Herah took a deep breath and then let it out, focusing on all those small feelings at the edge of her senses and letting each grow as sharp as possible.
Reality shattered and reconstructed itself into a different but familiar array of feelings and sensations as all the artist’s focus went to the black liquid before her, a small chunk outlined in a golden rectangle.
Huh, Herah found herself thinking about the experience. This isn’t what I expected.
The artist felt the sour smell of death at the tips of her fingers, devilishly potent. In stark contrast, her eyes saw the almost sandy taste of wood flakes. Her nose smelled the erratic buzz of the liquid, like static on television, spiking as Herah observed it. The sight of dead cells, all blackened and degraded into stretched and flailing noodles, reached her ears. These cells lashed out at everything around them, shooting out what the artist recognized to be some form of Science. Though what the Science did, Herah didn’t know just yet.
Well, might as well touch it.
Reaching out a hand to the endless mass of rot, the artist tasted the slimy feel of them swarming up her arm and stabbing into it with their Science. Herah smelled a cold and creeping fuzz propagating everywhere the rot pierced her arm. As the fuzzy feeling spread, the artist realized her arm began feeling disconnected from her body, as if Herah was slowly shutting down every nerve within. Her other senses could still clearly observe the limb, but her body didn’t seem to recognize it as part itself anymore. The arm was becoming just a weight hanging from her shoulder.
Eventually the artist’s entire arm was gone, and Herah observed how the cells that made up her limb resembled the warped and dead ones that composed the liquid black. Pulling her focus back, the artist found her arm limp at her side; now black, shrunken, on the verge of collapse, and stinking of rot.
So odd. Herah thought fully experiencing the rot. It reminds me of my fire. Clearly from something greater. Is this rot from the Rot? What is the Rot?”
The artist could no longer feel her shoulder as the fuzz spread up it and then towards her heart and flame. And as soon as the rot reached her fire-
FWOOSH!
Herah tasted the heat dancing across her body as her red flame clothing engulfed her entirety. The feeling of her arm returned as the fire burned the rot away and her limb back into healthy shape.
Reality slowly returned to normal for the artist as Herah reigned her senses back in and dulled her nose once again.
“Merde,” The artist felt some warm liquid running under her nostrils, eyes, ears, and mouth. “Annoying fucking blood”
The flames covering Herah’s face peeled the blood from it and flowed into her mouth before her fire retreated to its tank-top and shorts form.
“Owen, this reminds me of—”
The artist paused as her eyes landed upon a frozen binder, Owen staring off and past her form. His scent felt stagnate and flat, no emotion found within.
“Owen?”
Herah gave the binder a light tap on the shoulder.
There was no reaction.
Smoke flared from her nostrils, frustration and worry building up in equal measure as the artist waved a hand before Owen’s face to try and get his attention.
“Owen! What the fuck’s wrong with you!?”
“Could be the hemophobia.”
Herah blinked and found Norwe the Sloth laying in front of the binder, right atop the rot.
“What?”
“Hemophobia, it is the fear of blood. My binder here,” the Maker Sloth moved one of their limbs deceptively fast to tap Owen on the face, “Is terribly afraid of blood. Death too.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Blood and death are expected.”
“Yes.”
The artist rose to her full height as her nose flared and green flames jetted from her nostrils.
“Why Owen?”
Norwe the Sloth gave Herah a wide, toothy smile.
“Is there not entertainment in testing one's beliefs and their dedication to them? Watching someone battle against their fears, even if crippling? It’s honest, wouldn’t you agree?”
For a brief moment, the artist snapped back to earlier in her day, when Bleucend got caught by Rose. Then a growl rumbled in Herah’s throat as her eyes began to glow.
“You disgust me.”
The Maker Sloth slowly batted their eyes.
“What ever are you to do about it?”
Flames roared from the artist’s throat and engulfed both Norwe the Sloth and the binder.
The laughs of her Maker and Owen’s panicked shout filled the air as the sloth burnt to ash and the binder fell on his butt.
Herah ate the flames a second later as Owen shook his head and scrambled to his feet.
“I-I’m so sorry for tha—”
“Owen, you have no place in a fight.”
The binder froze again at the artist’s words.
Nothing against you, but this needs to be said. Herah thought as her eyes locked with Owen’s. The rage that filled the artist began dying away while watching the binder open and close his mouth. No words left Owen, only blank blinking as shock filled his scent, not having fully grasped Herah’s words.
