Re:Cursed

Chapter 160 - 156: Freedom to Hunt (Book 3)

"Monster!"

It was a crude word, but from the perspective of the man below her, not inaccurate. The early evening fog had fallen, yet the obscuring mist was not uniform. It twisted, spiralling inwards to envelop a form only revealed by the shadows flickering from its depths. A silhouette of wings stretched from wall to wall. The sway of tendrils that faded in and out of existence. No matter how far he ran, those dark apparitions remained. Creeping ever closer.

The Machine God Worshipper stumbled. His feet tangled in loose tubing and arms met hard metal.

Fingers scraped the surface. Nails scored in rough indents as the man desperately tried to drag himself to his feet. But his toes slipped out underneath him as Nyxala's boot crunched his spine.

A pained gasp slipped from the cultist, and his head twisted to look upon her form with a fear reminiscent of the Fleshsmiths she had hunted in the Dark Star not so long ago. He scrambled to pull something from his robe, but Nyxala put a stop to that. No matter how strange it felt to fight a cultist with fewer evolutions than herself, she wasn't about to become complacent now.

She may have destroyed his machine — the concentration of his strength — but one could never know what some people kept hidden. Nyxala was a prime example.

Pushy shoved his head into the ground, while Curious pulled his arm away from his cloth coverings. Both tentacles gave her the freedom to crouch on his back, hard boots pressing between shoulder blades.

The heavy pounding of Tarchon's footsteps echoed through the hall behind her, adorned by the occasional hiss of steam. Beneath her boot, the Worshipper didn't know whether to fear her, or whatever was coming.

"You know Shelo'S͐u'S͐en̲ͧa̦̅l̥̊os?" It was hardly a question; the name was so prolific she doubted there was a single Worshipper that didn't.

The man refused to answer. Too preoccupied with other, unnecessary thoughts. With cheek pressed hard into the notched surface, his eyes widened and strained against his peripheral vision to get a look at her. Upon recognition of her mostly human form — adorned with parts that should not be — the terror gripping his body grew absolute.

"Madness."

His voice was but a whisper, yet it reignited his desperate attempt to escape. He flailed beneath her. A pointless act; her mutations held him too tight.

Despite murmurs of summoned gods, the constant lurking creatures of the Darkness below, and all sorts of terrors hidden within the depths of Coral, Madness remained an aspect of life most feared. It was all consuming. A constant threat that one could lose themselves as they pushed the limits of what it meant to be human. The possibility was harrowing for the recipient, and a nightmare for everyone else.

Nyxala was simply glad her unique condition remained unknown to most.

"You know Shelo'S͐u'S͐en̲ͧa̦̅l̥̊os?" she repeated, layering her voice with the second from her tongue. It was mostly unnecessary, but she was enjoying the lack of need to hide herself. Besides, the double tone did wonders to intimidate the third evolution Worshipper.

"Yes," he squeaked. His mind finally processing the question through its petrifaction.

"Good," Nyxala hummed, hoping to calm him down, only for the cultist to stiffen. "And where has he taken my… the sceptre from the recent Trial?"

"What sceptre?" he blurted. "I don't know anything about a sceptre."

"Then let's try this again. Where would Shelo'S͐u'S͐en̲ͧa̦̅l̥̊os store a powerful artefact taken from a Null Scar? One he cannot use."

"In the Tributary?" His tone was unsure. "One of the inner vaults for a tenth creed."

"Thank you," she said, as Cuddly took her blood-filled knife from her robe.

The tentacle quickly whipped across the hard surface. Like a brush instead of a blade, crimson paint soon adorned the ground around the cultist. She hoped it would cling to the surface long enough to enact the ritual, but unfortunately it slipped off the surface and trailed up her tentacles in mere moments. Fingers bubbled through the liquid, desperate to touch her. Maybe she would learn to draw fast enough one day, but that was not today.

Grumbling under her breath, she took out a stick of chalk and sketched the ritual the mundane — less effective — way.

"So… I can go?" the cultist asked hopefully.

Apparently, he was unaware of the pentagram that now surrounded him. Nyxala's gratitude in conjunction with the relaxing of her tentacles' grip had sent the wrong message. A false hope.

"Why would you ever think that?"

The Worshipper's body was suddenly illuminated from below. The ritual burned bright, as the man seized. His body convulsed. It lashed out, trying desperately to escape her clutches as he was designated a sacrifice. She held tight, and there was no escape from the blistering agony as his blood, power and soul were torn free of his shell.

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Nyxala watched the man wither away. His screams rang through the hall, seeming to linger even as he shrivelled into a dried husk. The two companions she'd left behind to chase this unfortunate soul were sure to hear, even if they hadn't followed.

The moment Nyxala unveiled her herself, he was dead. There would be no escape for him. No matter if the only reason she had was for the simple sake of stretching her wings.

Well… he'd been dead the moment Nyxala had seen a lone cultist wandering an isolated corridor. Whether he was some messenger for their war, or enacting some other menial tasks for his higher creeds, it didn't matter to Nyxala. She had found an opportunity, and wasn't about to let it pass.

"You know," a voice echoed through the hall behind her. "I could have told you about the Tributary."

Nyxala turned from the sacrificed remains. "Then why didn't you?"

"Am I to read your mind?" Tarchon halted before her. Even rising from her crouch, Nyxala had to look up at him. "I cannot help if you don't ask."

"Alright then." She dismissed her annoyance. Striking down a cultist while flexing her mutations had still been worth it. "Can you get me inside the Worshipper's Tributary?"

"No. The defences are too great, and the strategical benefit of its capture is less than any one server node to make it a worthwhile target."

