Re:Cursed

Nyxil sat cross-legged on the guest bed in Tarchon's home. The mattress was much comfier now that the sheets weren't torn to ribbons, and it beat meditating on one of Tarchon's many workbenches.

Her tentacles lay limply at her sides, and her wing stretched out behind her while it had the chance. They were still invisible — there wasn't any way to disable her arm-band, and she didn't dare try to force it off — but any time she moved the limbs too fast, the air would shimmer and ripple. Probably not something the average first or second creed cultist would notice, but it wasn't them she was hiding from.

It felt great to let them free in the privacy Tarchon's home afforded her. The last few days had been busy. All of her time was either talking strategy with Ari and Dan, or down with the skitter-spawn testing her limits. Well, her limits without mutations. It felt horrible keeping her wing bound at all times, and it was only made worse that she felt a yearning to fly that she simply couldn't satisfy.

For now, she just needed to relax now that the first of the Trials was only a day away. Nyxil had garnered a decent understanding of her fighting capability and she was ready for the first few days alongside her two ward-mates. And the best way she'd discovered could settle her nerves? She scanned her name for new mutations.

The more interesting ones — those hidden behind other mutations — took time to decipher. And even when her sense formed a picture, it didn't always make sense. What was taller than a mountain, yet weighed less than a rat? Why did she think an eyeball tasted sweet?

They were complicated and nonsensical, but Nyxil enjoyed the puzzle they offered. She had fun imagining what they could be. It took her mind off the sheer weight of pressure for her to come out victorious in the Trials. Sure, she was in a good position, but that didn't make the task any less daunting. She was up against tens of thousands. Some of them were much, much more fortunate than the rest.

Nyxil was prepared. Beyond her Talent trying to teach her to not be so reliant on always holding her blade, she had been experimenting with her other names. Most of her headway had come from N̚oth. It had retained much of its aspect of rhythm boosting speed, but she discovered that even without doing anything, it offered an improvement to her body.

Her chitin was harder, and she could clamp her claws with far more force. Her vision was slightly better. Both in her human eyes, and the one in her chest. The latter able to distinguish some things better without resorting to consuming them as quickly, without taking away her ability to consume if she so desired. Even her tentacles grew quicker, and more flexible.

They had already been boneless masses of muscle that she could already squish and bend how she wished, so it was a surprise they could go even further.

Unfortunately, the name didn't seem to improve her human body all that much. It was understandable; the human body was weak, and didn't have much to offer compared to her mutations. But it was less than ideal now that she was coming into a set of trials where she couldn't rely on those mutations.

There was still much for her to learn about the name, as she'd learned just yesterday.

Nyxil had assumed the accelerating rhythm was just a leftover part from one of the names that had formed it. Evast. She'd thought that because the improvement granted to her body for moving in a semi-dance while fighting was not as strong as the original name. That was wrong. It didn't give her the same speed as before because it didn't work the same way.

Though she didn't really understand the why yet, when Nyxil had matched her heartbeat to the rhythm of her fight, the impact skyrocketed. By syncing a strike or footstep with the thump of her heart, power crashed through her. Tarchon had not been happy with the damage she'd done. Not even her claws had been able to scratch the metal he used for his pipes and yet her blade had left a deep gouge through one down with the skitters.

There was obviously more to the name, but she would have to learn as she fought.

Her other names hadn't progressed nearly as well. Ossuul let her bend her spine more than should physically be possible, which felt amazing, but offered no path to advance despite the name's description mentioning no limit to the spine, or flexibility. Lyotep, her new Feat, gave even less of a hint. As far as Nyxil was aware, it did nothing.

Then there was her core name. As she'd expected, the new evolution gave her insight not only into her own curses, but those of others. Now she wouldn't be going around blind while she activated others' unfortunate names. She still needed to see if she could read some of the stronger curses. There weren't exactly many with the hatred of a thousand dead lingering inside them in the safe zone where she spent her time with Dan and Ari… and experimented on strangers.

Her mind wandered. She fell back into the soft cushions and hugged the soft feathers of her wing. Nyxil swore they had become softer. Fluffier. Was that a part of the evolved additive? Or had she simply forgotten after such a drawn out struggle? Maybe they felt that way because she couldn't actually see them. It had taken her a while to push past the mental block that seemed to prevent her from feeling even her own mutations.

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Even with the joy of looking at her possible futures, Nyxil found it difficult to relax. The problem refused to relent. She'd intended to take the day to pace herself, but not even her slowed heart relieved the tension she felt. When she wasn't worried a gummy would sneak up and bite her, it was the idea that she was wasting her time where she should be preparing against the cults that infested her mind.

It was unsustainable. Nyxil knew it. But there was nothing she could do to stop herself.

