The Homunculus Knight

"Different lineages engage in different rites of ascension as befitting their character and customs. But no matter the minutia, all these rituals share a few common elements, as they are simply universal to our kind's way of propagation. Most simply, the prospective member of the aristocracy must die from blood loss while the blessed ichor is in contact with their bloodstream. Other aspects like the amount of ichor imbided, and if the prospective sire consumes their scion's lifeblood, have an effect on the rite's general potency, but these are secondary when compared to the main component."- From the text "Through Blood and Shadow we are Reborn," penned by Count Anstis Gens Cilnius

"YOU LEFT HIM ALONE WITH IT!" shouted Natalie, her fangs bared at the anguished Hierophant Dala.

Cole put a hand on her shoulder, maybe hoping to calm the Alukah, but she was having none of it. Knocking away his touch, she whirled on Mina and Deborah. "Why didn't either of you stay with him?!"

The priestess had the good grace to look abashed while Seraphilim jutted out her chin in challenge. "There was no reason-"

Natalie cut her off. "Kit is a reckless idiot, you of all people should know that after what he did with his arms!"

Blazing golden eyes met smoldering red as the two reincarnations of ancient enemies glared at each other until Hierophant Dala pulled the focus back to her.

"This is my fault, I take complete responsibility. The magi seemed brash but capable, so after explaining the mechanics to him, I thought… Well, I didn't see the harm in leaving him to work while I rested."

Biting down the urge to tear into the older woman, Natalie rubbed at her forehead, trying to ward off the headache so much frustration was bound to conjure. How was it she managed to dive into her mindscape and cajole memories from a damned soul without an issue, just for everything else to turn into goatshit?

Kit had somehow unleashed Oaken Brother, vanishing himself and Yara in the process. While the spirit was now resealed thanks to Dala, Deborah, and the barge's other spellweavers' efforts, there was no sign of the magi and thralls' fate, be it good or ill. As far as anyone seemed to know, they'd both entered the makeshift shrine, and by the time people arrived to investigate the commotion, they were gone.

Of course, upon hearing all this, Natalie had tried to reach out through her psychic link and gotten strange results. When she tried to send a thought or idea through the bond, it felt like she was doing the psionic equivalent of speaking underwater; everything became distorted and garbled. The fact that the connection remained meant Yara lived, but her mere separation from Natalie meant that might change soon.

A normal thrall could only go a little more than a week without the sting before withdrawal started tearing them apart. There was no telling how long an ancilla like Yara had, or how bad her symptoms might get. The very thought of the broken woman whom Natalie swore to help, dying such a miserable death, tore at the Alukah. Yara was hers, and she wasn't going to let anyone, not even Master Time, take what she had claimed.

"Before anything else, we need to know what exactly happened to them," said Cole, cutting through the air of agitation sparking off Natalie. After forcing herself to stop glaring at Deborah and Dala, the Alukah swallowed down her pique and then followed the paladin into the shrine.

The first thing Natalie noticed was the stains; the wooden deck around the bilge hatch was marked with large splatters of odd brown viscousness that had been hastily painted over in places by Dala's reinforced wards. Before pure dread born of what those discolorations might portend could overtake Natalie, her nose caught up with her eyes. The stains stunk not of drying blood or smeared gore, but of arboral bitterness. A childhood spent around woodworking and sheep farming told her exactly what the marks were made of.

"Tannin?"

Everyone looked at her in confusion, and she explained. "Those stains, they're the type you get from tannin, like from oak trees."

Nodding slowly, Dala approached one of the marks. "The spirit's manifestation was leaking this fluid, using it to damage my runes. I thought it was sap at the time."

"Oaks have it in their bark, it protects them from bugs, I think. But, it's not a liquid, you turn it into one when you're trying to tan hides."

Deborah let out an oddly melodic hum. "The spirit must be producing the substance; there is symbolism in that. Bark and leather, both layers of protection, one plant, one human."

