Chapter 289 - Return to Form IV
Claire brought a cup of fresh water to her lips as she wrapped up her midday meal. Lunch had been a simple but delicious affair. They had enjoyed a rich clam chowder made from the early morning catch, with Sylvia heading to the market in person to pick the juiciest morsels. The remaining ingredients were just as fresh and delicious, sourced directly from a field managed by one of Garm’s former acquaintances.
“All done?” Sylvia raised her head with a yawn. She had been lying face-down on the table, equal parts bored and drowsy. The fox-tailed fairy had finished eating some twenty minutes prior. To her dismay, she was given seconds but not thirds. The pirate-turned-farmer that supplied the requisite vegetables hated the idea of growing crops for commercial use, and only ever sold the shop enough for personal consumption. Unfortunately for the local foxgirl, he couldn’t be bothered to account for the volume of her stomach.
“Yeah.” The lyrkress slowly pushed herself out of her seat and, after nodding at the elf and the siren that shared her table, meandered towards the front door.
“Where are you headed?” A voice from the desk stopped her before she stepped out. The cat was all smiles, leaning against the counter with her face in one hand and a pen in the other. She had been scribbling something in her diary, stopping only to cover it when the lyrkress’ eyes began to wander.
“Abelsville,” said Claire. “The Saint-Jerome inspection will have to wait for tomorrow.”
“Be careful!” said the cat. “The Waveriders were a pretty decent group. You probably won’t want to be as reckless as usual if whatever’s there is strong enough to wipe them out.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t worry, Lia!” said Sylvia. “I’ll make sure to keep her out of trouble.”
“Somehow, that only makes me even more worried,” muttered the cat.
“Wow! That’s just rude!” cried the fox.
“Not really,” said Claire. She pulled her hood over her eyes and left the shop with Sylvia sitting on her shoulder. “You’re a bit of a troublemaker.”
“How!?”
“Figure it out.”
No sooner had the door closed behind her than the smirking longmoose spread her wings. She shot into the air like a missile, assuming her true form and turning towards the west as she broke past the clouds. The incident that she was set to investigate was that of an abnormal disappearance—a reputable party of adventurers that frequently visited the MACC had set out on a quest roughly a week prior and subsequently vanished on the job. Their assignment was to exterminate the cultist base that had suddenly popped just south of the village’s location. With Abelsville less than ten hours away on turberusback, it should have been a quick mission that spanned only a few days. But a week had passed since, and neither the village nor any of the party’s members had sent any reports.
They were presumed dead, and it would be up to Claire and Sylvia to confirm the cause and resolve the accompanying scenario.
“Do you think the cultists decided to kill everyone?” asked Sylvia, with a tilt of the head.
“I doubt it was them. They’re usually not that bold.”
“Really?” Sylvia tilted her head. “I swear half of them set up their bases in plain sight.”
“That’s because they’re stupid,” said Claire. “Not because they’re belligerent.”
Cultists were already targeted and marked for extermination even if they kept their activities nonintrusive. Any group to step out into the limelight would only paint a larger target upon their backs. In most countries, they were considered pests. Nearly every sovereign nation ironed an extermination clause into their legislature’s core. Some countries handled it with their armies, sending them in to stomp out any groups before they could grow too big, while others, like Vel’khan, tasked local governments with employing mercenaries and adventurers to do the work instead.
But while anyone judged to be a cultist was effectively marked for death, one could not simply eradicate their members on sight without any prior consultation. It was the local church of order that would declare, following a judgement by the goddess herself, if an eccentric religious organisation could truly be described as a cult.
Her ordinance was a strict requirement. With so many gods and celestials already in existence and their numbers trending upward with time, one could not simply assume that every new target of worship existed to be scorned. Moreover, there existed many local gods, especially in areas where contact with the outside world was limited. Said gods were often powerful and benevolent individuals under whose protection the frontier towns and villages lived. Meltys was one such example. The system did not acknowledge her as a true deity, but her people believed, and the faith they held in their hearts provided her with far more power than an individual of her status would have otherwise possessed. Such characters were typically accepted and described by Flitzegarde’s adherents as holy beasts based in local tradition. In many cases, continued contact with the worshippers would eventually lead to their integration into the pantheon, perhaps as a servant of another existing god. Assuming that the individual in question was powerful enough, of course.
