NOVEL NEXT 187. The Sins of Our Fathers
187. The Sins of Our Fathers
The first thing to hit Serac was the smell. Even two ascensions into her journey, she still managed to find things to remind her of the damn Damnatorium. But where her Penitent days had been filled with the miasma of active death, the Catacombs offered something much older and colder. Here, death wasn't happening; it just was.
The room itself was covered in complete darkness. An ominous sign—the absence of myrrh's protective effects. Whoever lay in this the lowest and deepest tomb in Dawnwick, had they been abandoned by their descendants? Or were there dead souls even the Mrigas deemed unworthy of consecration?
[HIEROPHANT Spell: DUSKLIGHT]
[Oathborn Technique: THE FEW]
Before Serac knew it, she could see again, though perhaps 'see' wasn't strictly the right word. Instead, she perceived the world via a pair of a stranger's eyes—[the Herd]'s eyes—that had transposed themselves onto her own vision.
Realgar's Oathborns were numerous yet formless on their own. They functioned by imprinting themselves onto his chosen allies, in this case as 'eyes' the color of burnt umber. Which, frankly speaking, wasn't much of an improvement over the pitch blackness.
As Serac learned to align her own senses with the imprint, her surroundings eventually revealed themselves, lit half-heartedly as if by a setting sun. She found herself inside a large, rectangular room far longer than it was wide—itself shaped like a single sarcophagus.
Such was the strange power of Realgar aft'Enright's magic, cast in the absence of an external Instrument. Serac had of course met his type before (Rathor Tyrsen and Queen Loha being prime examples): Wayfarers who'd transmuted their own internal organ. As to the organ in question, the man himself had called it his pineal gland—a term that meant almost nothing to an expat from hell.
Regardless, the effect was as utilitarian as its mechanism was inscrutable. [Dusklight], linked by [the Few], allowed the entire party to share Realgar's vision. What the Viceroy saw in his Keeper's Gloam, both Serac and Travertine could as well. It rendered the darkness no obstacle, as long as Serac allowed herself to be guided by another.
So, Realgar clearly hadn't 'retired' from Wayfaring, at least not outright. He seemed perfectly happy to play the backline support, however, which evidently included waxing nostalgic about Dawnwick's ancient dead.
"To steward our ancestor's legacy is also to reckon with their failings."
The man moved with purpose, further into the sarcophagus-shaped room. Serac hastened to keep up, lest she 'fall behind' [Dusklight]. It was the strangest sensation—desynchronization of perception and movement.
"This is where Dawnickers of yore buried their undesirables: those better forgotten than honored with a grave. The sick, the stunted, the feeble-minded. And of course, the criminally inclined. As we speak, it's upon their desiccated remains that we tread. Unthinkable sacrilege in any other circumstance, but… what are we to do when the entire floor is paved with mummified cadavers?"
Only then did Serac become dreadfully aware of the sensation—and sounds—at her feet. Crunch. Crack. Rattle. She didn't dare look down (not that she could, technically speaking), lest she lose all that porridge still sloshing inside her stomach.
She would've shot Realgar a dirty look if she could do it without horrible vertigo. Couldn't have warned us about it before we stepped in? She also hated the idea of the sick, the stunted, and the feeble-minded lumped together with criminals as 'undesirables'. But she supposed Mr Viceroy couldn't be held accountable for the sins of his ancestors.
"Centuries upon centuries of ostracism and neglect." The man wasn't done listening to his own voice. One of those types, Serac grumbled inwardly. "That by itself might well have been enough to mangle and twist this place into a seedbed of accursed magic. But alas, this is Tidereign. Our Aberrant foes germinate under the cold gleam of moonlight. They steal through the veil of the Gloaming skies to then incubate themselves within the husks of our most hateful dead."
Realgar finally stopped—both movement and speech (oh, thank the gods). Before him, illuminated in [Dusklight], stood six antlered figures in an eerily organized line.
Serac's borrowed vision once more fell out of step with her body as she physically shrank back. Despite having smited her fair share of ghosts, ghouls, and creepy-crawlies, the sight of Mriga mummies standing atop a sea of their fellows still threw her for a loop. She might've preferred it if said mummies were as ancient and dessicated as Realgar so claimed, but these guys looked a little too fresh and a little too intact for her liking.
Indeed, it was because they weren't all the way dead. For what long dead thing could stand on two feet, let alone strike poses cogent enough for a startled Rakshasa to recognize?
All six poses were different. One had both arms up, fists pressed against antler bases. Another had their arms crossed upon their chest. One had their right fist on their forehead, another their left arm folded onto the opposite shoulder, and so on.
Serac started with realization. They were six variations of that somber salute with which Dawnwickers greeted each other. All of them were somewhat reminiscent of the template, yet all were 'incorrect' in their own ways. Six ways to breach the accepted custom. Which meant—
"And steeped in the wickedness of Night"—Realgar's floaty tenor suddenly took on a sonorous gravitas—"our forefathers' sins are made greater, uglier, and all the more irredeemable!"
As if in response to the call-out—the accusation—the six Mriga husks erupted into a cloud of shadows. The room, already pitch-black, somehow managed to grow darker… which only made Realgar's [Dusklight] shine that much brighter.
Serac unholstered REVOLVER.
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In an instant, she forgot the dread, the doubts, the icks. All negative emotions fell away, leaving only a call to be answered. An opportunity to affirm her identity as Wayfarer. Six avatars of sin, and therefore six fresh Aberrants for Serac to smite.
[Frenzied Glutton]
The first such Aberrant was a familiar face. Well, more like a familiar triangle upon a set of spindly limbs. The Wayfarers would do well to avoid getting sucked into the Glutton's [Hammerspace].