After biting down on a scathing comment about that obvious insight, Natalie joined Cole, who was kneeling down before one of the larger stains near the hatch. He had his hunting knife out and was carefully prodding a section of deck without arcane symbols. The blade sank easily into the wood, digging a sticky, splintered furrow.

"You know about tannin because it can be used to stain wood, right?" the paladin asked upon noticing Natalie's arrival.

She nodded and preempted his next question, as she'd noticed the oddity as well. "It doesn't soak into wood like that, at least not this quickly."

Scratching more at the board, Cole revealed it was thoroughly saturated with tannin, every fiber and strand of its grain covered in the stuff. Looking up from his work, he said. "I need to remove some of these planks. Can you all stand ready to help if the spirit reacts?"

"What?" sputtered Dala.

"Something wrong with the wood, I want to have a larger section to examine."

Muttering a mix of a prayer and a curse under her breath, Dala prepared herself. "Do it quickly."

No sooner did she say that than Cole brought Requiem down onto one of the planks near the hatch, chopping a half-meter-long segment of deck free. Growing a pair of claws, Natalie helped him pry the board free, revealing part of the bilge. The stink of tannin was joined by leaf mold and wood rot. All the unnatural plant life that once filled the subcompartment was dead and rapidly decaying.

"Accelerated growth has consequences," muttered the paladin.

Leaning down so her head was almost in the bilge, Natalie sniffed at its contents, her inhuman senses sifting through the different aromas of dead plant to find other, more familiar scents. Fear, she could smell fear, two distinct flavors of it, overlapping and intermingling, but each carrying hints of their origin.

Haltingly, Natalie spoke what she'd just learned: "Kit and Yara were in the bilge, and… they were afraid."

Before the full weight of all that implied could settle, Cole added. "More than the tannin has affected this.."

Natalie looked back just for him to hand the plank to her. "Look along the sides, do you have any idea what causes that?"

There was an odd rippling texture in the wood grain, one that had been obscured from the top. Letting her carver's fingers dance along the slightly sticky plank, Natalie's earlier frown of concern shifted into one of bafflement. The wood's texture and structure was all wrong, matching nothing she'd seen natural or craft-made

"These ripples, and warping, they don't make sense, honestly, this looks more like shitty pottery than wood."

A shockingly quick hand grabbed the plank from Natalie, and she glared up at Deborah, who was now staring at the wood segment with rapt attention. "You could have asked."

Ignoring her, the Seraphilim ran her own fingers along the wood, and golden sparks dripped from them into the distorted grain. After sucking in a sharp breath, Deborah whispered. "I think I know what did this."

Pointing at the hatch, she continued. "Hierophant, can you open that up? Paladin, can you remove some more samples?"

Both obliged, leaving Natalie sitting there, chewing on her lip, fangs barely piercing the skin. She knew her irritation with Deborah wasn't rational; she knew blame for Yara's disappearance couldn't be easily levelled at anyone (yet), and she knew all her anger was probably more for herself than anyone else, but even knowing all that, she could barely bridle her emotions. Emotions that, if she were being honest with herself, had less origin in the fear of losing a friend, and more in the fury born of losing cherished property.

A fresh wave of dead plant stink pulled Natalie's attention, and she joined Dala and Deborah by the now-opened hatch. The root spike still pierced the hull, but its form and texture had changed. Instead of a singular shaft of sturdy wood, it had become a loosely entwined coil of sickly strands. Drooping slightly, the root sat impacted amidst a layer of dead greenery and broken chains; whatever power had been invested in it was rapidly fading.

"Are the protections still necessary?" asked Natalie, trying to keep her voice free of acid.

Dala kept staring at the spike, her countenance having gained a few more wrinkles. "It was active and dangerous just minutes ago."

"It served its purpose," muttered Deborah, turning back to where Cole had stacked up a few sections of damaged deck. The strange damage found on the first sample was present in the rest of the planks; this wasn't an isolated thing.

