***********************
Wyatt 'Wendigo' Graves
I spin on my feet, looking for the echoing laughter. But I can't find it. The monster is getting closer. This isn't good. We're going to get caught again, and I'm fucking exhausted. Cursing, I wipe my bloody nose on my arm, staining my shirt. The thing is back. I got minor nosebleeds after it left the previous times.
Shit.
In the heart of the wasteland, so deep that I hardly even know the direction I'm moving, I stumble forward, carrying Virgil through the blinding storm of crimson sand. I force myself to speed up despite my condition. I can't be caught again. That's a fucking death sentence. My whole body is exhausted from the constant movement, and the depletion of my own blood to feed my friend has left me feeling lightheaded, bordering on delirious. Still, I continue.
The swirling sand blinds and deafens me beyond twenty feet, preventing me, even with my skills, from scouting for danger. It's a disorienting method of ceaseless torment to never know where the threat will come from, but Shiver has saved my life a dozen times since I left the side of the cliff. A dozen creatures have attacked me since, and I've fended them all off. However, I know the one coming after me is not one I can shake off so easily.
Each step is a struggle, every movement of my weary limbs a desperate push to escape the relentless laughter that bounces off the grains of sand, targeting me. But I'm so tired that it's hard to tell what I'm hearing is real. I can't help but twist and spin here or there, believing that I saw the creator at the edge of my vision until I finally see something that doesn't vanish the moment I focus on it.
Shapes materialize at the edge of the sands, barely beyond view. The monstrous entity, the one that's been chasing me, takes form in the maelstrom. It's then that it utters its chilling ultimatum, an arm extending through the sand, pointing directly at me.
"Strike three, birdie."
The voice hisses with malevolent glee. My heart sinks as I see the nature of the arm. It's covered in feathers that have born the tests of time, diseased, rotted, and ruined. Tiny blades from scythe to daggers sick out of the monstrous arm that's the size of my whole torso, too.
But the worst part of it all has nothing to do with the physical.
It's the non-physical that always matters.
Deep, burning violet fetters hang haphazardly from the monster's arm as red sand falls from the weapons in its body, like that of an hourglass—an 8th Sigil. A Virtue has found me.
"Time to die."
I tighten my grip on Virgil for a moment before releasing my grip. He's almost awake. I've cleared the Ether down to his heart, fixing his left arm as well.
"Sorry."
I whisper to his unconscious form as I drop him beside me, letting his body fall to the sand. Then, I draw Mars with my left hand, Primrose's teleporting Colt. Lily burns my hand for a second but stops when she realizes the circumstances because I also draw her.
Petalshield spurts out the sticking fluid that holds her to my ruined right hand. Then, I stare at the monster, my Ether beginning to flow.
I have almost no chance. In fact, I probably have zero chance to win.
But I can't give up.
"Even if I die, Blodwyn, keep Silence running for you and Virgil. This thing seems to only want me."
Blodwyn groans in protest, managing to say a few words.
"No. You die, I die."
I shake my head as the monster approaches me, revealing her entire form. I hardly give the female monster thrice my height any attention as I tell Blodwyn once more what he will do.
"We will fight to the end. But... if worst comes to worst, join Virgil's hand. I trust that you won't kill him. You can save him, even if I die."
The artifact grumbles but stops arguing due to the circumstances as I take a step forward, the sands beneath me making my exhaustive actions twice as tricky.
I breathe in. Then, I breathe out.
I'll probably die here. But that's fine.
I never expected to live very long.
********************
Timemi 'Metal Witch'
A slight grin hangs on my mouth as I lead my group through the relentless wasteland of crimson dust. The fine particles of sand continuously assail us, but we are far from those pathetic humans that used to call this place home, each one of us possessing incredible might. I often look down upon these three, but I will admit it in my mind. They are strong—very strong. If they weren't, they wouldn't be here with me.
I cast my gaze around, taking stock of them, my scrutiny intensified by the strange occurrences we've encountered. My suspicion falls upon the one that deserves it the most, the coward.