Likewise, worshippers of false idols were not always discredited. It was strictly religious scams and the reverence of the dark gods that drew the cat goddess’ ire, hence why some organisations, like the Saints’ Collective and the Church of Ears were able to avoid the label.
The group south of Abelsville, however, had been explicitly decried by the holy enforcer. A quick investigation on the church’s part had revealed no deities worth noting. The idol in question, whose form was forged of pure gold, was crafted from the funds pilfered by the area’s already poor citizens and further used to entice them into making greater contributions. In other words, it was a scam run by a local con artist that had gotten in over his head. Hence the call to adventure.
That was what Flitzegarde’s people had unearthed, at least. But with a party of adventurers missing, it was difficult to determine the accuracy of their judgement.
“If I’m lucky, we might run into something worth fighting,” said Claire. If left alone for long enough, the object that a cult worshipped would accrue enough divinity to come to life. There was the occasional positive outcome, but it was more typically a vicious monster that would result. It was largely believed to be the purity of the prayers that determined the precise outcome. And because they were often driven by the malicious and manipulative, the life birthed from the cultists’ faith was typically far from prim and proper.
Knowledge of the process and its outcome was not particularly widespread. The gods generally kept it to themselves, looping in only celestials responsible enough to handle it. As to who had judged that Alfred was a reliable enough individual, Claire hadn’t the slightest clue or understanding. But the end result was that his knowledge had been passed onto her. He had phrased it lightly, roughly presenting the idea to her as it was, but she knew better than to take it at face value. It was a warning. Flitzegarde would not hesitate to order her elimination if she stepped too far out of line and misguided the lost lambs that awaited her direction—not that she was looking to interfere with their business in the first place.
The only thing she knew about Carter’s group was that it had made its way back up to Cadria. And that it had accidentally informed her father of her location. And that it was led by a bunch of idiots.
“Yeah, right,” giggled Sylvia. “Melly was only so strong ‘cause that thingy her people pass down has been getting worshipped for thousands of years. You’ll probably flatten whatever’s caused this whole mess in a heartbeat.”
“Probably,” said Claire, with a frown. “We should probably leave soon, shouldn’t we?”
“Mhm,” said Sylvia. “Did you end up deciding where we’re gonna be going?”
“I was thinking south.”
“Mmmnnn… So Primrose’s part of the forest? I dunno if there’s gonna be anything for you to fight there. She probably keeps it all tidy n stuff.”
Claire shook her head. “I meant further south. Where the erdbrechers came from.”
“Oh! You mean the desert?”
“Yeah.”
“That actually sounds like it could be really fun,” said Sylvia. “Who knows what kinda stuff we’ll find buried under the sand.”
“Monsters, probably,” said Claire. “Maybe a few dungeons if we’re lucky.”
“Or the ruins of some sort of ancient civilization,” said Sylvia. “I can hardly wait! When are we leaving?”
Claire paused for a moment to think. “I was thinking next week, but it depends. We’ll have to talk to the others about it when we get home.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Sylvia smiled. “Lia’ll throw a fit if we just vanish overnight.”
Their destination appeared on the horizon as Claire contemplated the specifics. She magnified it with her eyes, seeing through the trees en route and into the settlement, only to breathe a tired sigh. Somewhat confused, Sylvia followed her gaze to find a village bustling with festive joy. There were about a hundred people gathered in the town square, singing and dancing, drunk out of their minds in the middle of the day.
It didn’t take long to find the missing adventurers. They were at the group’s center and livening up the party with their hearty cackles.
Though completely inebriated, their scout—a giant ground squirrel with a ribbon tied to her head—soon perked up and waved at the incoming pair. Her face was a slovenly grin, no doubt due to the empty barrel sitting next to her. The villagers panicked when they followed her gaze, but her party’s members, a pair of sea otters and a three-legged walrus, calmed them down in time for the qiligon’s landing.