Eyes glowing slightly, Deborah set down the last of the samples and then climbed down into the bilge. A warning growl rumbled from one of the shrine's corners, and Natalie looked over to see Grettir leaning there, one hand on the battle axe sitting next to him. It was honestly unnerving how still and silent the werewolf could be at times. A dismissive hand popped up from the bilge and waved off the mercenary's concern. "It's fine, their barely any magic left here."

For the next few minutes, they all waited while the Seraphilim sang quietly in saint-speech, golden sparks occasionally billowing up from the open hatch. The air in the shrine was steadily growing warmer and now carried an odd citrus flavor. Every bit of Natalie's exposed skin started to itch like mad. Gods, she hated being around Deborah.

Eventually, the singing stopped, and the magic faded. Just as the new silence stretched on for a beat too long to be comfortable, the daughter of an angel spoke again.

"Fuck."

Natalie's agitation was washed away by ice water in her veins. This was the first time she'd heard the Seraphilim properly swear, and the level of dejection carried in that singular word spoke volumes.

Lips set in a tight line, Deborah started hauling herself out of the bilge. After taking Cole's offered hand, she settled onto the stained deck, a new weight on her shoulders. Looking around at them all, the Seraphilim nervously licked her lips before meeting Natalie's frantic gaze.

"That warping of the wood, and the stain soaking all the way through, it's a side-effect of reality itself being squeezed and twisted. This was caused by slap-dash spatial magic."

Cole sucked in a startled breath. "What kind of spatial magic?"

Shrugging slightly, Deborah replied. "A rift of some kind, one connecting to a parallel construct."

Seeing Cole's lips part in a new question, Deborah cut him off. "The construct has been withdrawn by the spirit, leaving this anchor to decay."

Looks of confusion were shared among all in the room except Paladin and Seraphilim. This was strange eldritch magic, beyond even a priest's education, let alone Natalie's. But even if she didn't understand the arcane minutia, she knew what the look on Cole's face meant; he was worried, very, very worried.

Tentatively, she asked. "How bad is it?"

Deborah sighed and looked down at the open hatch. "The spirit pulled Kit and Yara through a portal, bringing them to its seat of power: the Almgrove in Harmas."

The world dropped out from beneath Natalie's feet as the implications sank in. "Y-you said the construct is withdrawn… does… d-does that mean-"

"We can't follow them through the portal or even contact the spirit. Which means we don't have a way into Harmas anymore," interrupted Deborah, her tone both concerned and conciliatory.

Shutting her eyes, Natalie found herself agreeing with Deborah's earlier response. "Fuck."

"How does it work?" asked Wolfgang as he stared down at the carousel lantern on the table before him.

Scapino gingerly set the chain-wrapped chest carrying Isabelle Gens Silva's skull next to the lantern and started working on its locks, both mechanical and magical. "It puts a mind into a dream of reminiscence, and lets you witness recollections. The only problem is you'll have very little control over what exactly memories the soul sinks into, so expect a lot of pointless voyeurism before finding anything useful."

The final chain rattled free, and Scapino carefully removed the skull. Staring into its empty sockets, he muttered. "I wonder what secrets you have in store for us."

After placing the skull onto a stack of books, so it sat eye-level with the lantern's gossamer panels, the ashborn started fiddling with the eldritch contraption, doing something to illicit a harsher glow from the central gemstone. The uncanny light passing through the panels projected eerie insect-wing textures upon the walls.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Wolfgang found his eyes drawn to these half-shadows as they slowly danced along the peeling wallpaper. Tracing the individual cell-like structures making up each panel, he slowly asked. "What are the dangers in using the lantern?"

A firm hand gripped onto his shoulder and spun him about. Startled, Wolfgang found Scapino standing uncomfortably close, his guildmark smile looking a little brittle. "For one, don't stare at anything I don't tell you to. We can't have that clever mind of yours be hollowed out by this parlor trick, now, can we?"