Natos, with his severely scarred and burnt skin adorned with those grotesque nose rings, is the furthest behind us. To even watch him forces me to use Forge to contort my armor into a minor mirror. To protect himself from the biting sands, he envelops his whole body in a radiance—a radiance that has only continued to grow in intensity since we entered the storm. I find it suspicious, for he has been gaining power steadily, unlike the rest of us, who are tiring under the oppressive storm. There is something peculiar about his rapid ascent.
But what could it be? Was he hiding his Sigil from us? Is he not a 7th like the rest of us?
I bite my lip under my helmet as I shift my gaze, giving my Parallel Wires time to think. The more metal that is touching me, the swifter my mind. I couldn't be happier with the one Mentalist I took.
Bemola's frosty blue skin is shrouded by her Ether. I can scarcely see her presence because she is exuding an icy aura that freezes the sand in its tracks, preventing it from reaching her—the drops of dust collapse to the earth like of bugs being swatted from the sky. The comparison, for some reason, makes my skin crawl. Ignoring the odd sensation, however, I focus on her face, identifying her feelings. She seems undisturbed by the storm. Her aura has lessened in width, however, proving that she can't keep it up forever.
Then there is the Nahullo woman. Her tall, alabaster-skinned figure makes my teeth grind no matter the scenario. It makes it even worse that she is in the legendary metal armor crafted by the High Table. Her attire provides her with added protection against the sandstorm, enhancing her already considerable powers. Anodra's the least affected by the storm for that very reason.
The storm in which was caused by a God's rise.
I wonder where the God of Desolation has gone, probably the Bridge, based on his proclamation. The fact I can't call the human by his name anymore is ingratiating, but I suppose I'll have to get used to it.
He is one of two. Two mortals who have ever ascended within known history. Neither of which were Pygmies, too. Though, no one knows what race the Devil is from. The Arbiter Of Chaos has been a mystery for as long as my race has been fighting those damned Grayskins down south, meaning most of our whole history.
Now, the Swarming Wastelander can be added to that bare list.
Where could he have gone? He said he was off to kill the Gods, but is he truly? He isn't going after Father or our temporary Alliance, so maybe he really is. What a damned madman.
He's always been that way, I suppose. The former Prime, while in his younger years, would charge head first into any battle, no matter how slim the chances of survival. I'll never forget the story Father told me that his father told him when he was younger.
Teran, my grandfather, was an 8th Sigiled High Architect alongside half a dozen Architects and hundreds of High Weavers, some even on the doorstep of Angelhood themselves. And even with those terrifying numbers, a young Desolation walked to their army all alone after we had captured Veer in Vallens.
They offered him a single chance of mercy, knowing that he was a Harvey. My grandfather didn't want to deal with the whole Estate as a whole, not after just killing a Pillar and taking the city. There are limits to those we will enrage at once, even if they are humans.
Vi—Desolation laughed at them. He can no longer be called by his name, and I cannot forget that. All Gods can feel when their names are said. It is better to use acronyms, even in thoughts, so one doesn't accidentally let it slip. Though, if used enough, the acronyms will reach them, too.
Desolation laughed at the whole army. This made my grandfather furious, and while they readied to kill him, Desolation said a sentence that still haunts my father, a man who didn't even hear it, to this day. It was the last thing he ever heard from my grandfather, after all. My old man's old man died right after saying the words Desolation released due to his wounds.
"If you want to kill me... Without your Creator, you all ain't got but two chances. Slim and None."
I whisper the words under my breath, keeping them close to me.
Desolation broke into the city, killing four Architects and sixty Weavers, and injured my grandfather enough that he died the very next day. Then he walked back home, sighing about the lack of a challenge.
If anyone were to be able to kill all the Gods... it'd be him.
And now that I think about it... that storm yesterday. Those were the signs of God's clashing. I can only wonder which God fell yesterday. It certainly wasn't Desolation, or this whole wasteland would be significantly weaker. It couldn't have been any Mentalist, Shaman, or Scholar aligned, though, or I would have noticed the call. I refuse to admit I wouldn't be one of the Chosen.