Rolling off the bed, and crawling out of the room, she went for her stash of food. Actual food. Not Tarchon's tasteless bricks. She took some meat from the temperature-controllable pressure chamber she stored it in — it was the closest thing to a fridge Tarchon had — cooked it in the vicinity of a blowtorch for a few minutes, then tossed it on some bread along with some veggies. They were only slightly corrupted.

She ignored the moving lettuce as she ate her seventh sandwich for the day.

Her appetite had been through the roof ever since she'd returned from the Dark Star, and it didn't look like a temporary thing. It could be her body making up for so long with such a lacklustre diet. Or maybe the negative effect of her curses was finally relenting now that they had become such an integral part of her soul.

If it was the latter, she hoped all this eating would finally give her some weight. It was already too late for her height. The damage had already been done during her development, and even when she'd reached twenty two, she probably could have been mistaken for a young teen. There would be no growing for her.

Nyxil thought back to her wealth of mutations available to her. Or maybe I have more to grow than anyone.

She smiled at the idea of being taller than Tarchon. If she had the option between her own diminutive height or Tarchon's enviable stature, she would only ever take her own; it was simply better for her way of fighting. But it didn't feel that far-fetched to imagine such possibilities.

The workshop was quiet whenever the Technocultist wasn't around. He had some robotics that — had he wanted — could do plenty of the work he did while he wasn't around, yet they'd barely seen use during her entire stay here.

It was the divide between the Technocult and the Worshippers of the Machine God, she knew. Tarchon, like every other member of his cult, had a deep resentment for any sufficiently advanced algorithms and programs. Anything where a mind could settle, they avoided as if it were death itself.

That… and some of the machines he made defied belief.

He'd been out for a while now. Still putting pressure on the Fleshsmiths for the disaster that happened in their territory. For a man that knew the truth behind the whole fiasco, he knew how to push them. Even Ari had spoken about how unrelenting he had been in his investigation; having revealed countless other crimes he'd discovered while he had the authority to stick his nose into their affairs.

Every cult likely had the same bag of misdeeds hidden beneath a thin veneer, but they weren't the ones being investigated, so they all condemned the Fleshsmiths. If there was only one thing that surpassed the cult's desires to steal resources, it was their hatred of the other cults doing the same.

In the wake of the Dark Star, and all the pressure being placed on them from outside, infighting had begun. For some reason, Solan hadn't been present to oversee her cult while a Coral-wide slander campaign was launched against them, but Nyxil didn't question it. The two factions of the Fleshsmiths were splitting.

Nyxil couldn't have relished their downfall more if she tried.

Still, even with all that work of his, Tarchon was here more often then not. For him to have not returned since the early hours was… odd. If he wasn't eighty percent unscratchable metal, and a ninth evolution powerhouse, she might have been worried.

Suddenly, Nyxil's vision flashed red.

Sirens squealed in her ear before she realised she'd hit the floor. Somehow, she'd crashed beneath one of Tarchon's benches. Pulsating red lights illuminated the workshop, and it was a mess. More so than usual. All of Tarchon's projects were scattered along the floor. His unorganised wall of shelving, now empty.

Nyxil didn't have to wait long to discover what happened. An earthquake struck again. A few loose bolts struck her across the face, as she clung to the table leg, but otherwise nothing more happened. Glancing around, she found the mess gone. Vents along the lower wall had opened to collect it all.

The alarms didn't stop though, and she could hear ungodly screeching from outside.

She ran to the door and swung it open. Her first thought was that she'd somehow been transported somewhere else. The reactive judgement that the Forge hammer had struck. But no. This was still the same ancient refinery that Tarchon had set up shop… and yet it wasn't.

All the pipes connecting to the control room had disconnected, and spiralled outward like an immense blooming flower with her at the centre. Beyond that, the machinery of the far walls held barely any familiarity. What had once been a mountain of ancient refinery mechanisms retrofitted with new parts had split apart to reveal far more complex — shinier — contraptions that hid within.

Some slot into place, creating massive, building-sized cannons that glowed blue and hissed with power. The vast majority of her surroundings folded away into a tall, open drum. Sleek metal panels slid into place along the wide chamber, and blue sparks shot a streak of light around in a circle. It accelerated until the entire wall was nothing but a solid blue plane of energy that stung just looking at.

Below, all the machinery fell away along with the only bridge. All that remained was a pit that went to who-knows-where.

But all of this paled in comparison to who she saw at the entrance to Tarchon's refinery. Riding a massive snake of flesh and iron chains, stood Solan.

The moment they locked eyes, Solan's filled with glee. There was no hatred for what Nyxil had done; only greed. The cult leader knew what she was.

Solan had come for her perfect sacrifice.