An Unwelcome Return

“The edge is folded bronze that is naturally produced in the Riptails bone structure, this solidifies the edge to maintain a sharpness throughout battle. Originally looted from the remains of a beast, craftsmen tamper out the weaknesses to result in this magnificent weapon.” Livingston’s pitch is lost to me as I cradle the segmented sword in my hands. Sections of the vertebrae are defined with hard lines, the core of the blade still held together by the soft tissue of the scorpion-spider creature known as a Riptail.

“Simply squeeze the handle to form the blade.” He mentions while stepping back.

Ligaments of dark flesh surround the bone handle to create a decent grip, I hold the weapon out before me and it sags like a limp slinky to the floor. The pointed end brushes the soggy littered ground, I clench my hand and the tendons contract to form a solid weapon.

“What do you even call a sword like this?” I ask in disbelief, waving the solid form around and then releasing my grip so it extends around me like a serrated whip.

“Who cares? The quality is all that matters, and it’s the finest of its kind. The price is exactly what you can afford, with my generous discount of course.” Livingston offers a gloved hand.

I shake it subconsciously while watching lamp light reflect in the shifting bronze edge, imagining myself dancing through the trees with the crimson glow of my Will snaking all around. Tranqit dips beyond the oak counter with my loot in hand, securing it away from the damp conditions of the shop front I imagine.

“Ever the pleasure with you Seth, so till we next meet.” The shopkeeper ushers me on.

“Actually, I was hoping to have a look at that single-use cabinet again.” I insist, a little vexed by his sudden change in decorum.

“No point, unless you have more to trade?” He halts, lingering over me like a drug addict who just found a new source for his vices.

“I might have something” - I quickly scan through my internal inventory again - “How about this manual of Daemon infantry basics? There's heaps of information in here about battle formations and prayers to Omnia.” Livingston starts to push.

“You may be surprised, however, soldiers of Chaos rarely find my Emporium.”

“Well, it’s bound in fine leather and probably worth at least one single-use item.”

“Did we not have a whole conversation about the minute reading levels of Silva’s population?” His long arm shoves me through the wardrobe gap with an ungodly strength I didn’t think could exist in such a lanky frame.

“At least let me check the condition of my new sword with the Rarus toads.” I yell through the furniture alleyway.

“Nope.” Livingston disappears from sight.

I step forward to push my Uke, when a rainbow of balls whistles by my face causing me to flinch backwards. Tranqit spins the flail of multi-coloured acorns, faceplate down, game face on and imposing.

“Hey come on man, I just want to discuss the deal some more.” I demand.

The flails lash out and obliterate a small bedside table into a million splinters.

“I am no man!” He points a mithril gauntlet towards the flap entrance.

I hold my hands up into the air as if the tiny chode knight is pointing a gun, forgetting I still wield the Riptail, Tranqit takes this as a sword stance.

The flail sweeps in a beautiful arc towards my torso, I drop backwards to the floor while releasing the weapon. “I yield, I YIELD!” I plead.

The flail tears chunks out of the wardrobe wall behind me in a spray of shattered stained wood.

“I’m sorry! I’ll leave!” I squirm with my hands over my head, the mighty warrior I had perceived in my imagination is now a forgotten fantasy.

“Tranqit, you bloody armoured dwarf! Stop breaking my shop!” Livingston screams.

“This monkey held a blade against me, me, one of the noble Torti vanguard of the third legion!” He yells back to defend his honour.

“You were a blasted pot wash for the reserves, now get the lad out and get back on the roof to patch those holes with anything other than wet paper this time!” His employer yells with a tone only used for indentured servants.

The tortoise knight’s head sinks in defeat, a single large tear escapes the visor of his helm.

“I’m sorry Tranqit, I shouldn’t have called you a man or raised my sword. You scared the muk out of me.” I say softly so only he can hear.

“Really?” He mumbles.

“Honestly mate, I’d rather kick a Guardian’s hairy plumbs than face those flails again.”

He takes my hand and lifts me to my feet, opening his visor to reveal that giant cyclops eye.

“Made a bit of a mess in here, you better go before Divingston sees.”

“Ha, sure thing. Sorry again, I’m used to having a sheath and forgot I was holding my sword.” I gesture innocently to my lack of a sword belt.

He holds a single metallic finger up, then reaches into a collapsed chest of obsidian wood, removing a strange spotted tentacle.

“Wrap it like a belt and it’ll hold your weapon.” He ties it around my waist and then shoos me away as the baying calls of Divingston grow near.

“Thank you.” I whisper as I push through the flap, my smile dropping into one of horror as I poke the marine appendage. The octopus suckers, that I mistook for spots, attach to my finger with startling vigour for an apparently deceased limb.

My old sword and Riptail stick onto the belt without a fault, I practise removing the bone weapon and lashing out at shadows. The grey world of my mood now washed away as the rains stopped and the bioluminescence of Silva returned in abundance, who knew shopping was such effective therapy. Now to beg forgiveness from my friends, suck down my pride and embrace the death wish of the Voice’s next trial.

I saunter past the Ferrum tree, through the fields of turquoise mushroom patches as the day's light fades into twilight. Satyrs mill around, murmuring with my approach, their usual joyous faces don’t reach their lips or eyes as they see me.

Through the field of ferns that houses so many teepees, a little doubt niggles at me.

Why are they all staring?

I look over my shoulder and suck in short gasps that I quickly hide, for Thorns surround me. Appearing from behind the mounds of furs and groups of tribesmen. Not wanting to show fear, I keep my pace, striding with false confidence. Don’t think about them, don’t grab your sword or they’ll attack. I will be safe amongst my flock and friends. I only need to get to them first. It feels like I am being followed by the police, I have to resist the urge to run, and the peculiar sense of being a criminal looms over me as they stalk my shadow, but why do I feel this way? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m their Mother rutting Shepherd.

Relief washes over me for a leaf fall as I see her in the centre of the village, not just Piia but also Alek and Toomas are waiting outside the Sanctum. I bank towards them grinning until I see deep scowls. From the gathered crowd burning into me, from my friends too.

I walk on in a trance, rapidly mulling over the words I will blurt out to regain their trust in me. Pride is nothing to me now that I’m alone, I will get on my knees and cry to Mother for their forgiveness if I must. They couldn’t be that angry with me, it was the heat of the moment, raw emotions from my traumatic spell in the Depths.

Finally reaching the sea of Satyrs, a gathering so dense it must contain the entire tribe, they part before me as if I’m Moses.

Revealing the Voice in his tapestry of exotic feathers and furs, and the sardonic grin of a nemesis that knows my dirty secrets.

“Mother has revealed the truth, Seth.” He taunts with pleasure.

“The truth?” My mind rattles through, I look to Piia and the others for support but only find resentment. Did they tell him about my Will? Or where I’m from?

Gasps and angry calls draw me back as the tattered remains of a figure stumbles through the crowd, his skin flayed and heavily weeping.

The Captain of the Thorns survived.