“In fact, you’re an active liability.”
The binder flinched.
The artist dropped back down to Owen’s height, and the binder averted his eyes.
“You need to fix that for all of us.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
A silent moment passed between the two, Herah staring into Owen’s skull as the binder continued to avoid her gaze. The shame within his scent said so much.
But is it for the right reason?
“Owen, look at me.”
Owen didn’t.
“Owen, look at me.”
The binder took his hat from his head and squeezed it with all his might before turning to the artist.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.” Herah responded with a scoff.
“You said it yourself, I’m an active liability.”
“Yes, but why do you think so?”
“Because I won’t fight.”
“No, your phobia is what makes you useless. Your belief gives you strength.” The artist bared her teeth at her companion. “And if you are going to believe in something, do it with pride.”
Owen squeezed his hat tighter and gritted his teeth.
“But it makes me useless.”
Herah flicked the binder on the head.
“Oww!”
“You’re not listening to me. You have much to contribute, combat just isn’t it.”
Owen looked down to the ground again.
“Can I really just force the rest of you to fight in my place, though?”
The artist scoffed and frowned.
“As much as I hate to admit it, Alex is a capable opponent and powerful beyond most I know. Max holds a will I know I can rely upon in a fight. And I,” Herah’s frowned morphed into a grin, “Am a Cendreux. We fight, we love it, and we’re good at it.”
The artist let out a huff as green flames leaked from her lips.
“When we’re not fighting against our instincts that is.”
Herah shook her head, and let the thought go by.
“We have a strong front when it comes to fighting.”
“How do you know that!?” The binder shouted, before biting his lip. A few tears even welled up in Owen’s eyes, frustration and fear choking his scent. “For all you know, everyone we’ll be facing off against is just as powerful as Alex! And I saw you struggle with him without the pencil!”
The artist let out a huff of fire, a wisp lantern emerging from her lips.
“It’s called faith.” Herah raised a hand to cup the fiery flower,” I figured someone as devout as you would understand that.”
“You believe in the rest of us that much already?”
The artist chuckled and shook her head.
“Of course not. I have no faith in Alex, but I do have some in Max. And I have some in you. What I have faith in more than anyone else though, is myself. I believe I can do what I need to get us through this.”
Herah crushed the wisp lantern causing her body to be wreathed in blue flames before pointing at the binder.
“You need to have that same belief in yourself. That belief, that pride in your capabilities, is more important than what you can actually do. Because if you don’t believe you can be of assistance, why would you even try?”
The artist lowered her hand as Owen finally lifted his head and locked eyes with her. His nostrils flared and his eyes seemed to gain some steel. Herah didn’t need her nose to tell determination rose in the binder. However, the quiver of his lips and shakiness of his knees told the artist there was still more work to be done.
My words can only do so much, you’ll have to do the rest yourself. Herah thought as the blue flames around her dissipated.
The artist rose and stretched as Owen let out a breath and smiled at Herah.
“Thanks, Herah.”
“Hah!” the artist laughed, turning her side to the rot to smirk at the binder. “I know I’m great, but don’t thank me. I only said what needed to be said.”
“Still, I think you deserve it.”
WOOSH!
Herah’s ears twitched, struck by the soft whistle of something cutting through the air. Her left arm snapped up and caught an arrow an inch before it touched the side of her head.
Turning to look at the arrow, the artist noticed a small glass capsule filled with some liquid within the center of the arrowhead.
The capsule cracked.
“What the-”
“Hu-”
KABOOM!
A flash of light then an explosion engulfed the pair, kicking up another cloud of dirt.
“Wha-what is this!?” Owen’s voice came out panicked and muffled.
“My wings,” Herah dispersed the cloud of debris with a wave of her hand, now standing in a crater with her wings pressed up against her back in the form of a cocoon. “Let me know if I need to loosen them.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” Was the binder’s muffled response. “Are the Oni attacking early? How many are there!?”
“Checking.”
The artist increased the sensitivity of her nose and inhaled deeply.
“Gah!” Herah cried out, falling to a knee with blood leaking from her nostrils as the dense and overwhelming smell of rot assaulted her senses.
“Herah! Are you okay?”
Even with the rots overwhelming smell, the artist picked out four distinct scents that were masking under it.
“Fine, got a gauge on the threat. It’s a small group.” Herah responded while numbing her nose again.
“Need help?” Owen asked, the artist feeling him tense within her wings. “You should get Max and Alex!”