Quickly setting his gaze onto the floor, Wolfgang chided himself. Conjuring and binding the Broodmother had been dangerous enough, and in the grand hierarchies of the Grey Beyond, she was little more than a venerable parasite. What Scapino had gotten his hands on was a sidhe relic, an item crafted by those perfidious intelligences that drowned worlds in magic for the sheer delight of it. Wolfgang would need to use an overabundance of caution if he were to survive the Deja Lanterna.

"The creators of this device think and feel on a scale difficult for us to comprehend. So even with the lantern calibrated down to what they'd consider dull, it will still be overwhelming. There is a risk of personality and memory bleed, but I've taken some precautions to make sure you don't come out of this thinking you're Gens Silva. Funny as that would be, we only want her knowledge, not her grating personality."

"What sort of precautions?" muttered Wolfgang, as he considered if there was any way he could talk himself out of using this cursed thing.

The sound of rummaging paper and tinkling of glass caught the vampire's attention, and he risked looking up long enough to see Scapino holding up a small bottle containing a buzzing insect. "A degree of separation. Normally, the lantern inserts you into the person's perspective, but with a little bit of metaphysical finagling, we can add a foreign observer to the memories, something you can use as a disguise. You'll be present in Gens Silva's dream, but as an unobtrusive watcher, safe from drowning in her mind. Of course, this will limit your ability to access the former countess's internal world, but considering your record in reverse-engineering her work, I think that's an acceptable trade-off to keep you sane. Now, here, take a look at your mask, I thought you'd appreciate the humor of it."

Scapino tossed the bottle to Wolfgang, who now peered at its occupant. It was a fat blowfly. Lip curling in disgust, he spat. "You can't be serious?"

"Oh, but I am. Besides, I bet in all those nights you spent poring over what your sire salvaged from Gens Silva's library, you at least once wished you could have been a fly on the wall while she was working. Well, wish granted!"

Not wanting to confirm the accuracy of Scapino's jest, the Black Fly changed the topic. "Have you used the lantern before?"

"Ha! No, I haven't, but I've helped others, some of whom even survived with their minds intact." Upon seeing Wolfgang's tense expression, the ashborn rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dour, the Troupe has high hopes for you. I'm not going to use you up like some Tyto thrall."

It took more self control than Wolfgang would ever admit to not strike his benefactor. Being reminded of his mortal past was never pleasant, but now it was especially painful with the spectre of his grandniece hanging overhead.

After dragging a chair over so it sat on the opposite side of the lantern from Isabelle's skull, Scapino patted the and said. "Sit down, and let's get started."

Anger and fear pushed words out of Wolfgang's mouth before his wits could catch them. "Why don't you do it?"

"Because I can't," replied Scapino with a coy smile. "Being an ashborn comes with its downsides. Now, will you stop panicking, and prove your worth? Remember, our patron is waiting for a return on her investment."

Seeing no way out, the Black Fly slunk into the chair and watched while his 'ally' made the final preparations. Using a pair of tweezers, Scapino snapped the bottled fly out of its container and set it atop the central gemstone of the lantern. Yet, strangely, when he let go, the insect didn't flee; it just sat there, wings twitching slightly but otherwise perfectly still.

Cool hands grabbed either side of Wolfgang's face, and Scapino carefully oriented him to look at the slowly rotating panels. "Stare dead ahead, and don't blink. We'll be starting any moment now."

Reaching out, the ashborn gently stopped the carousel's constant rotation and then with a flick of his wrist sent it spinning in the opposite direction. The wire and bone apparatus started to creak as it spun faster and faster, making the panels blur into one sheet of reflective gossamer. With every passing second, the crystal's glow grew more intense, and the dappled light reaching Wolfgang was becoming painful, but he dared not look away.