Nyxala turned to the girl who faded into existence beside her, enraptured by the feathers of her wings. "Ly͚sy͚rã?"

She blinked, belatedly realising what was being asked. Her head shook. "I can hide from a lot of detection methods, but if there's no way in, there's no way in. Its not exactly as easy as following a cultist through the front door."

Clicking her tongue, Nyxala turned to break apart the remains of the Worshipper with her third eye. The sacrifice wasn't so much to empower herself — that grew exponentially less effective with people of less evolutions than herself — but simply to eliminate the soul. She couldn't have soulsingers spilling her secrets.

As the husk broke apart in dry flakes and flowed into Nyxala's chest, Lysyra was once again captivated.

"I thought you said you'd seen my mutations?"

"Well, yeah… but it's really hard to concentrate on them. Until now, its just been fleeting images when you think no one's looking, or what they leave behind. But with your wings so wide, they're impossible to miss."

"So how exactly aren't you Mad with these things hanging off your waist?" She touched a wing in a rough gesture, but by how long the hand lingered, Nyxala wasn't sure Lysyra didn't just want to feel her feathers.

"That's…" Nyxala glanced to Tarchon. Even if the girl had Invowed herself, it wasn't something she could explain so simply. "Not something to be said out in the open."

Lysyra, disappointed, glared at the Technocultist as if it were somehow his fault Nyxala was reluctant to speak.

With no remains of the husk left, Nyxala urged her mutations back beneath their coverings. Tarchon stepped to the tunnel's side, dug his fingers into the flooring panel that held some ever so slight notches where her ritual had soured the metal, and lifted it. The thick metal panel must weigh a tonne, yet he flipped it easily. Before the unmarred side of the panel locked in place, Nyxala got a view of the tight crawlspace beneath the floor. It was filled with conduits and piping, but should they be removed, one as small as herself might fit.

Her two most trusted people didn't have a way for Nyxala to get her sceptre back, but that hardly meant she was to give up on it. It was hers. She had earned it by felling its previous owner, and was going to find it back in her hands again, regardless of how tightly it was locked away within Worshipper territory.

"Now that you have done as you wish, it is time to return."

Tarchon may have gone along with her whims, but he was clearly getting impatient. Well… she thought he was impatient. He wasn't exactly the easiest to decipher. Either he was impatient to get Nyxala back within the walls of the Technocult so he could rejoin the war… or Lysyra made him uncomfortable. Impossible to say.

Nyxala nodded and let him lead the way as she slunk back with Lysyra.

She wanted to ask what had happened between the two. They'd clearly met. But with the Technocultist likely listening in, it wasn't the best time.

They'd agreed that Lysyra would remain in the Bodytwisters. She had already put months in her efforts to be accepted, and there was no need to throw that all away when it could offer all sorts of opportunities. Even if Nyxala could never bring herself to do the same. The hatred coursing her veins would be noticed long before her mutations were.

To that end, they should never be seen together. No Bodytwister would converse with a Technocultist. Not unless it was through gritted teeth. It was especially bad that they were both unique to their cults. Lysyra not taking on any body-modifying surgeries, and Nyxala unable to hold mechanical body-parts.

Fortunately, one of them could be everywhere at once.

"How did they know what was waiting under the pyramid?" She would ask how Lysyra had set up the entire ploy in the first place, but she hadn't exactly been subtle about her dislike for Tarchon. Better not to give away all her secrets.

Lysyra eyed Tarchon warily before squaring a flat look Nyxala's way. "I'll tell you when you tell me what those mutations are."

She frowned, and assumed that was going to be her response for any question going forwards, but Lysyra couldn't help herself.

"But…" Her voice trailed. "I will say I took advantage of some connections the upper creeds have outside the Bodytwisters. Not everyone is too careful of invisible kids listening in on their conversations." Her teasing smirk gave way to a glare. "Well, they weren't before someone revealed how my names work."

"Should've surrendered from the start." Nyxala shrugged, and walked past Tarchon into the waiting tunnel.

The Technocultist stepped in front of Lysyra to bar her entry. "Apologies, the Temple is currently under lockdown and cannot allow anyone not part of the Technocult within."

Nyxala winced. She knew this was a possibility, but hadn't brought it up in hopes that Tarchon would overlook it. "Can't you make an exception? It'll help me to be in contact with her."

"No exceptions." He didn't budge. "We do not do exceptions."

A groan of annoyance slipped from her lips. "Leave a replica here for me, yeah?"

Lysyra nodded and stepped away. She took the statement of how she was unwelcome far more graciously than Nyxala would have.

The wall closed, and not a moment later, a siren blared in her ear. Tarchon took two steps down the hall, hooked his hand though empty space, and plucked a suddenly materialising Lysyra from nothing.

"Fuck," she swore. Hanging from the collar in Tarchon's hand, she waved to Nyxala. "Bye." Her body exploded in the familiar swathe of white motes, and the tunnel jolted into motion.

Maybe not that graceful.

Nyxala gnawed a knuckle before deciding that it was not a secret worth keeping from Tarchon if it could get Lysyra into the Technocult. "In the final Trial, she Invowed to me." She turned to hold Tarchon's eyes. "Technically, she is a part of myself. Couldn't we let her in? Having her by my side would be incredibly helpful."

The aperture in his eyes shifted, assessing her. His pause was long enough that she was sure the answer would be to the negative, but his words weren't so dismissive. "I will bring it up with Ta̽'Ș͑t̕r̊a͑ḷa̾͆n͙͂o̼͗v͐͐̿͝'r̝͇͎͓͜."

That was the best she could hope for.