As I observe my companions while lost in thought, a haunting and echoing laugh resounds from the depths of the storm. It piques my interest and stops my introspection, for, as far as I know, no one should survive in this wasteland. We are merely passing through, navigating this treacherous terrain for the sake of speed and to avoid potential adversaries. We've spotted creatures throughout our journey, but none have been able to speak, laugh, or show any modicum of intelligence.
The source of the laughter remains shrouded in mystery as we continue a bit further, a riddle that demands investigation. I shout at the three nearby, gathering them to me.
"I hear something up ahead! Sounded like a fit of laughter! We should go check it out!"
To have my voice reach any of them, I almost have to scream my lungs out. Thankfully, Yell is an easy skill to craft and uses virtually no Ether. Natos nods submissively as he steps closer to me, but Bemola doesn't seem as willing—neither does Anodra. They both stop moving and stare at me, with an icy voice meeting my Yell.
"Why should we investigate? It could just be a hiding pack of humans. We shouldn't waste our time."
Her suggestion offers a valid point. I move my gauntlet to my jaw as Anodra surprisingly agrees with me.
"I don't know, Bemola. This wasteland has been active for... quite a while at this point. I can't imagine a human living in this place unless they are an Angel. I think it's likely just some monster from the depths of the sands. It could be good to check it out, even if just for information. I'd rather not be ambushed later without knowing what it is doing so."
Bemola scoffs, then raises a chilled hand ahead, waving it in a bow. She is so fucking annoying sometimes.
"Then go on, lead the way, Timemi, our fearless leader."
Bitch. Whatever. I'll do precisely that.
I pursue the eerie and worrisome sounds of laughter that echo ominously through the crimson sandstorm without any hesitation. Must be a ghost of some kind based on the noises. Odd. Those are the first to perish in places of such erupting Ether. The sand crunches under my steel boots while tearing at my armor, but I force my Ether into gear as Second Shift starts, my whole body moving with a whole different level of power.
Instantly, my first step sends me bounding a hundred feet forward, and without waiting to see if the others can follow me as I trust in their aptitudes, I continue. Kinesis pulls at my metal armor and the steel within my flesh to propel me even faster. I move so quickly that the sand can't even keep up with me, and I end up slamming into even more that is drifting in the air.
But it's all fine. Behind me, the other three quickly catch up, especially Natos. He's so fast that it's honestly a tad bit scary. If he weren't known for using that speed to run away, I'd be worried about being near him.
But as we move onward, the echoing laughter in the depths of the sandstorm continues to pique my curiosity. The sound comes from someplace far away but still reaches us through the buzzing dunes. It is so bizarre, but things will be fine. I alone should be enough to deal with any danger present in this wasteland.
I mean, what things could realistically be called here? We've killed dozens of creatures, and all were pitifully weak. I doubt there is anything that goes beyond that. The main issue is the sands themselves, not the monsters. Plus, we're all Angels. With our strength, we can roam any place upon the surface. Other than Pained Peaks, of course. Not even my father can step foot on those peaks without risk.
Still, I'm confident in my own abilities and the might of my companions, so I lead us onward while the echoing laughter grows louder with each step. We sprint through the sandstorm, moving at extraordinary speeds, covering dozens of miles in mere moments. But as we close in on the source of the laughter, I can't help but feel a sense of foreboding. That eerie palpitation in my mind slows my footsteps to a crawl.
And then, I stumble upon a scene that forces all of us to pause, even Bemola's ice-cold self, dumbfounded by what we see. It's almost too incredible to believe. There stands a monstrous woman, her hair falling like a cascade over her body and her flesh adorned with dozens of hatchets and scythes as if they were sewn into her very being. Knotted and diseased feathers hang from her every pore that's not stabbed by the blades. The woman is engulfed in unsettling giggles while looking down at a defenseless human.