“Hey guys!” hicced the rodent. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you idiots,” Claire grumbled as she shrank down to her humanoid form. “You were presumed dead.”
“The hell, Roger?” said one otter to the other, “I told you to file a report!”
“I did! I sent it off right when we finished. Maybe it was lost in transit or something.”
Claire sighed. “And what, exactly, are you still doing here in the first place?”
“Partying, duh,” said Roger. “We’ve been celebrating ever since we put down those cultists.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“I don’t really know, it’s been a bit of a blur.” The otter cracked a grin. “But the villagers here have got some damn good drink, bought it for real cheap from a wandering merchant, apparently.”
“You should try some,” said the squirrel. “It’s some real good stuff.”
“I’d rather not,” said Claire.
Shooting a glance at the barrel, Claire found it marked with the Merdle company’s stamp. That very same imprint labelled it as a lightly distilled, lower grade version of a familiar product. Because its 7% alcohol by volume rating was far less than the 85% required to be legally described as vekratt, the aged hay liquor was sold as velvesett instead. Alcohol concentration aside, it was effectively identical. Both liquors were crafted from the same raw materials and aged in the same cherrywood barrels. She hadn’t any clue as to its price on the market, but it was the sort of product that even the lesser nobility would have been ashamed to serve. Still, it was a Cadrian import—a product that had come from a thousand miles away. Its mere presence proved Pollux’s success. His economic outreach was extending her father’s influence across the land.
“Aw, come on. Don’t be such a spoilsport.” The walrus, who spoke with all the gusto of a drunk middle-aged man, pushed a mug in her direction. “I know you’re uptight, but no one’s gonna notice if you sneak a pint or two.”
“Sylvia will,” said Claire.
“Yeah, but it’s not like she’s gonna report you. Look, she’s already drinking.”
Surely enough, following one of the blubbery swimmer’s flippers revealed a fox with her face buried in a freshly opened barrel. She only raised her head to lick the spillage off her lips before returning to the filling of her infinite void.
“I can see that.” The lyrkress brought her hand to her face and pinched the bridge of her nose. “She’s going to be in a lot of trouble when we get back.”
“Oh, come on!” cried the furball with a barrel for a face. “It’s not like I can get drunk anyway. It’s totally free! And pretty tasty.”
“See?” said the ground squirrel.
“That was a blatant lie.” Claire plucked her furry friend out of her container and played with her cheeks. “Remember what you did to Gulfweed Reef the last time you were allowed to drink?”
“Uhhh…” Sylvia averted her eyes. “Nope.”
“You just had three times the amount you had last time,” muttered Claire, as she looked between the orange rodent and the empty container.
“It’s okay! I’m fine!” She giggled as she slipped out of Claire’s hands and warped onto her head, where she plopped down on her stomach in her tiniest form. I can just sleep it off whenever I want.” She buried her face deep into the lyrkress hair, rubbing her cheeks against its silky strands. She rolled around for a little, purring and yawning before suddenly rising to her feet. “Claire. I think we have a problem. I can’t find the tracker I put on Lia anymore.”
“That’s what happens when you empty a barrel three times your height.”
Sylvia shook her head, her eyes clear as day. “We need to go.” She clapped her paws, but the resulting portal fizzed out in the blink of an eye. Furrowing her brow, she tried and failed again.
The vectors had refused to distort.
Something was getting in her way. Preventing their teleportation.
Claire’s eyes narrowed. Throwing the furball onto her head, she assumed her true form and shot through the sky. Only there, above the clouds, did the portal finally function, with all the pieces falling into place as they gazed upon the other side.
Everything that they had spent the past month and a half building had been completely destroyed. The shop was almost unrecognizable. Its ceiling was half collapsed and the walls were shredded and burned. There were bloody hoofprints all around the entrance and crimson puddles still spreading from the wreck.
Even the sign had been battered, thrown onto the ground and stomped a thousand times.
There were people gathered all around, curiously inspecting the scene and whispering wild rumours.
But Claire heard none.
Her eyes were too busy for her other senses to function.
Fixated on the corpses that lay within.
