Re:Cursed

Chapter 163 159: Tail

A panicked, pained bleating gave way for the silence of death while Nyxala desperately tried to keep her feathers from catching fire.

Her claws retracted from the heart of the sacrificial lamb. An inferno of burning oil roared overhead, forcing her to keep her body low lest she ignite like a dry twig. So close, it still felt like it was roasting her alive.

Ta'Stralanov'r had a twisted sense of humour. That was the best way she could view this damn furnace she'd been tossed into for the visage of being helpful. Bleeding out and fighting against her very body tearing itself apart would have been enough to satisfy the perseverance aspect of Lýotepͦ. The Technocult leader thought differently. Apparently, she felt it more suitable to throw Nyxala straight in the oven than waste a single lamb on a test that still had a good chance of working.

As expected, Nyxala Feat activated.

The tattered remains of her lumbar muscles wove themselves back together and the bony tail that curled between her legs now flourished with new growing flesh. She held the tail in her hands and ignored the blood spilling from the animal at her side that desperately crawled over her body. In seconds, her fingers were pushed back. Skin took shape over muscle and bone, leaving only the sharp spines exposed. Finally, the crack in her name resumed its widening.

"You can shut off those flames now," she called out. There was no chance Ta'Stralanov'r wasn't watching, so the fact that they were still burning over her head said everything about the woman.

Eight full seconds passed before the combusting streams of oil ceased. Nyxala was about ready to set off some more explosions in the woman's precious temple.

With at least some sense of calm regained, Nyxala settled in to inspect the rest of her mutation. Healing done, she was left with a limb thicker than her arm that remained at a very consistent width for the entire length. Only at the tip, after her extended skeleton ended, did the tail taper off. The skin was rough, and as she ran her hand along its length, she got the distinct sensation of sandpaper. Goosebumps covered its length.

If she was honest… Nyxala could only say she was disappointed. For all her excitement over a tail, this held neither the visual or tactile appeal she'd been hoping. Expecting. Well, there was nothing to do other than test its combat potential. Nothing besides facing the Technocultist that had seen her. He waited outside, and she wasn't exactly excited to face him again. He'd seen her… less than proper, to put it simply.

The way he'd looked at her, it was clear the armband hadn't hidden her mutations. At least not her unnatural limbs. Surprisingly, she felt no fear or uncertainty about being revealed. No, the only emotion that flooded her mind was a distinct shame and embarrassment at being seen so bare. Not her wings or tentacles. No, they inspired no such intense feeling. It was only her tail; for someone to have seen her tail bare of skin and nothing but bone and gore, it was as if he'd seen her naked… yet not even being without a robe would have incited this feeling.

Nyxala, looking down on her tail, dreaded having his eye on her again. It was an emotion unlike who she'd become. So much more apt to the girl she'd once been, that the rest of her mind lashed out at the part that crawled in on itself. She abhorred the emotion, yet could not deny it. The solid mass of bone and hard muscle wrapped in rough skin would make a brilliant bludgeon, but she hated the idea of people seeing it as it was.

But the mutation wasn't yet done.

As she sat there, waiting for the crack in her name to fully open, the raised bumps along her skin rose further. One by one, hard, finger sized tubes sprouted from the countless lumps. Nyxala blinked, uncomprehending. Only when small tufts of black or red slipped from the tip of each tube did she realise.

She twisted, pushing aside her wing to stare at her back. The feathers which had only ever grown on her wings, and around their base, now spread all the way down to her rear, and continued along her tail. Rapidly, tubes appeared all along her new appendage. They were most dense at the base of her tail, and strangely enough, at the end — longer too — but Nyxala didn't have much time to ponder the oddness as her feathers broke free of their confines. First it was one. Then, thousands of tubes piled up until her legs were all but buried.

Nyxala's tail no longer held the ugly visage of skin contorted around bone, but a feathery extension of her wings. Most its length, the feathers were black. Only at the far end, where the bundle of her plumage forked, did the red tipped feathers grow in.

The crack in her name widened wholly. Despite the distress midway, her mutation had completed its growth.

She lifted her tail. It moved easily, and without its earlier pain. Nyxala barely noticed the weight; she knew from the basic motion of lifting it before her face that if she wanted, her new limb could hold itself indefinitely.

Which was good, because it looked heavy.

An almost two metre length that was essentially all muscle and bone was a significant addition. To test, she let her tail go limp, and caught it. Her arms immediately slumped under the weight. No matter how obviously it was meant to assist her flight, a blow from the feathered tail was bound to crush ribs.

Still kneeling, her eyes trailed its length as it twisted and bent. As expected considering it was an extension of her spine, the tail was not nearly as flexible as her tentacles. There would be no coiling this beauty around her waist. Though, with how her spine mutation continued along the length of her tail, that barrier might be easily broken. Not to say the tail was rigid. Nyxala found no trouble pulling it around to lay in her lap.

