraet stared.

Not at her, not at the transformation, not at the words, but at the stone within her palm. He knew every rune he had carved on it, having scratched them out by blood and by pain. Everything has its place and worth, just like the Iasgaireans within their Sanctuary.

But there, on the surface, seemingly dominating it all, was a mark both unseen and yet similar. It was a zig-zag, a curl, a serpent.

His eyes were fixated.

“What say you, child?” the Sgnirmah spoke, seemingly far away.

“Yes, of course.”

Spoiler: Elisa's [Stuff].

"Body" Parts

[Abilities] (... if applicable)

[Spears]: Three pointy chin tentacles, a must have. Don't touch the tip.

{Impale}: Stab things really hard. Probably hurts a lot.

{Swipe}: Swatting, whacking, whichever works.

{Puncture}: Also for stabbing things, but also allows me to drink up the [Essence] to speed things up a little.

{Smash}: For when stabbing things doesn't work quite as well and some brute force is needed.

[Feelers]: Four more tentacles. Thumbs not included.

{Lash}: A primitive flailing that did more than expected. First proper [Ability] I made.

[Arms]: Arms and armour all in one. Made for handling things that need a little bit of toughness.

{Smash}: Also smashing, but with [Arms] instead.

[Breath Gland]: Dragon fantasy inexplicably turned real. Allows me to turn [Essence] into various volatile... projectiles?

{Breath: Cannon}: Blasts a solid-ish splatter of [Essence] out. Not quite sure how to aim it yet, but seems to do a lot of damage.

{Breath: Incendiary}: Set things on "Fire". Need to figure out how to put it out first, I think.

[Jaws]: For biting purposes. Big teeth included, not recommended for delicate uses.

[Stomach]: Where things are mashed to bits for better digestion.

[Stomach: Masher]: The afore-mentioned masher of things.

{Devour}: Swallow things whole without actually biting. Seems to extends range of my bite somewhat.

{Dissect}: Breaks down a soul into its core component parts, likes with likes. This allows me to use them properly without wasting anything. Much.

{Auto Dissect}: Breaks rough items down into its component parts without conscious supervision. Wouldn’t recommend doing it on expensive stuff though.

[Eyes]: Got four of them. Doesn't need to blink.

{Appraise}: Looks at things and get more information that I should with my so-so intelligence.

[Soul Stone]: All of Me. And some hanger-ons.

[Safe]: Keep me from accidentally burning through myself. Also prevents others from doing the same, maybe. Imagine a cockpit that’s also a life boat.

[Deposit]: A mass of mashed up [Essence], free to be moulded into more eldritch mush.

[Library]: A place where the [Essence] of certain pilfered skills can be placed and accessed from. Prevents it from directly mixing with my own [Soul].

[Mysterious entity]: Appears to be the source of my powers. Somehow immune to itself. Go figures.

[Mark]: To send ideas and constructs along to another that's marked.

{Self-Mould}: My ability to, somehow, mess with [Essence]. Can make them into pseudo shapes while retaining their original property. Possible link to that chunk of unidentifiable [Essence] in my [Soul Stone].

{Mark}: To paste a marker onto someone’s soul, allow for communication. Obviously, I’ll have the upper crust of the ability, reserving the rights to send things through.

{Sending}: Send conceptual "packages" to another bearing my mark.

[Human-Vocinator]: Allows me to speak.

[Face]: A substitute face for me to do facial expressions for my own sake.

[Lungs]: Breathing.

{Breathing}: It's a thing now. Shouldn't have done this.

[Torso]: and other things that are not included.

{Tackle}: Full body slam.

{Auto-Snake}: Makes more segments of my body.

{Auto-Scale}: Makes more scales.

Weird things (may not be mine) that should be included. Some may be actually spells of some kind, but tit for tat:

{Tugging}: Borderline telekinesis. Seems short-ranged.

{Sunder}: Tears formerly-intact [Essence] apart. Not quite sure on its range yet, but should not use willy-nilly as it is extremely powerful.

{Link}: Creates artificial connections between [Essence] bits.

{Tasting}: Figures out... things. Made it, used it, seemed to work like tasting, but for [Essence]. Makes more sense in my mind.

{Barrier}: Creates a sealed environment that prevents things from entering or exiting. Not too sure how it works yet, but "looping" seems to be one version of it.

{Path}: Does something with papers. Got a bread-crumb effect with dubious effectiveness.

{Light}: Creates light? May be a command word instead.

{Sanctuary}: Creates a shining barrier that, for some reason, is harmful towards me. Not fond of that.

{Release}: Make captures things pop out of their prisons. Can be applied by me to someone else's' stuff? Bears potential!

{Passive-aggressive-rant}: I do this a lot.

{Mosquito-kill}: I may do this.

{Shit-talking}: I don't do this.

{Suicide}: How do I get rid of this?

Things in the [Library], where I store pilfered [Abilities], stopped potential contamination from affecting my psyche while still allowing me to utilize whatever thing that I had stored here.

[Trident]: The fish people style. Learn how to poke things with a three-tipped stick.

[Underwater Tracking]: For cases where you really need to learn where the fish would be hiding.

[Underwater Weapon Maintainence]: When you got to stop your weapons from rotting or rusting in your hands. Could be a big issue when you can’t use fireto reforge anything.

[Iasgairean Language]: And its variants. Tendril waving is a valid means of communication.