Chapter 289 - Return to Form IV
Claire brought a cup of fresh water to her lips as she wrapped up her midday meal. Lunch had been a simple but delicious affair. They had enjoyed a rich clam chowder made from the early morning catch, with Sylvia heading to the market in person to pick the juiciest morsels. The remaining ingredients were just as fresh and delicious, sourced directly from a field managed by one of Garm’s former acquaintances.
“All done?” Sylvia raised her head with a yawn. She had been lying face-down on the table, equal parts bored and drowsy. The fox-tailed fairy had finished eating some twenty minutes prior. To her dismay, she was given seconds but not thirds. The pirate-turned-farmer that supplied the requisite vegetables hated the idea of growing crops for commercial use, and only ever sold the shop enough for personal consumption. Unfortunately for the local foxgirl, he couldn’t be bothered to account for the volume of her stomach.
“Yeah.” The lyrkress slowly pushed herself out of her seat and, after nodding at the elf and the siren that shared her table, meandered towards the front door.
“Where are you headed?” A voice from the desk stopped her before she stepped out. The cat was all smiles, leaning against the counter with her face in one hand and a pen in the other. She had been scribbling something in her diary, stopping only to cover it when the lyrkress’ eyes began to wander.
“Abelsville,” said Claire. “The Saint-Jerome inspection will have to wait for tomorrow.”
“Be careful!” said the cat. “The Waveriders were a pretty decent group. You probably won’t want to be as reckless as usual if whatever’s there is strong enough to wipe them out.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t worry, Lia!” said Sylvia. “I’ll make sure to keep her out of trouble.”
“Somehow, that only makes me even more worried,” muttered the cat.
“Wow! That’s just rude!” cried the fox.
“Not really,” said Claire. She pulled her hood over her eyes and left the shop with Sylvia sitting on her shoulder. “You’re a bit of a troublemaker.”
“How!?”
“Figure it out.”
No sooner had the door closed behind her than the smirking longmoose spread her wings. She shot into the air like a missile, assuming her true form and turning towards the west as she broke past the clouds. The incident that she was set to investigate was that of an abnormal disappearance—a reputable party of adventurers that frequently visited the MACC had set out on a quest roughly a week prior and subsequently vanished on the job. Their assignment was to exterminate the cultist base that had suddenly popped just south of the village’s location. With Abelsville less than ten hours away on turberusback, it should have been a quick mission that spanned only a few days. But a week had passed since, and neither the village nor any of the party’s members had sent any reports.
They were presumed dead, and it would be up to Claire and Sylvia to confirm the cause and resolve the accompanying scenario.
“Do you think the cultists decided to kill everyone?” asked Sylvia, with a tilt of the head.
“I doubt it was them. They’re usually not that bold.”
“Really?” Sylvia tilted her head. “I swear half of them set up their bases in plain sight.”
“That’s because they’re stupid,” said Claire. “Not because they’re belligerent.”
Cultists were already targeted and marked for extermination even if they kept their activities nonintrusive. Any group to step out into the limelight would only paint a larger target upon their backs. In most countries, they were considered pests. Nearly every sovereign nation ironed an extermination clause into their legislature’s core. Some countries handled it with their armies, sending them in to stomp out any groups before they could grow too big, while others, like Vel’khan, tasked local governments with employing mercenaries and adventurers to do the work instead.
But while anyone judged to be a cultist was effectively marked for death, one could not simply eradicate their members on sight without any prior consultation. It was the local church of order that would declare, following a judgement by the goddess herself, if an eccentric religious organisation could truly be described as a cult.
Her ordinance was a strict requirement. With so many gods and celestials already in existence and their numbers trending upward with time, one could not simply assume that every new target of worship existed to be scorned. Moreover, there existed many local gods, especially in areas where contact with the outside world was limited. Said gods were often powerful and benevolent individuals under whose protection the frontier towns and villages lived. Meltys was one such example. The system did not acknowledge her as a true deity, but her people believed, and the faith they held in their hearts provided her with far more power than an individual of her status would have otherwise possessed. Such characters were typically accepted and described by Flitzegarde’s adherents as holy beasts based in local tradition. In many cases, continued contact with the worshippers would eventually lead to their integration into the pantheon, perhaps as a servant of another existing god. Assuming that the individual in question was powerful enough, of course.
