Private It Only Gets Darker

[Tusk]

There was anger in the boy, enough to tear a soul from its anchoring if they weren't careful. And that fuck-ugly grin, the Soulkeeper scowled, eyes boring into Garrod's back as he walked away. Might well be part taker, for all the cruelty behind it.

Getting a grip on his own simmering thoughts, Tusk turned to Chima's desecrated corpse, or rather the corpse of the creature that had killed him. Searched for effects. Tokens and talismans for the remembrancers to make notes of before they reduced what was left to ash and memory.

At the end of the day, that's all they would ever be. How they were remembered, though... that was important.

Needles, paper charms, and a medallion, scooped up and placed in the same pouch as Hankh's mask. Brothers, even in death. The rest was blood and ruin; there wasn't a market for taker teeth and organs, especially those half-munched.

Pressing to his feet, Tusk secured his findings, and set to step after Garrod, the bastard as impatient as always.

Following the flickering orb deeper, Tusk turned a watchful eye on his companion. Once-wounds stuck out against his pale skin, the flesh discoloured where a taker had tried to take a piece of him. Nearly succeeded.

Then, the world opened up, and Garrod's ailments became the least of the orkin's worries.

A Tear of the Mother. Big, beautiful, and horrifyingly malignant to those who lingered too long in its presence. 'Worth a small fortune, should we be able to cleanse it,' replied the Soulkeeper, finding his courage as the shadows began to move and undulate, bodies materialising from thin air as if they had always been there. Waiting. For the Cazadores, and their memories.

Drawing his sword, Tusk readied himself for the onslaught, his eyes alighting on a figure atop the Tear. The Queen! Brood Mother. She whose voice drowned out the many. The one they had been contracted to hunt, and kill.

Would they?

Stepping forth, Tusk brought his weapon to bear on a youngster, sent it arching away. Garrod was already engaged, battling Paloma, the last and best of their former brethren. Which means I'd best hurry, was all the orkin had time to think, shroud-strengthened fist batting a bruiser aside. Another leapt at him, only to have its throat torn out by the point of his steel.

Shroud pulsed and thrummed, shaking his diaphragm. Magick tore from the hand of a friend to leave its scar upon the Tear. As always, the dead piled up. Armour plate bore the brunt of their anger. Tusk warded the vulnerable parts with blade, gauntlet and greave.

Only the biggest fools thought themselves untouchable, and the Soulkeeper had vowed never to fall victim to pride. A lesson he might need teach Garrod, if they survived.

A taker landed on his back to jam a stone dagger in his shoulder. Another tried to cut the tendons in his leg and got a boot to the face. Pain lanced through Tusk's body as he reached up to grab his assailant by its faceplate. A yank, and its head parted from its neck, kissing the face of a third as he hurled it across the chamber and into nothingness.

Above, the Queen stirred, growing agitated as Her children cried out in pain and terror. Synapses fired. Links were established.

The dance grew deadlier.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

The rip of the Queen's voice tore at the already tattered fabric of Garrod's mind. Teeth gritting in a stunned agony, his hands gripped too hard around the hilt of his greatsword.

Were it not for a bright gleam that shined across the gauntlet's eye. The hint of drawn blade's approach. Might be, he would have found rest.

A dip. A turn. Snap of hips and twist of heels. His greatsword raised high, point down, rising to ox stance. A clank, spark, clank! Slip. Swipe. Stab. Jabbed through the gaps in the plate, just beneath the arm. Felt the bite of dagger's tip, just before the chainmail stopped it. All the wind sucked out of him as he groaned.

Charged and warped as it was.

A shove, a kick. Bulled forward. Loosed the right hand. Bone white claws yammed their tips into flesh. Paloma's eyes darted to the claw. Free hand flipped the dagger, point down. Raised it, snap up of the knife. Gleam of the point. Stabbed down through the sleeve of his duelist's jacket. Slicing through flesh and part of tendon.

Blood eked out like oil from the earth.

Breath dragged through his veins. Pull after pull. Blood rushing. Pounding. Gushed out in spills. Splashes. Pulse after pulse. Teeth bit down in roiling growl. Breath thin. Choked with all the shroudstone's haze. All the queen's scream rippling and bouncing across skin and bone. Blood pooling about the wounds. His claws dug in. Grasped. Green flames pooled to fire about the dagger's bites. Reeked of sulfur. Stripped iron. Ozone.

Queen's voice shrieked. Takers crawled and skittered and gnashed.

Paloma tried to fly away. Yanked the knife out of his side. Twist. Eyes wide. Eyes he knew. Could almost see the fear in them. Almost see the person there. Paloma the Quick. But Garrod's claws were dug in too deep. His grin too wide. Her freed knife hand snapped down like a viper's head. His arm caught it on the outside of his vambrace. Twist like a snake of its own. Jammed her up.

Bodies slammed together. Fingers digging and digging with little wriggles and drives. Something cracked open. Like a cicada sprouting wings from its old husk.

The gauntlet expanded. Plates shifted. Frilled gills within it, breathing the shroudthick air. Wounds about Garrod aflamed. The opal eye of Belephus glowed bright. Fire licked out of the gauntlet's fresh opened gills. Powder, like pollen, hushed in ghostly emerald streams. A spark. Flashfired to life.

The white gauntlet thrashed to life. Flames licking out as it drilled its claws into Paloma's side. Dug in. Deeper and deeper as Garrod grinned wider and wider. Something biting at his neck. Claws scratching at his back. No breath left in his lungs. The white hand grasped at something soft. Clutched it. Crushed it.

Paloma went up in green flames. Utter boilover.

 

[Tusk]

Blade hewed bone and breast as Tusk carved his way towards the Tear. Perched at its peak, the Queen watched him intently, elongated nails screeching, drawing blood from stone. Oily black tendrils seeped into the air. Porous. Polluting.

The Brood Mother was old. Decades. Maybe even a century in age. Long time for a Taker to survive. The quills protecting her spine shimmered in the deadlight. Thick carapace protected her arms, chest and legs. Teeth like razors. Sharp enough to flense the skin from his bones. Gangly limbs, deceptive, and strong. Smart enough to pick her fights.

Wise enough to wait until he was worn down.

Shroudlight ran like tears down Tusk's face as he hurled a Taker bodily across the chamber. Veins stood out against his pale skin, black on green, as if he himself was corrupted. Intoxicated by Shroud. Too drunk on blood to notice.

The Queen picked her moment to strike perfectly. Bogged down by her children, robbed of its Claw, the prey's movements grew sluggish. Slow. Tenderised meat railing against the inevitable. Dangerous, still, but dying. Dead on its feet. The other one faired the same. As much a monster as that which they had come to slay. Foolish, foolish hunters.

Leaping, the Queen scrambled across the ceiling, claws leaving sketchwork scars where no mortal eye could perceive. Darkness consumed her as children fought on, hungry, and full of hate.

Death whispered in Tusk's ear like an old friend. A warning granted gratis. For services rendered. Call it instinct.

The Queen dropped from the ceiling, limbs outflung, lips peeled back in a vicious sneer. Locked in freefall. An easy target for an underestimated foe and his out-thrust palm.

A throat crumbled like wet parchment, larynx crushed, head whipping back. Death welcomed the Taker readily. Those few that survived fled, or bled.

Watching them go through a veil of lethargy, Tusk grimaced, going weak at the knees as the last shadow stilled.