The young human, on his own and bereft of any visible powers or companions, is a perplexing sight. It defies all reason, as how could he have journeyed this deep into the heart of the sandstorm? He is not manipulating any amount of discernable Ether. I don't even feel a hint of resonance within him that would indicate a Sigil, either.
How is he...? How is he alive?
I put up an arm to stop Bemola as I catch wind of another sensation, earning icicles that latch onto my armor. She pauses before touching me with a grunt.
"What?"
My eyes lock on the oversized woman. She has to be nearly fifteen feet tall. Her laughter burrows into my ears as she slides her feet to the human, shuffling through the sands.
"Hehe. Hehehe! Hehahaha!"
The sound quickly becomes the only noise I can recognize. Gritting my teeth, I shove Ether into my ears to protect them haphazardly while letting Bemola know my worry.
"That woman... is she a demon? I think she's Virtue."
Bemola comprehends my words, but after squinting her eyes, the monstrous being ripping a scythe from her flesh as we inspect her. A gasp comes from Natos as crimson sand falls out of the creature's wound, not blood.
"That's not a demon."
The scythe in its hands flings out toward the human as he stays kneeling, waiting for his death. I suppose that is all they can do. Useless, pitiful creatures that have no place in this world. They can't create like we do; they are weaker than the Nahullo and less talented than demons. What purpose do they hold?
None.
I watch from the edge, where I can peer through the dense swirling sand as the scythe falls for the young human. But the instant before the blade rends him in twain, the human vanishes.
For a moment, my mind moving at unheard-of speeds among Pygmies, I try to comprehend what is happening.
Then, the human reappears, his fist turning into a spear of mangled flesh as he stabs it into the monster's chest with a scream. His howl echoes a dozen times more profoundly into the sands with pain as his arm gores the creatures, going entirely through.
That's not a human.
That's another monster.
I step back, preparing to leave, until both of the monster's heads contort and stare directly at mine.
The bloody swirls within the gaze of the 'human' and the sand that leaks from the other monster tell me all I need to know.
"Not our fight. Run. Now!"
***********************
Wyatt 'Wendigo' Graves
I spin on my feet, looking for the echoing laughter. But I can't find it. The monster is getting closer. This isn't good. We're going to get caught again, and I'm fucking exhausted. Cursing, I wipe my bloody nose on my arm, staining my shirt. The thing is back. I got minor nosebleeds after it left the previous times.
Shit.
In the heart of the wasteland, so deep that I hardly even know the direction I'm moving, I stumble forward, carrying Virgil through the blinding storm of crimson sand. I force myself to speed up despite my condition. I can't be caught again. That's a fucking death sentence. My whole body is exhausted from the constant movement, and the depletion of my own blood to feed my friend has left me feeling lightheaded, bordering on delirious. Still, I continue.
The swirling sand blinds and deafens me beyond twenty feet, preventing me, even with my skills, from scouting for danger. It's a disorienting method of ceaseless torment to never know where the threat will come from, but Shiver has saved my life a dozen times since I left the side of the cliff. A dozen creatures have attacked me since, and I've fended them all off. However, I know the one coming after me is not one I can shake off so easily.
Each step is a struggle, every movement of my weary limbs a desperate push to escape the relentless laughter that bounces off the grains of sand, targeting me. But I'm so tired that it's hard to tell what I'm hearing is real. I can't help but twist and spin here or there, believing that I saw the creator at the edge of my vision until I finally see something that doesn't vanish the moment I focus on it.
Shapes materialize at the edge of the sands, barely beyond view. The monstrous entity, the one that's been chasing me, takes form in the maelstrom. It's then that it utters its chilling ultimatum, an arm extending through the sand, pointing directly at me.
"Strike three, birdie."
The voice hisses with malevolent glee. My heart sinks as I see the nature of the arm. It's covered in feathers that have born the tests of time, diseased, rotted, and ruined. Tiny blades from scythe to daggers sick out of the monstrous arm that's the size of my whole torso, too.
But the worst part of it all has nothing to do with the physical.
It's the non-physical that always matters.
