Re:Cursed

Sweat rolled down her back and slid between her feathers. The feeling was horrid. It made her feel grimy and in need of an immediate bath.

Nyx had noticed she didn't sweat beneath her feathers even in the immense heat of these metal halls. With the growth of her wings, she'd lost the glands in her lower back. She'd felt warm beneath her feathers, but not sticky like the rest of her robe. At least until the sweat spread.

Now, she only felt clammy and hot. Worse where her feathers covered her torso.

A glint of red shone in the dim. A reflection. Nyx dashed forward and drove her rapier through the small critter with a dark mist flowing off the ends of its fur.

Mewling spawn.

They weren't aggressive, but leave them be long enough and their cries would attract the worst of beasts. Like skitter spawn were the spawn of rats, Mewlings were that of cats. They would follow in the cover of dark and cry like their namesake, yet those cries echoed without source. Luckily, they were easy to spot from their eyes.

It was the third of its kind she'd come across as she followed Little God and the many burning pipes that siphoned towards the Fleshforge. They were hardly the only creatures lingering in the dark, but Nyx made sure to end them quicker than most. Their mewling carried far. The last thing she wanted was to alert any of the Fleshsmiths that might be nearby.

This was their territory. Nyx was nearing the core of their temple.

The tunnel she darted through was, at her best guess, a logistical supply vein for the Fleshforge itself. She had to walk between four searing pipes as thick as a man was tall. It was impossible to tell what was within them. Liquid metal? Boiling flesh? Whatever it was, it was important for the forge, and drove the temperature of Nyx's tunnel to unbearable levels.

Her skin was already red from burns, but she just needed to push forward until her job was done. Then she could heal through ritual.

"Thank you for the easier path," she said to Little God, who floated carelessly in and out of a pipe ahead of her. As if curious of what laid inside.

Nyx didn't know herself if she was being facetious or legitimate. The path certainly had become easier after she'd asked him to fix it, but the heat was hardly easy to push through. Her mouth parched each time it opened. If her flesh hadn't already reached its limits, she was sure to have passed out from heatstroke.

Still, there was a brief wind of cold air that washed through the tunnel every five minutes or so. It was those powerful gusts that kept her going. That, and the growing desire to wipe out the cult that inflicted so much pain upon her.

It was hardly a thought she could comprehend. She was so close to going through with revenge on countless individuals that had passed her by for nearly a year without even a thought to help. All the people that not only hadn't given her an opportunity to escape when it was within their power, but had actively engaged in her maltreatment for their own benefit.

The highest creeds would no doubt need to be dealt with later — unless Nyx got lucky and they keeled while trapped in the Dark Star — but that was fine as long as the cult itself suffered immensely.

Nyx got a whiff of something rank and dashed forward again. It wasn't rotten or burning flesh. No, that would have been easier to stomach. Her eyes flicked through every dark corner for her quarry with no mind for the heat.

She heard a pop — one halfway between a balloon and a bubble — and leapt over one of the inferno pipes. Her blade came down to pierce the spawn as soon as her third eye caught it, but it was too quick. It leapt away. With a flick of her wrist, and a motion she didn't think she had the skill for, the side of the beast was sliced open.

The Malodour spawn gurgles and pukes as it rolls upright. The sound just as bad as the sight and smell. Its side — where her blade cut — spills an unsettlingly yellow pus over the floor only for a waft of smoke to rise from the puddle. Nyx smelled sulphur. She immediately covered her nose with the arm not holding a blade.

It was hard to tell if the hot tunnel was making these spawn worse, or if she just didn't remember them as well as she thought she did. Malodour spawn were disgusting creatures. Their bodies consisted of nothing more than a mass of fatty bubbles. Bubbles that had a tendency to burst and cover whatever unlucky bastard that happened to be nearby in its sickly pus.

Unlike most spawn, it was impossible to tell what creature birthed them. They held no resemblance to any known species. Discovering the origin of any spawn was hard, but these clusters of pus-bubbles tended to move far from wherever they formed. They always found their way into mass graves.

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That the core of the Fleshsmith territory held a mass grave — a place where thousands of corpses were left to rot rather then burnt or sacrificed — wasn't the greatest of surprises. They had to use something for their grafted weapons. But it did pile another reason on top of all her others to take them down.

The vile creature moved towards her, spilling out rotten liquids from both the slice in its side and the gaps between bubbles. It wasn't the quickest, but it moved fast enough that any caught unaware wouldn't be able to avoid it. Nyx beat her wings and gained space. She didn't want to get caught in a burst of the Malodour spawn's projectile vomit — or a burst pus sack.

In her last life, she'd seen a man sent bed-bound for months from the illness he'd caught from this thing. And he'd been on his third evolution. Those lower… well, it wasn't easy to live when you puked your entire stomach. And not in the metaphoric sense.

