Re:Cursed

An hour later, those few sharks grew to an undeniable swarm. No matter where Nyx looked on the surface, there were more of the small creatures spearing towards the gathering of cultists that slaughtered them in waves.

If Nyx had to guess, it was the number of cultists themselves that attracted them.

In the short time Nyx had sat here, watching, a small army of cultists congregated to this point. Likely because they considered the open space a better place to defend than near a river. If large groups of people attracted the the fleshforged, then it was better to stay in small isolated groups.

But the cultists had people to defend.

Most on Coral learnt to defend themselves, but not everyone could be a harbinger. Most names were focused to a trade or craft. Usually related to rituals or interactions with monstrosities, only not for a militaristic objective. The smiths were no different. They couldn't hold off the sharks alone, even if they had evolutions behind them.

And everybody needed to sleep.

Nyx's mind fell back on Tarchon's home. The man didn't even have a bed for himself.

Well, almost everybody.

Occasionally, the fleshmiths sent out a small groups that came back with double, or triple their numbers. Other times, their members appeared unprompted. Their numbers continued to grow, and while they weren't near the tens, or hundreds of thousands she assumed she caught in the Dark Star, they were still significant.

A dozen kilometres separated her and them. It was ten times that between her and anywhere else. At least it appeared that way. Distance here had already proven not exactly what it seemed.

The problem, for Nyx, was that she would be as visible to them as they currently were to her if she left her little burrow. Even peeking her head out was dangerous. If K'Thorn was in this stronghold of theirs, he'd notice her in an instant.

She took that as an assurance. If she hadn't already been found, he wasn't here.

More than likely, there were dozens of these congregations through the Dark Star. Those who hadn't died immediately from the corruption or the subsequent attacks would have gathered for strength. Nyx was frustrated that they put any resistance up at all… but she knew it was only early days. They — like her — were trapped here.

A scrape pulled her attention away from the cult fortifications. Another shark fell into her crevice.

Carefully, she looped a tentacle around its caudal fin and dragged it close enough to spit. When it jerked in her grip, Nyx almost bit. The instinct to leap forward and clamp the beast in her jaw was unnervingly prevalent. She knew using her mouth to fight was a stupid, dangerous thing to do, but the desire to sink her teeth into anything that found itself before her was like dangling ambrosia.

So what if the shark stabbed her neck if she could sink her own array of fangs deep into their hard metal face?

Of course, she knew better than to give into those urges. It wasn't any harder than resisting ritual-beneficial nutrient gruel while starving just to spite her captors. Though, it did help her salivate.

Nyx spat. The globule quickly followed by a second, faster ball of acid concentrate hurled from the mouth in her tongue. The recently altered bundle of muscle curled up at the back of her throat like a slug, before snapping forward with more force than she thought it capable. The slug became a snake.

Both her own mouth's and the nested one's spittle balls struck at the same time. Smoke twirled off the shark, it's metal plates fizzling and the flesh between, melting. The creature jerked. It tried to jam its sharp dorsal fin right through her chest, but she was ready and blocked it with the back of her chitinous hand.

This far from the magma rivers, the sharks were like an entirely different beast. One far easier for her to dispatch. As the small fleshforged had to traverse such large distances to reach both her and the gathered cultists, their bodies had time to cool. No longer did their steel glow. This meant that their muscles were stronger, the metal plating harder, and able to shift in more dangerous ways than before, but Nyx was no longer burnt by a simple touch.

Any time the creatures fell into her little cove, she would deal with them the same way she just did. Quick and easy.

When the fleshforged stopped trying to reconstitute itself with the limited flesh it had remaining, she dropped the remains into the growing pile, turned to watch the cultists again, and wiped her mouth. Nyx would never admit to drooling, but using saliva as a weapon wasn't exactly clean. She had to be careful of her clothes, but the rest of her body — even her human skin — was apparently exempt from the highly acidic nature of her saliva.

There was risk to her continued observation of the Fleshsmiths, but for the last ten minutes, they'd been up to something. She needed to know what. Dozens of cultists ran around the edges of their front-line — where they massacred the sharks by the thousands — and did something to the metal surface. It was impossible to tell exactly what they were doing from this distance.

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Well, her third eye could, but that would reveal herself.

Nyx figured it was a safe guess to say they were preparing a ritual, but that said nothing. Rituals held countless purposes. Were they trying to summon a monster to their defence? Hide from whatever guided the wills of these fleshforged? Or even to communicate with whatever controlled the Dark Star.

The last should be a waste of time, but she'd seen first hand that some cultists were willing to give up their freedom if it meant survival and more power to themselves. Considering they tried at all meant it worked. At least occasionally.

Nyx didn't want to think about the number of cultists that might be puppets for greater beings.