Deep, burning violet fetters hang haphazardly from the monster's arm as red sand falls from the weapons in its body, like that of an hourglass—an 8th Sigil. A Virtue has found me.
"Time to die."
I tighten my grip on Virgil for a moment before releasing my grip. He's almost awake. I've cleared the Ether down to his heart, fixing his left arm as well.
"Sorry."
I whisper to his unconscious form as I drop him beside me, letting his body fall to the sand. Then, I draw Mars with my left hand, Primrose's teleporting Colt. Lily burns my hand for a second but stops when she realizes the circumstances because I also draw her.
Petalshield spurts out the sticking fluid that holds her to my ruined right hand. Then, I stare at the monster, my Ether beginning to flow.
I have almost no chance. In fact, I probably have zero chance to win.
But I can't give up.
"Even if I die, Blodwyn, keep Silence running for you and Virgil. This thing seems to only want me."
Blodwyn groans in protest, managing to say a few words.
"No. You die, I die."
I shake my head as the monster approaches me, revealing her entire form. I hardly give the female monster thrice my height any attention as I tell Blodwyn once more what he will do.
"We will fight to the end. But... if worst comes to worst, join Virgil's hand. I trust that you won't kill him. You can save him, even if I die."
The artifact grumbles but stops arguing due to the circumstances as I take a step forward, the sands beneath me making my exhaustive actions twice as tricky.
I breathe in. Then, I breathe out.
I'll probably die here. But that's fine.
I never expected to live very long.
********************
Timemi 'Metal Witch'
A slight grin hangs on my mouth as I lead my group through the relentless wasteland of crimson dust. The fine particles of sand continuously assail us, but we are far from those pathetic humans that used to call this place home, each one of us possessing incredible might. I often look down upon these three, but I will admit it in my mind. They are strong—very strong. If they weren't, they wouldn't be here with me.
I cast my gaze around, taking stock of them, my scrutiny intensified by the strange occurrences we've encountered. My suspicion falls upon the one that deserves it the most, the coward.
Natos, with his severely scarred and burnt skin adorned with those grotesque nose rings, is the furthest behind us. To even watch him forces me to use Forge to contort my armor into a minor mirror. To protect himself from the biting sands, he envelops his whole body in a radiance—a radiance that has only continued to grow in intensity since we entered the storm. I find it suspicious, for he has been gaining power steadily, unlike the rest of us, who are tiring under the oppressive storm. There is something peculiar about his rapid ascent.
But what could it be? Was he hiding his Sigil from us? Is he not a 7th like the rest of us?
I bite my lip under my helmet as I shift my gaze, giving my Parallel Wires time to think. The more metal that is touching me, the swifter my mind. I couldn't be happier with the one Mentalist I took.
Bemola's frosty blue skin is shrouded by her Ether. I can scarcely see her presence because she is exuding an icy aura that freezes the sand in its tracks, preventing it from reaching her—the drops of dust collapse to the earth like of bugs being swatted from the sky. The comparison, for some reason, makes my skin crawl. Ignoring the odd sensation, however, I focus on her face, identifying her feelings. She seems undisturbed by the storm. Her aura has lessened in width, however, proving that she can't keep it up forever.
Then there is the Nahullo woman. Her tall, alabaster-skinned figure makes my teeth grind no matter the scenario. It makes it even worse that she is in the legendary metal armor crafted by the High Table. Her attire provides her with added protection against the sandstorm, enhancing her already considerable powers. Anodra's the least affected by the storm for that very reason.
The storm in which was caused by a God's rise.
I wonder where the God of Desolation has gone, probably the Bridge, based on his proclamation. The fact I can't call the human by his name anymore is ingratiating, but I suppose I'll have to get used to it.
He is one of two. Two mortals who have ever ascended within known history. Neither of which were Pygmies, too. Though, no one knows what race the Devil is from. The Arbiter Of Chaos has been a mystery for as long as my race has been fighting those damned Grayskins down south, meaning most of our whole history.