Likewise, worshippers of false idols were not always discredited. It was strictly religious scams and the reverence of the dark gods that drew the cat goddess’ ire, hence why some organisations, like the Saints’ Collective and the Church of Ears were able to avoid the label.
The group south of Abelsville, however, had been explicitly decried by the holy enforcer. A quick investigation on the church’s part had revealed no deities worth noting. The idol in question, whose form was forged of pure gold, was crafted from the funds pilfered by the area’s already poor citizens and further used to entice them into making greater contributions. In other words, it was a scam run by a local con artist that had gotten in over his head. Hence the call to adventure.
That was what Flitzegarde’s people had unearthed, at least. But with a party of adventurers missing, it was difficult to determine the accuracy of their judgement.
“If I’m lucky, we might run into something worth fighting,” said Claire. If left alone for long enough, the object that a cult worshipped would accrue enough divinity to come to life. There was the occasional positive outcome, but it was more typically a vicious monster that would result. It was largely believed to be the purity of the prayers that determined the precise outcome. And because they were often driven by the malicious and manipulative, the life birthed from the cultists’ faith was typically far from prim and proper.
Knowledge of the process and its outcome was not particularly widespread. The gods generally kept it to themselves, looping in only celestials responsible enough to handle it. As to who had judged that Alfred was a reliable enough individual, Claire hadn’t the slightest clue or understanding. But the end result was that his knowledge had been passed onto her. He had phrased it lightly, roughly presenting the idea to her as it was, but she knew better than to take it at face value. It was a warning. Flitzegarde would not hesitate to order her elimination if she stepped too far out of line and misguided the lost lambs that awaited her direction—not that she was looking to interfere with their business in the first place.
The only thing she knew about Carter’s group was that it had made its way back up to Cadria. And that it had accidentally informed her father of her location. And that it was led by a bunch of idiots.
“Yeah, right,” giggled Sylvia. “Melly was only so strong ‘cause that thingy her people pass down has been getting worshipped for thousands of years. You’ll probably flatten whatever’s caused this whole mess in a heartbeat.”
“Probably,” said Claire, with a frown. “We should probably leave soon, shouldn’t we?”
“Mhm,” said Sylvia. “Did you end up deciding where we’re gonna be going?”
“I was thinking south.”
“Mmmnnn… So Primrose’s part of the forest? I dunno if there’s gonna be anything for you to fight there. She probably keeps it all tidy n stuff.”
Claire shook her head. “I meant further south. Where the erdbrechers came from.”
“Oh! You mean the desert?”
“Yeah.”
“That actually sounds like it could be really fun,” said Sylvia. “Who knows what kinda stuff we’ll find buried under the sand.”
“Monsters, probably,” said Claire. “Maybe a few dungeons if we’re lucky.”
“Or the ruins of some sort of ancient civilization,” said Sylvia. “I can hardly wait! When are we leaving?”
Claire paused for a moment to think. “I was thinking next week, but it depends. We’ll have to talk to the others about it when we get home.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Sylvia smiled. “Lia’ll throw a fit if we just vanish overnight.”
Their destination appeared on the horizon as Claire contemplated the specifics. She magnified it with her eyes, seeing through the trees en route and into the settlement, only to breathe a tired sigh. Somewhat confused, Sylvia followed her gaze to find a village bustling with festive joy. There were about a hundred people gathered in the town square, singing and dancing, drunk out of their minds in the middle of the day.
It didn’t take long to find the missing adventurers. They were at the group’s center and livening up the party with their hearty cackles.
Though completely inebriated, their scout—a giant ground squirrel with a ribbon tied to her head—soon perked up and waved at the incoming pair. Her face was a slovenly grin, no doubt due to the empty barrel sitting next to her. The villagers panicked when they followed her gaze, but her party’s members, a pair of sea otters and a three-legged walrus, calmed them down in time for the qiligon’s landing.