Nyx beat her wings again, and shot towards the creature. The best way to kill them was to do it quick; before they threw their innards at you.

Readying her rapier for a sharp thrust before flying over the creature and out of range of whatever might burst, she sped towards the spawn. Whether the creature knew its death was coming or not, it didn't react to her approach. It only continued to hobble towards the closest mass of flesh. That just happened to be Nyx.

When she did jab her sword forward, Nyx felt a slight twitch in her fingers. It was like something in her mind nagged at her. It told her to change her grip. That it would be better to stab a single degree to the right.

Deciding she had nothing to lose, she let her hand be guided. Even if whatever was nudging her was wrong, Malodour spawn weren't so hardy to survive an imperfect thrust.

As soon as she moved her hand, she found the nagging presence try to guide her further. To smaller and more precise changes. But she had nowhere near enough time to react to them. Her blade pierced through the gap between two fat bubbles and buried near hilt deep inside its corpse.

With her wings still carrying her forward, Nyx ripped the rapier free and immediately felt the guiding hand's protests. But she didn't have the time to worry about that. One of the bubbles had burst on the beast, and she needed to keep flying so none of that filth touched her or her feathers.

She landed, and spread her wings to cool as that cool gust washed through the tunnel once more. Even better than the relief from the heat, was how it carried away the stench.

At least for a moment. Once the cool breeze stopped, the reek of the Malodour came right back to assaulting her nostrils.

What was that? Something had been nudging her actions for a little while now, and it made her nervous. This was the first time it had been immediately apparent, but there had been an ever so slight nudge there when she'd struck the bot as it flew past her, and more intensely moments ago when she'd flicked her wrist after missing her initial strike.

Was there a Malaise affecting her mind? Something from the Darkness? Or worse: an attack from the cults?

There were countless treaties over the misuse of mental control, but Nyx had seen the worst of the cults. She knew there wasn't a chance they didn't use something if it would benefit them.

Nyx swung her sword again, and felt the nagging reappear. Now that she'd noticed it, it was much easier to focus on. And surprisingly, it only showed itself when she was moving her blade. Why would someone from the cults, or even something from the Darkness, want to change the way she used her blade?

It was especially strange, because it actually seemed helpful. That thrust had thread the needle right between two bubbles without piercing them. Well, at least until she undid that accuracy with a jerked pull.

A guide in my mind that acts only on my use of blades… it can't be, right? Nyx cast her touch over her name again, to that additive she'd not had the chance to inspect. There is no chance-

"We are here." Little God's words snapped Nyx out of her thoughts.

Sure enough, the tunnel had come to an end. What stood before her was a massive, yet shallow chamber with dozens of pipes leading in from many other tunnels identical to the one she came from. The pipes slot into the ceiling, and into the thick cylinder at the centre of the chamber.

Muffled thumps reverberated through the ceiling. It made near no noise, but the rhythmic beating flowed through her body regardless. An industrial hammer, slamming away far above, Nyx guessed. Though, if Nyx didn't know better, she'd say the thumping of the Fleshsmiths' forge mimicked the beating heart in The Scriptures' territory.

Now that Nyx had finally reached her target, she could hardly believe it. She could come this close to the Fleshforge — the foundations below it — without being discovered. This was the most valuable place to the cult. It was where their great works were forged. Where their weapons of war and subjugation that had made them a formidable force despite not truly reaching the heights of the pinnacle cults were made.

And Nyx had just waltzed in. Not a guard in sight.

"One hundred and fifty heartbeats," Little God said, floating out ahead of her. While she couldn't take her eyes from the spectacular sight even the foundations of the Fleshforge inspired, Eyeball was focused on her. Only on her.

"What?" she asked, though she was pretty sure she knew.

"One hundred and forty six heartbeats until you are discovered."

"With accuracy like that, it's almost like you can see the future." She phrased as a joke, but Nyx was growing suspicious of it being true.

Unfortunately, Little God just shook his body. "No. That is the realm of the Elders. I learnt their schedule."

Well, as long as it works. I won't need all that time anyway.

Nyx strode towards the centre of the chamber, where the thick metal cylinder supported the entire forge. She couldn't get closer if she was a part of the Fleshsmiths herself.

She sat down and performed a quick ritual to heal her burns.

This was it. She was in the heart of the Fleshsmith's temple. There was no backing down now. In the next few moments, Coral would be drowning in another Dark Star Event. The corruption would spread and make people's lives even more horrible than they'd become, and the Fleshsmiths would cop the blame.

A Dark Star was a horrible, terrifying thing, but with Little God by her side, only the Fleshsmiths would be burdened with its horrors. As they deserved.

Nyx touched her name. She skimmed the surface until she felt the crack that would unleash corruption and none of her mutations.

Once again, she opened the gates of hell.