“Naw, I’ll be fine.” Herah climbed out of the crater and placed her hands together, cracking her neck and fingers as blood lust welled up inside. “This is a great chance to get a grasp for what our enemy can do.”
And, the artist felt a small bit of anger creep up within. If Herah had been just a fraction of a second slower, the binder might be dead. To make sure they won’t scare me like that again.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Looking out over the stretch of rotten forest and laying eyes upon her opponents, a grin emerged onto the artist’s face.
“All but one of you die.” Herah whispered.
Four assailants stood before the artist, each occupying a space in the large lane of rot stretched out before herself. Each cut a thin figure, about as slim as the humans, though much of their full shape hid beneath their robes. All four were also armed, two with swords at their hips and the other two with bows and quivers full of arrows. All wore white masks, each the visage of the same monster’s face frozen in rage with eyes a faded, dull yellow while four white fangs framed the void that was the mask’s gaping mouth.
Those masks are well-made, though generic. Wonder who made them? Herah thought, picking up on the personal touches that spoke of each individual. One Oni with green skin in black robes and a bow, ahead of the rest, and attempting to hide behind the dense and rotting foliage of a tree about thirty feet from the artist had black dots all across their mask. Another standing in the dead middle of all the rot, only sixty feet away, yellow skinned and dressed in pink robes with some type of sword at their hip, had their mask marked by red and black bugs by the look of it. Directly to this Oni’s right, one with paper white skin, dressed in blue robes and equipped with the weird sword had their mask littered by small blue stars with snakes coiling around a stick along their lengths. And the final one, tan skinned, dressed in green robes with a bow, and about a hundred feet back at the other edge of the clearing had small mouse prints running across their mask. I’ll think of you all in terms of your robe’s colors.
With a single thought, Herah converted her fire shorts into pants that wrapped her feet up kinda like what Alex, Owen, and Max had going on—
Oh, they probably do have feet. the artist thought, stepping onto the rot which burnt away as it attempted to crawl up her legs. They’re just covering them in something.
Somewhat distracted, Herah strolled across the rot, taking her time to observe all the Oni closely.
Probably physically weaker, if they’re relying on something weak like those explosions so I should be fine for close quarters. Though I would assume they also realized this so, the artist watched the pink and blue Oni as they stood still with their hands on their sword hilts, staring back. Why are they letting me approach? Can they output more power? Maybe do something with this rot?
The artist arrived at the tree the black robed Oni sat within and could feel them tense when her walking halted. The other three Oni tensed as well.
Shouldn’t take too long even while I’m slowed without my wings and can’t smell them. Might have some tricks. Should I let them show them all or handle this as soon as possible?
Herah huffed some more smoke and crossed her arms, before tilting her head to the side and tapping her foot.
Which one? Which one?
“Owen!” Everyone flinched at the artist’s shout, the pink and blue robed Oni drawing their swords to reveal slender blades about as long as Herah’s arms as the green robed one in the back notched an arrow and took aim.
“Uh, yeah Herah?” the binder asked.
“Should I gather as much info as possible or handle this quickly?”
“Uh, info gathering? Even if they attacked us, they deserve to be understood. Maybe we can talk this out?”
That wasn’t a warning shot, I’m sure of that. the artist thought before forcing down her blood lust and letting it broil. Herah would wait to satisfy it for now. I got room to play, so I’ll play.
“Ok.”
The artist gave the tree a light tap, before walking past it and closer to the two sword wielding Oni.
“My companion wishes to talk,” Herah said, raising both arms with open palms as a show of good faith. “Shall you accept?”
The blue robed Oni looked to their pink companion, as did the green one and the artist assumed the one in black as well.
Pink is the leader, kill you first then.
The pink robed Oni let out a grunt before nodding slightly to their companion and grunting more clearly. This Oni refused to take their eyes off Herah.
Smart, definitely killing you first.
“Hello? Anything?” the artist asked, stopping a little over ten feet from the pink and blue Oni pair.
The pink robed Oni grunted again, almost as if in response—
Herah’s eyes widened as a sudden realization dawned.
Merde! A language barrier. Well, maybe I could make somethin—
Before the artist finished the thought, the pink Oni raised their blade and let out a single fierce grunt.
Herah knew instantly, there was no conversation to be had.
The pink Oni plunged their blade into the rot; a wall of liquid black rising between them and blocking the artist’s view.
The blue robed Oni exploded out from the wall of rot, stabbing at the Herah with their blade. The artist sidestepped, and chopped the sword.