Now, the Swarming Wastelander can be added to that bare list.
Where could he have gone? He said he was off to kill the Gods, but is he truly? He isn't going after Father or our temporary Alliance, so maybe he really is. What a damned madman.
He's always been that way, I suppose. The former Prime, while in his younger years, would charge head first into any battle, no matter how slim the chances of survival. I'll never forget the story Father told me that his father told him when he was younger.
Teran, my grandfather, was an 8th Sigiled High Architect alongside half a dozen Architects and hundreds of High Weavers, some even on the doorstep of Angelhood themselves. And even with those terrifying numbers, a young Desolation walked to their army all alone after we had captured Veer in Vallens.
They offered him a single chance of mercy, knowing that he was a Harvey. My grandfather didn't want to deal with the whole Estate as a whole, not after just killing a Pillar and taking the city. There are limits to those we will enrage at once, even if they are humans.
Vi—Desolation laughed at them. He can no longer be called by his name, and I cannot forget that. All Gods can feel when their names are said. It is better to use acronyms, even in thoughts, so one doesn't accidentally let it slip. Though, if used enough, the acronyms will reach them, too.
Desolation laughed at the whole army. This made my grandfather furious, and while they readied to kill him, Desolation said a sentence that still haunts my father, a man who didn't even hear it, to this day. It was the last thing he ever heard from my grandfather, after all. My old man's old man died right after saying the words Desolation released due to his wounds.
"If you want to kill me... Without your Creator, you all ain't got but two chances. Slim and None."
I whisper the words under my breath, keeping them close to me.
Desolation broke into the city, killing four Architects and sixty Weavers, and injured my grandfather enough that he died the very next day. Then he walked back home, sighing about the lack of a challenge.
If anyone were to be able to kill all the Gods... it'd be him.
And now that I think about it... that storm yesterday. Those were the signs of God's clashing. I can only wonder which God fell yesterday. It certainly wasn't Desolation, or this whole wasteland would be significantly weaker. It couldn't have been any Mentalist, Shaman, or Scholar aligned, though, or I would have noticed the call. I refuse to admit I wouldn't be one of the Chosen.
As I observe my companions while lost in thought, a haunting and echoing laugh resounds from the depths of the storm. It piques my interest and stops my introspection, for, as far as I know, no one should survive in this wasteland. We are merely passing through, navigating this treacherous terrain for the sake of speed and to avoid potential adversaries. We've spotted creatures throughout our journey, but none have been able to speak, laugh, or show any modicum of intelligence.
The source of the laughter remains shrouded in mystery as we continue a bit further, a riddle that demands investigation. I shout at the three nearby, gathering them to me.
"I hear something up ahead! Sounded like a fit of laughter! We should go check it out!"
To have my voice reach any of them, I almost have to scream my lungs out. Thankfully, Yell is an easy skill to craft and uses virtually no Ether. Natos nods submissively as he steps closer to me, but Bemola doesn't seem as willing—neither does Anodra. They both stop moving and stare at me, with an icy voice meeting my Yell.
"Why should we investigate? It could just be a hiding pack of humans. We shouldn't waste our time."
Her suggestion offers a valid point. I move my gauntlet to my jaw as Anodra surprisingly agrees with me.
"I don't know, Bemola. This wasteland has been active for... quite a while at this point. I can't imagine a human living in this place unless they are an Angel. I think it's likely just some monster from the depths of the sands. It could be good to check it out, even if just for information. I'd rather not be ambushed later without knowing what it is doing so."
Bemola scoffs, then raises a chilled hand ahead, waving it in a bow. She is so fucking annoying sometimes.
"Then go on, lead the way, Timemi, our fearless leader."
Bitch. Whatever. I'll do precisely that.
I pursue the eerie and worrisome sounds of laughter that echo ominously through the crimson sandstorm without any hesitation. Must be a ghost of some kind based on the noises. Odd. Those are the first to perish in places of such erupting Ether. The sand crunches under my steel boots while tearing at my armor, but I force my Ether into gear as Second Shift starts, my whole body moving with a whole different level of power.
