Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave recalled that he had once complained in an online forum about ‘fade to black’ cutscenes in video games. The screen would go dark, and then someone would narrate what had happened. ‘It’s lazy,’ he recalled writing. ‘Devs didn’t want to animate a surgery.’ Argrave was sure he’d been about fifteen years old when he wrote those nonsensical complaints.

Now, Argrave wished for nothing more than his vision to fade to black and a month to pass.

Instead, a twenty-foot-tall giant wearing robes made of its own hair rearranged furniture to prepare for Argrave’s heart surgery. He secretly hoped he’d have a panic attack and faint.

The Alchemist moved a table closer and placed a bowl of obsidian there. More and more things piled up beside Argrave, and his breathing started to quicken as he questioned what, exactly, each implement would be for.

Eventually, Argrave decided it would be best to stare at the ceiling. He saw the Alchemist eat something—a collection of herbs, it looked like. Then, the man’s finger retracted into itself, reemerging as a dripping rod of bone. The Alchemist held up a cup, filling it with a thin liquid the same color as the herbs he’d just consumed.

When the cup was filled, the Alchemist held it to Argrave. “Imbibe,” he commanded.

Argrave sat up. It was very difficult to refrain from asking what he was to be imbibing. When he drank, it tasted like a subtle, leafy tea mixed with cough syrup. He laid back down, distinctly aware of it travelling through his body.

The Alchemist stood over him, staring down. “Breathing will slow. Emotions will vanish. Blood will thicken,” he commentated, watching.

Should I be awake for this? He questioned internally. As if reading his mind, the Alchemist continued, “I would prefer you asleep or comatose, but I obtain more information if you are alive and conscious. Observe my actions. You will write a report when I am finished.”

Argrave nodded, then waited. The Alchemist merely stood over him, staring down. It wrote on blank books off to the side. Argrave realized it was drawing a diagram of him. Minutes passed, and Argrave merely stared around at the obsidian ceiling and the ivory-fleshed monstrosity looming above him.

“You have the faintest blood of a feathered serpent,” he said. “Vestigial remnants will change your period of adaptation.”

What does that mean? Argrave questioned. Strangely, it did not panic him at all. It felt like it didn’t matter, actually. He realized that his limbs felt very heavy. That didn’t matter, either—he had no desire to do anything but lay here anymore. Even blinking was starting to feel cumbersome.

The Alchemist raised his hand up. One of his fingers grew an eye on its tip. He positioned it directly above Argrave’s chest. It was eerily still, like it wasn’t living at all. Off to the side, the Alchemist’s other fingers prepared implements. Foremost among them was the Unsullied Knife. As Argrave watched, he put things together calmly.

Ah. He’s using an eye like an endoscopic surgical camera, Argrave realized. And he mixed a potion inside his body that would suppress my functions, to make things easier for the surgery while allowing me to retain my consciousness.

The Unsullied Knife drew near his flesh. The white scalpel’s red inscriptions shone all the brighter in the Alchemist’s hands. Argrave felt nothing as it approached—fear, panic, all were gone. It touched his flesh, making the first incision.

Though, perhaps ‘incision’ was not the right word. His flesh moved aside, bunching like clay, revealing bone beyond.

“The tool puts living things in a state of minor stasis,” commented the Alchemist. “Souls, flesh, blood: all suspended. It interacts with all realms of the world. This instrument could even excise the Blessing of Supersession that blooms within you.” The man spun the scalpel about in the small hands at the tips of his fingers. “Provoking an ancient god in this manner could be very interesting.”

Something cut past the dull haze that had obscured Argrave’s emotions, and his breathing grew a bit faster.

“Stop breathing,” the Alchemist chided. “My next action will not be further warning.”

Argrave laid his head back against the table. The only thing he saw was the sleek obsidian ceiling.

If I keep staring upwards, it’s like a really long fade to black, Argrave realized. He found some serenity in the constancy of the ceiling.

The serenity was broken when one of the Alchemist’s fingers moved into view, a tong-like implement holding something white. It was placed in a bowl. Argrave turned his head, looking at it.

I think that’s bone, he recognized.

“Refrain from observing distractions,” the Alchemist commanded. “Direct all attention towards the operation. Firsthand experience and testimony add paramount details to all collected data.”

Argrave lifted his head up, staring at the sight below. To say the least of the situation, he saw much more of the color red than before.

I think I’m going to have a nightmare about this later, Argrave reasoned. I’m sure this would be pretty disturbing if I had all my faculties.

“Your lungs have scarring. You should have been more careful.”

Huh. Guess he does have some compassion, Argrave thought.

“You are a terrible subject of comparison,” the Alchemist finished. “You deviate far from all human norms, making you a poor control. Tall, frail of bone. Weak, sickly organs. Yet… your body’s adaptations to the magic integrating with your blood and flesh will be far more pronounced.”

That sounds more in character, Argrave concluded.

Argrave watched his chest be ripped apart quietly, feeling neither intrigue nor disgust. As he sat there in his strange, emotion-free state, a thought came to mind.