It snapped in half.
Slower than me and weak weaponry, unimpressed so far.
Herah swung an arm to backhand the attacking Oni, but a rope of rot wrapped around the blue Oni’s waist and yanked them back through the reformed rot wall before her attack landed.
Nice to know it can solidify. But what next?
Next, an arrow pierced the wall aimed for the artist’s throat. Herah snatched it from the air, clenching its head in her fist, and whipped around to catch another shot by the black robed Oni. The artist caught it between her fingers, a single glance revealing a glass capsule in this arrowhead as well.
Hmm, seems like you don’t have that many tricks. I’ll give you all a little more time to show though.
Herah tossed the arrow between her fingers into the trunk of the black robed Oni’s tree then turned back to face the wall of rot, only to find it dropped and her opponents missing. Glancing to either side revealed both the pink and blue robed Oni closing in on the artist.
The pink Oni reached Herah’s left first, slashing three times. The artist deflected all three strikes with her arrow holding hand just before the blue Oni arrived at her right and threw a hook aimed at her ribs. Herah let it land, feeling a solid thump in her side, but not sensing either bruising nor scrapes from the blow.
Oh, you’re really weak.
The artist didn’t even bother looking back or burning the blue robed Oni with her shirt, instead another back hand followed. Eyes still locked on the pink robed Oni, Herah noticed the sudden flick of their wrist right as another rope of rot wrapped around the blue Oni’s waist and pulled them away from the artist’s strike.
Controlled through gestures and thought probably, nice to know.
The pink Oni leaped back as another arrow from the green robed Oni appeared at the side of Herah’s head. The artist turned and tilted forward, the arrowhead smashing and breaking against her forehead scales.
Can their weapons even break through my skin?
Knowing an explosion soon to come, Herah stood still.
KABOOM!
BOOM!
Three explosions went off in short order, followed by a sonic boom. The first explosion, pulverized the base of the tree the black robed Oni stood in, sending it into a freefall. The second explosion went off in the artist’s hand, smoke slipping between her fingers. The third explosion went off in Herah face, her body ground zero for a pillar of concussive force that climbed above the trees. The shockwave sent ripples through the rot and shattered a few of the weaker rotten trees.
Smoke clearing quickly, the artist looked around and found herself in a hole wide enough to lay across three times and so deep, rock instead of dirt surrounded Herah.
Holes at least twenty etermas deep, the earlier one was only two. Explosive strength can range but not to worrying degrees.
“Okay Owen?” the artist asked, her wings still wrapped tightly around Owen.
“Yes.” His voice sounded sad, disappointed as well. “It sounds like they didn’t want to talk.”
“Nope.”
“So, what’s next?”
“One more thing to check.”
Herah bent her knees then leaped up and out of her hole. As soon as her head cleared the edge, two arrows came to meet the artist. One front her front, where the green robed Oni stood in the same spot. The other from her right, from another tree where the black robed Oni placed themselves after their last one got destroyed.
Herah caught the first arrow in her mouth and bit down, snapping the arrowhead from its shaft while swelling her cheeks with fire. Then, the artist snapped her head sideways, her right horn knocking the second arrow up into a spin.
Still going up herself, Herah flipped forward and landed two feet from her hole just as the pink robed Oni came at her front. The artist noticed the Oni’s blade dragging through the rot behind themself covered in the black stuff.
Interesting, but will it work?
The Oni arrived and slashed the artist across the torso, from right hip to left shoulder.
Instantly, Herah felt rot spread from the wound and start consuming the rest of her body. But a single flair of her fire burnt it and any damage away.
Enough to deal flesh wounds, and the rot combined could probably kill the other three with one strike. Good to know.
A shadow appeared over the artist as the pink Oni tossed their blade over her head. Glancing up, Herah saw the blue robed Oni catch the blade and spin into a downward slash.
The sword shattered against the scales of her forehead causing the capsule in her mouth to crack.
And that’s enough learning.
The artist looked back down and punched the pink robed Oni in the face. Their head exploded in a shower of gore. With the blue robed Oni in midfall behind, Herah whipped around and clawed their throat out. The blue robed Oni fell to their knees, a hand clutching their blood squirting neck. The artist leaned back till her head touched the ground and spat out a a beam of concussive force and fire. It punched a pencil-sized hole straight through the green robed Oni’s mask, head, and about twelve trees behind them.