Round and round and round and round and round the carousel went, its structure clicking and chirping like a chorus of night insects; slowly filling the musty manor with a song that made Wolfgang feel vaguely nostalgic, but for he knew not what. As the vampire's eyes started to wax over, they caught flickers of something in the light, a shape, an occlusion of the crystal. He tried to focus, but whatever he was seeing just wouldn't come into view; it defied his eyes and spoke to other, more esoteric senses.

A pressure was building against Wolfgang, a weight upon his body and mind that made him feel like he was also spinning. As the alien sensation built into nausea, an impossibility for a creature like him, the Black Fly started to decipher the shape in the panels. It was the projected image of a skull, the very skull that sat opposite him, now somehow transmitted through the lantern. Transfixed, he watched as the skull grew blurry again, indistinct, its alabaster lines and ridges melting away like patterns in wet clay, leaving a blank slate for a new shape to emerge.

From the pale vaguery that had once been a skull, flesh-covered features started to congeal. Features that held hints of the skull, in their high cheekbones and sharp chin. Soon Wolfgang found himself staring into the face of Isabelle Gens Silva, except her eyes were wrong; instead of the piercing red he'd expected, they were black, glistening multifacted things, a fly's eyes. Staring into those uncanny orbs, Wolfgang felt the pressure on him change; no longer was he being pressed upon, now he was being pulled.

Instinct screamed for him to look away, to flee, to escape this madness and try his luck surviving in the city he'd murdered, but a mixture of fear and fascination held him captive. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look away, even as his vision was dominated by those dark, empty eyes. No longer was he staring into Isabelle's face, now he was peering into a void, a void disrupted by flashes and twinkles; what he'd thought to be the myriad lesnes of a flies eyes were now revealed to be something else, they were stars, stars more distant and ancient than his mind could comprehend, stars that felt his presence and watched him in turn.

Wolfgang wanted to scream, but to do so required a throat, and he wasn't certain he had one of those anymore.

The Fly buzzed aimlessly between bookshelves, his senses itching with information that defied easy understanding. Something nearby was dead, and something else was dying, but instead of the usual desire such odors might evoke, the fly felt fear; for neither the dead nor the dying was playing their role correctly.

Staring out with ten thousand lenses and a similar number of smell-hairs, the Fly drank in its surroundings, and tried to understand where it was and why it was. All around were stacks of books and scrolls, all kept in carefully curated order. The skins of entire sheep herds lay nestled with the pulped flesh of a forest, both tattooed with oak apples and iron. This was a library, a monumental library; and at its center, in the space below the Fly, a woman crawled through a puddle of her own blood.

Deep wounds decorated the woman's neck, pumping ichor out onto the cold stone; but she seemingly paid them no heed, her focus instead on the dead thing lying before her. The corpse leaned casually on an antique couch, one arm held out before it, its slit wrist leaking a rivulet of black tar. The dying woman's pale green eyes were locked onto that dark fluid, never leaving the slowly growing seam of unnatural ichor, even as her own lifeblood spread out around her.

The corpse on the couch spoke then, its voice cold and clear, but its language antiquated. "Prove yourself worthy, and partake in immortality."

These words of old imperial stunk of a benediction, and they gave strength to the dying woman. With shaking, clammy hands, she grabbed the offered wrist and brought it to her mouth. She drank greedily, consuming the vampire ichor, and partaking in the curse it offered. The shadows in the library grew deeper and deeper as darkness threatened to swallow the woman, but not before she and the Fly heard the corpse speak once again.

"Tonight, Elisabet the Impatient, daughter of no one, has died. Tomorrow evening, Isabelle Gens Silva, scion of Archeon Gens Silva, will rise."

As all became dark, the Fly took to his wings and sought something new. For a time, only void awaited him, but just as the insect began to fear he might be stuck, his smell-hairs caught another familiar smell, of human waste and living rot. Following the odor in a direction beyond the traditional six, the Fly found a crack in the darkness and slipped through.