Instantly, my first step sends me bounding a hundred feet forward, and without waiting to see if the others can follow me as I trust in their aptitudes, I continue. Kinesis pulls at my metal armor and the steel within my flesh to propel me even faster. I move so quickly that the sand can't even keep up with me, and I end up slamming into even more that is drifting in the air.
But it's all fine. Behind me, the other three quickly catch up, especially Natos. He's so fast that it's honestly a tad bit scary. If he weren't known for using that speed to run away, I'd be worried about being near him.
But as we move onward, the echoing laughter in the depths of the sandstorm continues to pique my curiosity. The sound comes from someplace far away but still reaches us through the buzzing dunes. It is so bizarre, but things will be fine. I alone should be enough to deal with any danger present in this wasteland.
I mean, what things could realistically be called here? We've killed dozens of creatures, and all were pitifully weak. I doubt there is anything that goes beyond that. The main issue is the sands themselves, not the monsters. Plus, we're all Angels. With our strength, we can roam any place upon the surface. Other than Pained Peaks, of course. Not even my father can step foot on those peaks without risk.
Still, I'm confident in my own abilities and the might of my companions, so I lead us onward while the echoing laughter grows louder with each step. We sprint through the sandstorm, moving at extraordinary speeds, covering dozens of miles in mere moments. But as we close in on the source of the laughter, I can't help but feel a sense of foreboding. That eerie palpitation in my mind slows my footsteps to a crawl.
And then, I stumble upon a scene that forces all of us to pause, even Bemola's ice-cold self, dumbfounded by what we see. It's almost too incredible to believe. There stands a monstrous woman, her hair falling like a cascade over her body and her flesh adorned with dozens of hatchets and scythes as if they were sewn into her very being. Knotted and diseased feathers hang from her every pore that's not stabbed by the blades. The woman is engulfed in unsettling giggles while looking down at a defenseless human.
The young human, on his own and bereft of any visible powers or companions, is a perplexing sight. It defies all reason, as how could he have journeyed this deep into the heart of the sandstorm? He is not manipulating any amount of discernable Ether. I don't even feel a hint of resonance within him that would indicate a Sigil, either.
How is he...? How is he alive?
I put up an arm to stop Bemola as I catch wind of another sensation, earning icicles that latch onto my armor. She pauses before touching me with a grunt.
"What?"
My eyes lock on the oversized woman. She has to be nearly fifteen feet tall. Her laughter burrows into my ears as she slides her feet to the human, shuffling through the sands.
"Hehe. Hehehe! Hehahaha!"
The sound quickly becomes the only noise I can recognize. Gritting my teeth, I shove Ether into my ears to protect them haphazardly while letting Bemola know my worry.
"That woman... is she a demon? I think she's Virtue."
Bemola comprehends my words, but after squinting her eyes, the monstrous being ripping a scythe from her flesh as we inspect her. A gasp comes from Natos as crimson sand falls out of the creature's wound, not blood.
"That's not a demon."
The scythe in its hands flings out toward the human as he stays kneeling, waiting for his death. I suppose that is all they can do. Useless, pitiful creatures that have no place in this world. They can't create like we do; they are weaker than the Nahullo and less talented than demons. What purpose do they hold?
None.
I watch from the edge, where I can peer through the dense swirling sand as the scythe falls for the young human. But the instant before the blade rends him in twain, the human vanishes.
For a moment, my mind moving at unheard-of speeds among Pygmies, I try to comprehend what is happening.
Then, the human reappears, his fist turning into a spear of mangled flesh as he stabs it into the monster's chest with a scream. His howl echoes a dozen times more profoundly into the sands with pain as his arm gores the creatures, going entirely through.
That's not a human.
That's another monster.
I step back, preparing to leave, until both of the monster's heads contort and stare directly at mine.
The bloody swirls within the gaze of the 'human' and the sand that leaks from the other monster tell me all I need to know.
"Not our fight. Run. Now!"