[Frenzied Envier]
Perhaps the most visually unremarkable of the bunch, at least at first glance. It was a squat little thing that appeared to shrink into itself, with an almost timid 'don't look at me' energy. But it did have one feature as strikingly grotesque as the Glutton's zippered face: a pair of triangular eyes that protruded from their sockets and flapped in the stale sarcophagus air.
[Frenzied Miser]
The hooded, round figure was the inverted version of a Glutton. It took up some hefty real estate in the center of the room, its wide base all but fused to the cadaverous floor. A whole triangle-shaped arm poked out from one side of its hooded cloak and twitched ceaselessly, as though fighting against some baser impulse.
[Frenzied Fury]
Amidst a group of Breachspawns sent across from the world of Night, Fury was the only one that actually looked somewhat cat-like. Svelte and vaguely feminine in physique, it crouched on all fours and held its featureless face aloft, as if to survey its latest hunting ground. Its triangle was its tail, larger than the rest of its body and already whipping about with furious energy, flicking cadaver bits into the air as it did.
[Frenzied Lecher]
This was the one label that made Serac to do a double take. She almost didn't want to know what the thing looked like, but thankfully (I think?), it was tamer than its designation might suggest.
A smooth, muscular, and decidedly masculine figure—almost like Zacko if he'd shaved all his hair and dipped his whole body in black ink (sorry, Zacko!). Its distinguishing feature was a pair of triangular legs—thick thighs tapering into tiny feet. Of all the strange triangles Serac had studied so far, these somehow worried her the most.
[Frenzied Braggart]
Braggart was the apparent 'leader' of the group, judging by its position behind and above the rest. Serac was instantly reminded of Realgar (not sorry, Mr Viceroy!)—a real 'go forth, my pretties, and make me look good' energy.
Not just in energy, but also in appearance. If Fury was the most Tiryaga-like of the Breachspawns, Braggart definitely took after a Mriga. It was slim, androgynous, straight-backed, and dressed in a bulky robe of clinical white, stark against a backdrop of darkness and death. Instead of one or even a pair of triangles, it wore a whole crown of them formed by needle-sharp spikes—Aberrant imitation of majestic antlers.
And it was this Braggart—king among sins—that sounded the opening gong, as it puffed out its robed chest, stuck up its chin, and sang at the top of its hate-filled lungs.
Instantly, the giant sarcophagus filled with the Braggart's banshee-like wailing. A horrific aria of irrational confidence, made all the more irritating and disorienting by sheer decibels.
Serac clamped one ear with her REVOLVER hand and wished she could do the same with the other. Around her, the remaining five Breachspawns didn't seem to mind one bit. If anything, they were galvanized into action, as they launched a coordinated offensive.
The Lecher was the first to move, its triangular legs churning like mad for a tremendous burst of speed. It made for Serac and closed the gap in an instant, showing zero regard for the corpses it cut up along the way.
The gunslinger's first instinct was to dodge—a deft, precisely measured sidestep to avoid the tackle while also tracking the enemy's movement. But just as Serac spun to shoot it in the back, the Lecher's legs twisted in place. It spun right back to face the Rakshasa again, startling her with its ferocious non-gaze and inky musculature.
The Lecher then sprang right into her, like a wind-up toy set loose after far too many turns of the dial. Too quick for Serac to dodge. She instead brought PULVERIZER up to block, eating—
[81!]
—points in Primal damage. If she thought that might be the end of it, she was to be sorely disappointed. For the Lecher continued to push, reach, wrestle, and reposition from behind the rocky shield. Its relentless pursuit made a hell-forged demon girl's blood run cold.
This is somehow even worse than what I'd imagined a 'lecherous' Aberrant to be! Serac couldn't afford to be drawn into a battle of Stamina attrition. The best way to deal with someone who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer was to say it again in bullet form.
[151!], [Chamber Two: APPETIZER], [189!], [189!] -> [529!]
A triple burst, mixed in with Zealous conversion partway through. All three hits went through unmitigated. Yet, the Lecher didn't slacken one bit in its effort to throw itself at Serac. And just as she came dangerously close to draining her Stamina…
A triangular arm reached across from nowhere and wrapped itself around her waist. It then yanked her back bodily as though she weighed nothing, pulling her away from the Lecher and into—
A moment to 're-sync' her vision with [Dusklight]… then Serac saw it. The Miser hadn't moved an inch from where it fused to the floor, but its prehensile arm had stretched far beyond the limits of anatomy. It now retracted, back into the Miser's round, stationary body, as lightning quick as a Lecherous gap-closer.
And waiting beside the Miser was the Glutton, face already unzipped and ready to swallow Serac whole as soon as she came within glurping range. She tried to fire back with REVOLVER, but it was no use. Darkness, [Dusklight], and a Miser's greedy grasp. Too much of a disjointed blur for a marksman to go through her principles.
[Oathborn Technique: GORING CROSS]
[486!]
A pair of deer bounded in opposite directions, crossing their antlers right next to Serac's hurtling body. She felt the Miser's grip loosen as its triangle of an arm dropped to the floor, momentarily shorn in half. She then wasted no time to dodge-roll out of the way of the Glutton's glurping attempt, scrambling back to re-join her Mriga companions.
There'd be time later to thank Travertine for his crucial assist. For now, however, the Wayfarers had to survive a proper team battle against a hexad of Breachspawns—each member armed with its unique brand of chaos.
Behind the detective pair, the man who fancied himself as their leader let out a withering sigh.
"I had high hopes for you, Deacon, but I suppose a bit of a stumble is to be expected. It is only your first Day, after all." Realgar's smile—umber in color and genuine in its cold emotion—imprinted itself onto his [Herd]'s eyes. "But get ready, now. Let me show you what it really means to have the Gloam fight by your side."