Out from between crumbling mortar, the Fly emerged into a stone-lined cell below ground. Flickering witch-fire cast a green glow across the chamber, but the Fly paid what its eyes saw little focus, as its other senses were overwhelmed. A human was in the room, and they were dying, badly. The stink of feces, urine, blood, and other more alien fluids swirled about the cramped chamber, stirred up by the gasps and screams of their source.

Strapped to a table of long-stained wood was a naked man, his eyes wild and bulging, spittle dribbling down his mouth as he wailed in agony. Standing by his head was a woman, the same woman as before, except now her eyes were red and her expression had changed from one of frantic determination to cool annoyance. In the woman's hands were sharp instruments, and they were cutting the man's hair.

No, that wasn't his hair.

The top of the man's skull was missing, having been removed, exposing pale pink brain to the open air, and the woman's knives. As the cutting stopped, the man started to speak, his stammering voice carrying an accent forgotten by the centuries. "P-p-please p-please please"

Head cocked to the side like a curious avian, the woman, Isabelle Gens Silva, asked. "Please, what?"

"MERCY! MERCCCSSSSSsssss." The man's plea turned into a long, slurred syllable as the vampire researcher resumed cutting. After a few more seconds of butchery, Isabelle set aside one of her knives and held up two fingers, and a spark of electricity jumped between the digits. Carefully, she tapped the man's exposed brain, sending a jolt through him and pushing out the completed word.

"MERCY!"

Letting out a pleased hum, Isabelle removed her fingers and muttered. "Interesting."

Collecting her tools, she walked towards the cell door, pausing just for a moment to glance over the wall where the Fly rested before exiting the torture chamber and letting the insect plunge back into darkness.

This time, the Fly was more careful in how he flew, searching for any sign of a more useful recollection. Drawn by the barest flicker of candlelight, he passed through an open window into a room that stunk of perfume and wood polish. It was a parlor filled with cushioned seats and framed by ornate tapestries. Sitting on one of the couches was Isabelle, streaks of white running through her hair, a frown upon her immortal features. Across from her was a statue of painted marble, carved in the likeness of a beautiful man.

Fangs barred slightly, Isabelle spoke to the statue, her voice stripped of control by emotion. "By that reasoning, you'd have the greatest of us enslaved to the least of us! What purpose in life would there be to pursue strength and power if it only led to servitude and duty?"

The statue moved, raising a single eyebrow in befuddlement, revealing who and what it was. Cole the Homunculus, lacking a scent, and for now, his scars, sat in discussion with his creator. "Strength that is not challenged eventually becomes weakness, and what challenge can be found in lording over our lessers? Is it not better to, well, better ourselves by taking on the adversity that is stewardship?"

Arms crossed before her, scowling at her magnum opus, Isabelle retorted. "But is that not what I've done? I shepherd my subjects, and keep them safe from the dangers around them, while not bending ot their fickle wants."

"I think your choice of words betrays the difference I'm trying to point out. You shepherd, I say steward, similar terms but with clear distinctions. A shepherd keeps their flock docile and stagnant, so they might be exploited; whereas a steward protects and aids their charges to help them persevere," replied Cole, earning a frustrated hiss from Isabelle.

"Semantics! Not exactly the bedrock of any solid argument."

"Neither is changing the discussion via a fallacy."

With a huff, Gens Silva got up from her seat and headed for the door, leaving a befuddled Homunculus in her wake. The Fly followed close behind the Countess, having no desire to be any closer to even this memory of her favorite monster than he had to be. As Isabelle started to leave the room, she hesitated and then spun about, swatting the Fly and sending his world into a deeper darkness than before.

Cole's eyes flicked open, and he stared up at the cabin roof above him. Groggily, he groped at his surrounding blankets, only stopping when he realized what he sought wasn't to be found. Cursing under his breath, he slipped out of bed, taking a moment to find his shirt and shoes in the darkness, before leaving the tilted room he should have been sharing with Natalie.