“Hey guys!” hicced the rodent. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you idiots,” Claire grumbled as she shrank down to her humanoid form. “You were presumed dead.”
“The hell, Roger?” said one otter to the other, “I told you to file a report!”
“I did! I sent it off right when we finished. Maybe it was lost in transit or something.”
Claire sighed. “And what, exactly, are you still doing here in the first place?”
“Partying, duh,” said Roger. “We’ve been celebrating ever since we put down those cultists.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“I don’t really know, it’s been a bit of a blur.” The otter cracked a grin. “But the villagers here have got some damn good drink, bought it for real cheap from a wandering merchant, apparently.”
“You should try some,” said the squirrel. “It’s some real good stuff.”
“I’d rather not,” said Claire.
Shooting a glance at the barrel, Claire found it marked with the Merdle company’s stamp. That very same imprint labelled it as a lightly distilled, lower grade version of a familiar product. Because its 7% alcohol by volume rating was far less than the 85% required to be legally described as vekratt, the aged hay liquor was sold as velvesett instead. Alcohol concentration aside, it was effectively identical. Both liquors were crafted from the same raw materials and aged in the same cherrywood barrels. She hadn’t any clue as to its price on the market, but it was the sort of product that even the lesser nobility would have been ashamed to serve. Still, it was a Cadrian import—a product that had come from a thousand miles away. Its mere presence proved Pollux’s success. His economic outreach was extending her father’s influence across the land.
“Aw, come on. Don’t be such a spoilsport.” The walrus, who spoke with all the gusto of a drunk middle-aged man, pushed a mug in her direction. “I know you’re uptight, but no one’s gonna notice if you sneak a pint or two.”
“Sylvia will,” said Claire.
“Yeah, but it’s not like she’s gonna report you. Look, she’s already drinking.”
Surely enough, following one of the blubbery swimmer’s flippers revealed a fox with her face buried in a freshly opened barrel. She only raised her head to lick the spillage off her lips before returning to the filling of her infinite void.
“I can see that.” The lyrkress brought her hand to her face and pinched the bridge of her nose. “She’s going to be in a lot of trouble when we get back.”
“Oh, come on!” cried the furball with a barrel for a face. “It’s not like I can get drunk anyway. It’s totally free! And pretty tasty.”
“See?” said the ground squirrel.
“That was a blatant lie.” Claire plucked her furry friend out of her container and played with her cheeks. “Remember what you did to Gulfweed Reef the last time you were allowed to drink?”
“Uhhh…” Sylvia averted her eyes. “Nope.”
“You just had three times the amount you had last time,” muttered Claire, as she looked between the orange rodent and the empty container.
“It’s okay! I’m fine!” She giggled as she slipped out of Claire’s hands and warped onto her head, where she plopped down on her stomach in her tiniest form. I can just sleep it off whenever I want.” She buried her face deep into the lyrkress hair, rubbing her cheeks against its silky strands. She rolled around for a little, purring and yawning before suddenly rising to her feet. “Claire. I think we have a problem. I can’t find the tracker I put on Lia anymore.”
“That’s what happens when you empty a barrel three times your height.”
Sylvia shook her head, her eyes clear as day. “We need to go.” She clapped her paws, but the resulting portal fizzed out in the blink of an eye. Furrowing her brow, she tried and failed again.
The vectors had refused to distort.
Something was getting in her way. Preventing their teleportation.
Claire’s eyes narrowed. Throwing the furball onto her head, she assumed her true form and shot through the sky. Only there, above the clouds, did the portal finally function, with all the pieces falling into place as they gazed upon the other side.
Everything that they had spent the past month and a half building had been completely destroyed. The shop was almost unrecognizable. Its ceiling was half collapsed and the walls were shredded and burned. There were bloody hoofprints all around the entrance and crimson puddles still spreading from the wreck.
Even the sign had been battered, thrown onto the ground and stomped a thousand times.
There were people gathered all around, curiously inspecting the scene and whispering wild rumours.
But Claire heard none.
Her eyes were too busy for her other senses to function.
Fixated on the corpses that lay within.