Her fingers trailed through the feathers. They were larger than those of her wings and back, but otherwise indistinguishable. The size divergence only grew more apparent down near tip. Instead of following the singular tip of muscle and skin that she knew was below the plumage, her feathers fanned out, forming mirrored points to the sides.

Stretching to full length behind her, the red tinged feathers brushed wide. It happened naturally. As she pushed her tail to extend, her plumage fluttered, reaching for void around it. It was as if she had another wing.

Nyxala had long since felt her wings were incomplete, but she'd always been able to ignore the feeling; having never experienced a different way to fly, it was impossible consciously recognise the instinct. Suddenly, she was engulfed with the need. Nyxala had to know how this changed her flight.

With a single bound, she leapt to her feet… and immediately fell backwards. Her tentacles caught her, but her balance was so off-kilter that she found it difficult to right herself even with their help. Any time she stood upright, her tail pulled her back. She let the weight fall to the ground, and that only helped somewhat. While odd and unfamiliar, Nyxala was quick to discover that she felt far more comfortable leaning forward now.

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Slow steps took her to the exit of this furnace. Each added to her confidence. It was different than what she was used to, yet the forward stance felt more stable than she'd ever been, save the hold of her tentacles. The last few steps she ran. Lamb blood continued to trail her, but to her relief, it seemingly couldn't move as fast as that of a human. She swung open the heavy door, and slammed it behind her.

Right on the tail that dragged along the surface.

Nyxala flinched, but the pain she expected only manifested in a dull throb. Not painful. Hardly even noticeable, despite the not-inconsiderate strength she'd put into slamming the hatch. No, the only true pain she felt was the emotional despair of watching lamb blood flow through the narrow opening and crawl along her tail, tainting the newly grown feathers.

Sudden realisation grabbed her. She froze. Slowly, Nyxala raised her eyes until they met a pair of camera lenses. Unlike Tarchon's dark glass, they were perfect mirrors within his apertures. Nyxala could see her own body reflected in his eyes, what he could see of her. The shimmer of incomprehensibility where her mutations reached away from her body, until both tail and wings became clear near the tips. The blood soaking her. He couldn't see everything, but he saw enough.

At least her shame was gone. Now feathered, she seemingly had no problem with her tail being seen. In fact, she almost wanted to show it off. Nyxala was proud of what — who — she was.

"So, you are N̪ỷx̱̽ala. Our newest member." The Technocultist's voice buzzed like a faulty speaker. "Ta̽'Ș͑t̕r̊a͑ḷa̾͆n͙͂o̼͗v͐͐̿͝'r̝͇͎͓͜ has spoken of your particular need for secrecy." His eyes fell to her tail, which she didn't bother to hide. "So I shall hold my metaphoric tongue."

The man had replaced as much of himself with machine as Tarchon, yet there was something in the way he held himself that gave Nyxala the impression that he was older. Like the few caretakers in the rearing wards that made it above forty and began to be pained by their own weight. Not that she imagined this man was similar at all. His mere position as a Technocultist assured that he would be of a higher evolution and strength of someone who lingered in the cradle of Coral.

Really, the only similarity he had with Tarchon was the fact that they both had replaced flesh with metal. He didn't look anywhere near as intimidating. No steam slipped from constantly shifting valves, nor did the low burning hum of an engine burn in his chest. Instead, it was a low buzz. The slow turn of a well-lubricated wheel.

But if anything, it was the sheer lack of armour and stature that gave Tarchon weight that differentiated him most. Technocultists were harbingers, one and all, but this man didn't look it.

"It may not seem it, considering your reception, but we hold great laudation for your success. It has been many a decade since the Grand Sacrificial Chamber has been under our control, and we have a litany of backlogged rituals to perform."

Nyxala swished her tail. "What sort of rituals?" The highest rank ceremonies were always shrouded in mystery.

"Grand rituals are beyond the scope of my expertise. The only one I shall have considerable participation is the revitalisation of Coral's delivery systems. Years ago, the Worshippers butchered it during their term to make way for those trolleys," he said, his voice hissing with static at the mention of his — their — cult's eternal nemeses, but otherwise remaining monotone. "You are young, so you wouldn't know, but the logistics of my youth was something to be admired. Anything you wanted, in your hands within seconds. All without risk of animate-spawn. My predecessor's greatest creation."

The whole interaction was odd to Nyxala. This man had barely acknowledged her mutations. He'd been told it was a secret, and accepted it entirely without showing even the slightest interest in asking further. He hadn't even brought attention to the way lamb blood continued to crawl up her waist from her tail.

She couldn't tell if he was that loyal to Ta'Stralanov'r's word… or he just didn't care.