Reaching the barge's deck, he peered out over the railings and found what he'd expected to find. Down on the river beach, his partner was pacing a furrow in the sand, agitation bleeding from her every movement. Rubbing at his face, Cole let out a tired sigh; she'd been like this all day, so it made sense she'd be at it all night.

Climbing down onto the beach, he strode towards the agitated vampire and said. "Keep that up and you'll be walking on sandstone soon."

Natalie glanced up at him, her sour expression softening the tiniest fraction. "Then maybe I can get started on the jagging tunnel we'll need to dig."

"There are other options. Mina's idea about floating across on an iceberg has some merit."

"No, it doesn't. Deborah said as much, and, as frustrating as it is to admit, she's rarely wrong."

"Then perhaps, with a little preparation, I could recreate the bridge the corpse-tide crossed? I've known hierophants of Master Time to freeze entire lakes, so a strip of a river shouldn't be impossible, especially if I push myself."

Natalie glanced up at the barge, noting the sentries on watch were focused elsewhere, before saying. "Burning out your soul over and over isn't exactly a good idea either. There's no guarantee that it wouldn't just truly kill you."

Cole paused in consideration; ironically, he rarely put much thought into his own proper mortality; as his experiences in the larder, and then serving Master Time, had rather thoroughly convinced the Homunculus of his own perpetuity. If all the evils of undeath couldn't find a way to snuff him out, then well, it was easy to imagine nothing could. But Natalie had a point; he was still far too ignorant to gamble his existence excessively, especially with so much still relying on him.

Letting out a sigh, the paladin stared out at the distant shape of Harmas. Even now, a few tiny lights still flickered within the city, the last embers of life still refusing to be snuffed out. "Yara is a survivor; she's proven that time and time again, while Kit, even with his eccentricities, is brilliant. Those two came through our battle with Wolfgang in better shape than the rest of us combined. I like their odds of holding out until we find a way to rescue them."

Half a growl slipped past Natalie's lips. "Yes, well, unlike you, most people only get to roll badly once."

Pausing her pacing, Natalie put her head in her hands and let out a frustrated groan. "I'm sorry, that wasn't right of me to say. This jagging curse! Yara being taken from me has set off every bit of possessive goatshit Annoch has saddled me with."

"Taken from you?"

"I know! I know! But that's how my stupid brain keeps looking at it. My property was stolen, and now I want to kill anyone or anything that gets in the way of getting her back!"

To punctuate her outburst, Natalie spun and kicked a pebble, sending it so far out into the night Cole couldn't even hear it land. Staring out in her missile's general direction, she muttered: "This was exactly what I was afraid of. I'm her drug, and she's mine."

Cole stood in silence, wondering what he could possibly say to help her. Nothing was coming to mind, and it hurt his heart to see Natalie in such a state. They needed to rescue Yara as soon as possible, and then get to work figuring out how to fix this mess.

Natalie turned back to him, her expression now slightly befuddled. "Do… do you hear that?"

Hand to his axe, Cole glanced around them. "What? What is it?"

Lips parting slowly, Natalie started to say. "Sounds, almost like, buzzzzzinnnngggg."

She toppled over like a puppet with its strings cut, and Cole dove forward, barely catching her. "Natalie? What's wrong?"

Staring up at him but clearly not seeing him, the Alukah's lips flapped, but no words came out. Grabbing his amulet, Cole frantically checked her over, seeing that her eyes hadn't changed color nor were black veins spreading out from her neck. Whatever this was, it didn't look like anything he'd seen from her so far. Looking up from his partner, the paladin scanned the surrounding darkness, looking for any sign of an attacker, but found nothing. Taking a breath, he started to call for help, but before he could, Natalie's eyes refocused and she said the strangest of things.

"Semantics… not bedrock…"

"What?" asked Cole, confused beyond belief.

Swallowing down gulps of pointless night air, Natalie coughed and then met his eyes, a new energy in her gaze. "I saw something?"

"What!?" Cole now half-shouted.

"Isabelle."