Herah leaned back up and saw the black robed Oni retreating to her left, dashing into the forest. Instead of pursuing the fleeing Oni, the artist looked to the blue robed one, who leaped up from their knees and punched her face.
Herah didn’t budge an inch.
Before the Oni could attack again, the artist grabbed them by their chin, lifted it up and bit into their torn neck. Blood pelted her face, as Herah’s teeth tore through flesh and bone and fully decapitated her opponent.
The artist tasted iron and calcium for a single moment before spitting out her bite.
No need to disrespect you with consumption. You were weak, but fought admirably.
Herah dropped the head before bending her knees and leaping up. The artist caught up to her still rising, deflected arrow from earlier, hanging just below the bush of the forest. A quick search and her eyes locked onto the fleeing Oni dashing between trees. Herah grabbed then flung her arrow and struck a tree a dozen feet ahead of her target.
Not even a second later, it went off.
KABOOM!
BOOM!
A sonic boom rumbled the crater Herah lept from as an explosion knocked a reasonably large redwood onto the black robed Oni.
That was fun.
Gravity pulled the artist back to the ground, her landing marked by a fresh crater, her bent knees, and a small cloud of dirt. A wave of Herah’s hand scattered the cloud and revealed the remnants of her fight.
The pink robed Oni lay with their head sprayed across the rot dozens of feet from their corpse. The blue robed one laid with their intact head atop their chest. And the green robed Oni laid in small pool of their own blood, steam rising from their head.
Good work on the artist’s part.
“Is it over?” the binder asked, a tremble to his voice.
“Yes,” Herah answered, beginning to walk away and towards where her only living opponent lied.
“D-did you kill them?”
“Most.”
A long moment of silence followed as the artist reentered the cover of the trees and plunged into darkness once more.
“Did you have to?”
Herah shrugged.
“Didn’t think about it.”
“Why not?”
The artist glanced back towards the rot covered clearing, still able to see the blue and pink robed Oni’s bodies.
Not yet.
“They tried to kill me and you, that was enough for me to kill them.”
Herah took several more steps in silence, only broken up by the treading of dirt and dead leaves crunching.
“You sound heartless.”
A small pang rang through the artist’s heart at Owen’s comment. A stray memory from a time best forgotten flashed through Herah’s mind.
You were never her friend, or ours. the artist heard mentally, in a voice that wasn’t her own. Herah shoved this memory back to the flame where it belonged.
“I have one.”
The artist felt the binder shift suddenly in her wings, almost like Owen flinched.
“So…” A brief pause followed, then Herah heard the binder gulp, “Why can you kill so casually?”
The artist glanced back again, the bodies hard to make out against the rot.
Now.
Herah unwrapped one of her wings from their cocoon and brought Owen to her front with the other. Setting the binder down, the artist saw light singes marking the edges of his tunic and dirt dusting his face from the explosion, but no part of Owen looked hurt.
Good. Herah thought before kneeling and locking eyes with the binder. His brows creased, uncreased, and creased again, as a weak frown and quivering lips followed. Now, the hard part.
“Life is a precious thing; I agree with you on that.” the artist spoke slowly with a gentleness Herah hadn’t ever thought would fill her words again at least until a mother. “But plenty of precious things are discarded without regard. And that’s because they’re not precious to everyone. Your life and mine is more precious than theirs to me, they threatened both, so they lost theirs.”
Owen fully frowned at this point, looking down to his own feet.
“You killed them, for me?”
The artist frowned, but not just because of the binder’s poor reaction.
It wasn’t your choice.
Herah growled instinctively.
“Mostly for me. Partially you.”
A silence settled over the pair, Owen keeping his eyes to the ground while the artist stayed crouched, both frowning.
“Was that supposed to make me feel better?” the binder asked, a small sniffle following and a few tears trickling down his face.
Hard to believe you’re supposed to be older than me.
“Kinda,” Herah’s frown deepened, and a sigh left her lips as her back hunched over. “I don’t like it when blame is wrongly assigned. Especially mine. I’m my own person.”
Neither said a word for a moment, the artist choosing to silently let Owen wallow in whatever his feelings were. Then, the binder reached for his hat and squeezed it tightly before wiping his face with the back of his other arm and letting out a deep breath. Owen looked up to Herah, a firmness to his gaze that tried to conceal his devastation and sadness.
So odd, to see you take the deaths of strangers, ash, enemies so hard.
“Ok.” the binder said, before looking around. “You said you killed most of them. How many did you leave? And why are we back in the trees?”