"Though, with the war, there are more important ceremonies to perform than those of convenience. Starting with undoing the damage done by the other cults. Ta̽'Ș͑t̕r̊a͑ḷa̾͆n͙͂o̼͗v͐͐̿͝'r̝͇͎͓͜ has likely already begun."

A click, followed by a snap, and a saw-blade jerked out from the Technocultist's chest. It spun fast enough to shred through the metal of its encasement, but the clear crystal it was made of sent lights dancing everywhere.

He hissed incomprehensible static as he yanked open a panel to his innards. Nyxala was gifted the unexpected sight of what might have once been the man's ribs and pecs sliding out of place only to unfurl into an array of confusing machinery surrounding a complex core that she could only guess contained his heart. She stared. The heart had slid out with the rest of his machinery, rather than stay where it should.

Fingers shifted to fine tools, a bolt drilled the still spinning disk back into place before sealing the broken sliced metal with the quickest weld she'd ever seen. He folded himself back together and returned his eyes to her as if nothing happened.

"In place of a proper orientation, You'll be with me for the time being. My name is Ta'Ta̭̦î̾ͩsẖ̪. Prelate of logistical maintenance. Now that the initial assault is over, I'm one of the few better suited away from the war."

Nyxala found herself with her tail in hand, fingers threading through feathers. They were just as soft as her wings. A pleasant smoothness that contrasted immensely with the rock-hard skin they grew from. It would be so much better if she didn't have blood soaking her feathers.

"Was your attack successful?" Nyxala asked. It was always hard to get information out of Tarchon. Maybe this Technocultist would be different.

"Our objectives were accomplished." Ta'Taish said. "So very successful."

"T̆a̹̅r͐chö̠n̩͂͑ said you haven't yet breached their defences?"

"Yes." He nodded, eyes waiting for a second half of Nyxala's question that didn't exist.

So it turned out that Tarchon wasn't the only one with such an efficiency-focused mindset. Maybe she should expect the same from every Technocultist. They set their expectations precisely, and don't ever let emotion push their hopes higher.

"What kind of objectives?"

"Initially, it was twofold: a distraction, to stop the Bodytwisters losing too much strength in the war's initial offence, and taking advantage of the Worshippers' weakened defences. We captured a dozen major nodes. While we are held back by physical emplacements, Ta̽'Ș͑t̕r̊a͑ḷa̾͆n͙͂o̼͗v͐͐̿͝'r̝͇͎͓͜ has been able to strike far deeper. She leads the way."

"Huh," Nyxala hummed. The blood on her fingers was now getting rather annoying. She glanced back to the furnace. "Give me a moment."

Nyxala took a few steps back into the furnace before whipping her tail and gunning for the exit. With how hard she slammed her tail against the ground, blood had no choice but to go flying from her form. What she didn't expect, was to leave a dent in the thick Technocult steel.

She slipped through the hatch and shut it on the slow trailing of blood that crawled after her like an abandoned child.

"Heh," Nyxala smirked at having beaten the red blob.

"While you're already quite filthy, we should replace that concealer of yours." Words from above came with the hatch once again opening. That child of blood all too happy to embrace her. "In you go."

"Are you serious?" Nyxala blurted after a five seconds of staring at the furnace door.

"Very."

Another lamb fell from a chute. As soon as it noticed its dead kin, a chain of panicked bleats followed. From the ceiling, a single surgical instrument unfolded. A tool designed just for Nyxala. Though, despite Ta'Stralanov'r's incredible technical might, it was little more than a pair of saws. Strapped to a brace.

"You couldn't have cut it off while I healed my back?"

"I could have," Ta'Stralanov'r said, to Nyxala's growing ire. "But the procedure was judged too intensive considering your condition at the time."

Nyxala knew her body well enough to see through the nonsense. She could have handled it. Was this her way of getting back at Nyxala for the accidental explosions out in the main warehouse?

"I think I'll be alright for a while," she said. Desire for flight still called for her.

"No." As Ta'Stralanov'r spoke, Nyxala swore she felt the ground below tremble. Not in her legs, but through her antennae ears. It was subtle. "If you must flout these alterations, then I insist that your concealer remain in peak condition. The revelation of what you are will benefit neither of us. Ta'Ta̭̦î̾ͩsẖ̪ shall oversee your operation."

"I will?" he asked, as hesitant as a monotone voice could be. "Not Ṭ̫a'M̽a̬li̞ͧͅs̆?"

"She will join soon. But do not worry, so long as she's put under pressure, and gets to kill that lamb, she'll survive any problem your presence might cause."

Grumbling under her breath, Nyxala reentered the furnace to the grind of a saw, and the reignition of streaming fire. Next time, her accidental explosions would be bigger.

Ta'Taish followed reluctantly, but as he walked through the fire unharmed, it was clearly something else that bothered him.