What if Durran and Garm did something to the artifacts? The thought bounced around in his head for a while. Well, I wouldn’t become Black Blooded. But I don’t see how they could have done anything. What could he have done? Inject spirit-goo into them? Ridiculous. Yet… certainly, Garm was alone with them a few times… he’s usually by the backpacks, after all. All of them, save the Amaranthine Heart, were kept inside the lockbox.

Argrave looked back to the growing pile of bones in a bowl beside him.

I wonder if the Alchemist would even put me back together if they didn’t work, Argrave questioned. Well, they looked fine. But hell, I barely comprehend them as is. How would I know if something was wrong with any of them?

Realizing nothing could be done, Argrave turned his head back. Oh. There’s my heart. Bigger than I thought. The Alchemist’s finger-eye lowered into Argrave’s body, while another hand conjured spell light. All the while, the Unsullied Knife grew ever closer.

I suppose I’m about to find out.

#####

Durran stepped out of the jungle, positioning his glaive to block the sunlight that buffeted his eyes. As the whiteness induced by sudden sunlight settled, what he saw beyond was not at all what he expected to see.

They must have been in a cave atop a mountain near its summit, for clouds were just below them, peaks jutting up above. The clouds were thick and dense, almost prompting one to try and stand on them. Nonetheless, they concealed much of the environment ahead. Durran could only barely make out a field of green. They were definitely far from the Burnt Desert, despite where they had entered from.

He stepped closer, transfixed. A single giant tree hung out over the ledge, drooping down off the side off the mountain. Durran was close enough to the clouds that he could see them move, but he had seen moving clouds plenty aback his wyvern—instead, he watched beyond, staring at the fields of green.

Durran had heard tell of the northern lands… but he’d never seen them. He didn’t know where this cave was. He didn’t even know if the sight ahead was real. All he knew was that they were far from the Burnt Desert.

“Come look at this!” Durran turned around, calling out in his excitement. He was greeted by a pair of ever-watching amber eyes.

Anneliese clearly had not slept at all during their night in this strange realm. She took Argrave’s directive very seriously, obviously. Durran couldn’t help but feel a bit ostracized when their distrust was so blatantly displayed, but then… perhaps he had no right to complain, considering their distrust was warranted.

“We’re far from the Burnt Desert,” Garm noted from Durran’s hands.

“I thought the same,” Durran turned back around. “Lands of eternal green… I hope to see them some day. Poured sand from my boots enough times, now I’m looking to put my gaze on something new.”

“You will,” assured Garm.

Durran moved up to the edge and sat down, laying his glaive out. There was no wind at all, strangely enough—winds would surely be incredibly harsh this high up provided this was a normal place. Instead, things remained as pleasant as ever. The giant tree leaning out beside him resembled a willow. Even its branches were undisturbed.

He watched for a long while. Durran still had much disturbing his thoughts—the business at Sethia was one that couldn’t be put to bed in a couple days. Fortunately, as things were shaking out, he was to be spending a month here.

With a final sigh, Durran rose to his feet. As he turned, he spotted something emerge from the jungle behind Anneliese. She must’ve noticed his expression change, because she turned quickly and stepped away.

A figure of dancing black smoke stood before her. It had no discernible features, but Durran could’ve sworn that it was looking around.

“Your companion informed me only one of you would suffice for dealing with him,” a harsh voice echoed out, and Durran took a step back. “He said he would prefer Anneliese. Go. The lights will lead you.”

The black smoke exploded outwards as though blasted by a great gale, dispersing into nothingness. Durran watched the tall snow elf breathe quicker, probably panicking. Without a word, she rushed out into the jungle.

Durran adjusted his position, calming himself. “Looks like the time is now…” he muttered, clenching Garm a little tighter.

Just then, Galamon stepped out of the jungle. One hand held his Ebonice axe, still dripping with blood. The other held a cat-like creature Durran had never seen before—it resembled a cougar, though with bizarre stripes and much more mass on its frame.

“What time might that be?” Galamon questioned.

Durran inhaled, then adjusted his footing. He bent down and retrieved his glaive. “You’re right. He really does hear everything.”

“Stop being a fool,” Garm chided. “Put down the glaive. That one is a monster beyond your capability.”

“Who decided that?” Durran stepped forward.

“Galamon,” Garm called out, and only then did Durran halt.

Galamon dropped the body he held, and it fell to the dirt below. The giant elf said nothing, waiting for Garm to continue.

“I think we should talk,” Garm continued. “Because what I wish to do… it can benefit you, if you wish it.”

Galamon took steady steps forward. “I don’t think you’ve learned anything about me, beginning with that. I am Argrave’s shield. I will tolerate nothing that subverts his goal. No boon will sway me, no opponent will deter me.”

“Hear me out,” Garm insisted. “I know you better than you think. I hope we can talk about this amicably, at the very least.”

Galamon stopped moving forward. “Fine. I should warn you, though… I am quite good at throwing axes. Try nothing.” He waved the Ebonice axe in his hand.

“I’m glad you’re the one left,” Garm smiled. “You might be the only one who would let me go through with this.”