“One, and because I was heading towards them.”
“Why?”
The artist began walking once more, bringing her sense of smell back to normal as Owen followed alongside. The distant smell of rot ahead confirmed the pair were heading in the right direction.
“To interrogate.”
“And after that?”
“We have a prisoner.”
Surprise flicked in the binder’s scent, Herah feeling his eyes land on the side of her head.
“You’re not going to kill him?”
The artist glanced down to Owen, raising a brow.
“Why would I?”
“You killed the others.”
“We were fighting, so their dying was an acceptable outcome.” Herah shook her head before looking forward again. “I’m not fighting anymore, so no purpose nor need to kill.”
“You don’t kill non-combatants?” Curiosity flowed through the binder’s scent; tangs of hope not missed.
The artist shook her head again.
“Execution is not the way of the Cendreux, even now. We kill in our fights, to do so outside of one shames us and our goddess. It’s one of our few crimes.”
“What if they don’t give us the information we want?”
Herah shrugged.
“We have a useless prisoner.”
Owen finally took his eyes off the artist and looked forward, a fallen tree and its shredded chunk now in sight.
“You confuse me.”
And Herah could smell it, but also gratitude and a small bit of happiness.
Good, let’s try and keep you that way.
“Not the first.”
The pair finally made it to where the pinned Oni laid, with a tree as thick as the artist was tall keeping them on the ground. The binder walked over to the ruined trunk, and kneeled before it, so short it towered over him while standing. Owen performed a prayer, tears pouring down his face while a green glowing circle with a smaller circle inside of it floated over his head. The wet smell of sadness permeated the entire prayer, which Herah watched silently out of respect for another faithful. That didn’t stop the artist from giving glances to their new prisoner.
“Rahh! Rawrg! Rahhh!”
Trapped beneath the redwood, the black robed Oni wiggled, writhed, and growled trying to get out from underneath. Lean figure already noted, their similar size to the humans drew attention as well. Black hair splayed all around their head, some of the ends framing the green skin of their neck. Their bow lay snapped in half on either of their sides, their arrows and quiver hidden by their back but presumably broken as well.
Good, none of them exploded.
Herah turned her attention to their honestly rank scent. Fear, rage, and sorrow intermingled with their rotten smell, a sweetness to it all that brought to mind hot chocolate.
The rot will mean I’ll probably have to reign my smell in if too many of you get together too close to me. Annoying but I’ll manage.
Glancing back to the binder, the artist saw Owen complete his prayer as the green halo over his head filled with other revolving shapes before floating over to the trunk and enlarging to its size. A beam of light slammed down around it as the dirt rumbled and the trunk began to sink beneath the dirt. After a moment, a small sapling remained.
When the binder looked over to Herah, the artist nodded towards the sapling.
“Done?”
“For now.”
Herah nodded again then walked up to the growling Oni. As soon as the artist got in range, they lashed out with a punch to her knee. It barely registered as Herah crouched before the Oni and growled. It came deep from her throat, low and guttural. The Oni fell silent and stopped their movement, recognizing the sound for what it was.
A demand for submission in defeat.
The Oni made no more moves as the artist stabbed a hand into the tree atop them. With a single thought, fire shot from her claws before engulfing the tree in orange flames that reduced it to ash in a flash. Herah offered a small prayer to the tree for its assistance then wrapped the Oni in a cocoon of her flames.
“You’re not hurting them are you?” Owen asked, fear in his words and smell.
“No, selective burning, remember?” the artist responded, raising a hand and causing the bound Oni to rise into the air.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking them back to Max and Alex.” Herah looked around, her nose twitching in search of any other rotten smells. “Don’t want to get attacked again while questioning, and maybe one of them can translate without me paying blood and scale for it.”
“Okay.” The binder nodded before looking up to the silent and floating Oni. “Is it okay with you if I try to soothe them as we go?”
“Sure,” the artist shrugged. “Cruelty is unneeded.”
Owen smiled at those words before a small, glowing, and green circle with smaller circles and triangles inside appeared before his hand. The smaller shapes spun around as a black energy started to stream out from the Oni while green flowed into them. Herah smelled as the Oni’s scent shifted from the anger, sorrow, and sadness and towards peace and calm.
That could prove useful.
The artist began walking back towards the rest of her team, floating the Oni behind herself as the binder did his work. And as they walked, Herah couldn’t help but think one thing.
Time to deal with that asshole again.