In another indication that they were being led by some permeating instinct or overarching will, the swarm increased their efforts. They knew the cultists were about to try something. Whether the sharks' amplified aggression was a result of them feeling the Fleshsmiths' emotional preparedness, or they had something else guiding them, Nyx didn't know.

What mattered, was the line of harbingers defending the small colony suddenly had much greater difficulty holding back the countless fleshforged. Sharks not eliminated by the constant gunfire slipped beneath blades and sunk their teeth into the cultists of the back line.

From Nyx's — admittedly not very great — vantage, it looked like the Fleshsmiths were about to be overrun.

Until an ominous red glow seeped into reality.

Like worms rising through the soil of the Biovault, strands of light slid between the thousands of sharks until blinding. She covered her eyes, but leaned forward, allowing her third eye to see what her human eyes could not.

The endless clamour of metal scraping against metal suddenly ceased. Silence took its place. A silence that lasted a full second before it too was succeeded by a vicious roar.

Taking a risk, she intensified her focus, and found the ritual painted in blood weaving in and around the hundreds of cultists that sang an inaudible hymn together. Thousands of candles burned an ominous red. Each shone a million times brighter than their subtle flames should allow.

The permeating otherworldly roar only intensified as the surface around them buckled. As if being hammered from below, the metal deformed upwards in small hills separating the cultists from the swarm.

Waves of sharks rushed forward, undeterred, as the front line of defence retreated. They saw weakness, and pounced.

Only for the ritual's true effect to begin.

In an instant, a towering wall shattered the surface and surrounded the Fleshsmiths. Teeth. Both the flat grinders of herbivores and razor sharp fangs like what now filled Nyx's jaw. The barrier between the cultists and the fleshforged was a mix of unfitting teeth all as large as buildings.

A few unfortunate gummy sharks were ripped to shreds by the sudden rise of jagged canines. Others were simply tossed into the air; free to be picked off by Fleshsmith guns.

And yet through the narrow gaps of the crooked teeth, the ritual light still shone as bright as ever.

Tremors reached Nyx and the roars continued as harbingers clambered up to the tops of the teeth. There were no more cracks to slip through. The sharks would need to climb the barricade, facing fire from all cultists if they wanted to overwhelm them. But with their sheer numbers closing in, it still didn't look impossible.

Until the ritual light pulsed.

Again, the surface buckled. But this time it wasn't static. A rippling wave of reshaped metal swept outwards from the newly formed tooth fortress, closely followed by a second. It was this second wave that truly halted the swarm's offence.

Exploding outward, the metal surface twisted and transformed into a field of winding wires, teeth, and fleshy tendrils. They surrounded themselves with a lake of barbed wire. It was thick, and deep; with the casual penetration of her eye, she found it went at the very least four metres down.

The entire swarm suddenly found itself unable to move. Those that were already scaling the walls lost their rear pressure, and were eliminated quickly. Despite all being made of the same components, the gummy sharks could not free themselves of the wires that cut and rend and wriggled through their flesh.

And wriggled it did. The entire lake of barbed wire moved like a pit of worms. Each twitching muscle and tendon attached to the long, winding cables had the oversized moat shifting as if it were alive.

The constant movement made the barbed wire effectively saws. Saws that were very effective at getting between the gaps of the metal plating and slicing away the flesh within.

Of course, it wasn't perfect. The Fleshforged continued to try to recover and reform, but it held them still. Easy pickings for the marksmen on the walls.

The ethereal roaring stopped when the wave of fleshy barbed wire stopped. Followed soon after was the crimson light. Their ritual had ended, but they had created a place for themselves where they would face almost no trouble in the face of the swarms. Unless a whale ate them all in a gulp, they could reasonably hold this place until their upper creeds took down the core of the Dark Star.

Nyx took offence.

Here these cultists were making a home for themselves where they could hide away from what should be a nightmare. Considering the mountains she needed to climb if she wanted to survive — even if she escaped this Dark Star alive — Nyx was incensed. This was supposed to be their punishment. Their deaths. Not hers.

When, ten minutes later, one of those larger great whites joined the offence and quickly fell under the combined assault of the Fleshsmiths, Nyx became resolute. She wouldn't allow this to continue. The cultists couldn't be allowed to have this safe haven where they could survive in the worst of a Dark Star while she had to survive on her own.

Nyx would sabotage their defences.

Almost as soon as she had the thought, the gong of the Forge hammer rang through her chest and she found it unnecessary. It seemed the Dark Star was also not willing to allow such a convenience.

In the fraction of the second before she found herself somewhere else, Nyx watched the wall of teeth split. It momentarily scattered over the landscape before disappearing from sight entirely. No different were the cultists who had found themselves safe within those walls.

For a moment, Nyx relished in the derisive joy that none of them could hold onto their safety. These gongs would continue to ring. They would continue to tear the cultists away from their safety and throw them back into the dangerous, life-threatening horror they deserved.

Then, Nyx found herself falling. Right over a sea of flesh with no land in sight.