Ambrose awakens to endless fog. An endless grey mist, it shrouds and masks her vision; an eerie silence filling the emptiness around her. Her eyes narrow as they peer into the fog, attempting to pierce its veil. It reveals nothing and Ambrose is forced to turn back to herself.
She looks down at her hands. Full. Strong. She pats down her body, smoothing over the fragile cloth that covers her, and feeling the well-defined muscles that shape her figure. Ambrose frowns at the feeling.
Then with a sudden stirring the fog swirls around her and recedes, forming a narrow pathway in front of her. She waits for a moment, and when nothing changes, takes a step forward. The fog moves with her. Each step creating a way forward and removing a way back.
Then the mist gives further and in front of her floats a deck holder. Ambrose studies it for a moment. It’s pitch black and made of a strange leather. A plain clasp moulded with a purple metal extends from its back to its front and holds the cover in place. Silver-etched designs, runic in nature with its flowing patterns, are carved across its surface. Meaningless to Ambrose, except for the strange comfort its observation provides.
A discordant screen sings in the air, waking Ambrose to its grating sound. Her eyes follow above and watch as blood-red lines carve themselves into the air akin to a child’s scrawl. Eventually it forms three words. Prove Your Worth.
Ambrose stares at them, before returning to look at the deck. Her face impassive as she stands there. A moment passed. And another. Then she reaches out her hand and takes hold of the deck. The second she does it almost seems to sing, entering her embrace like a child returning to their mother.
Ambrose holds the deck to her chest and peers down at it. With the new angle her eyes catch on a single card she can see poking out of its corner. She unclasps the deck and pulls it out. On the card’s surface is a woman with an abnormally large hat, her hands reaching down into a pouch with a seemingly bottomless size.
Around her all manner of objects, from a tea-drinking frog to a broom sweeping itself, to an abacus counting itself down, thrown in a disorderly pile. As Ambrose observes them she notices them change. Every time she moves the card to a different angle, new objects take their place. And in the centre of them all is the woman with a wide grin reaching forever down into the pouch.
The Magician. There are no words on the card, but it imprints its name on her all the same. Replace one ‘normal’ condition with an ‘abnormal’ condition. The words echo in her mind as Ambrose studies the card. An inkling of what it means is kindled in her as she continues to observe.
The fog swirls once again, receding at a rapid pace as it forms a huge circle around her. Ambrose tucks the deck into her thin pants and holds the card in her hand. The words in the air disappear, and as Ambrose casts her eyes upward she finds a creature appear where the fog once was, observing her.
The tiny monster has a glossy leather skin, ember-red eyes and a thin tail. The word imp comes to Ambrose’s mind, but as she observes its deformities it feels wrong. Bone spikes can be seen protruding all over its skin. Not from its skin, but pierced through from deep within its flesh. The flesh around it is still red and angry, bleeding in parts though the creature itself seems not to notice.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
Ambrose watches it cautiously as it opens its mouth, and inside are those same bones. Then, before she can react, it wails. A bellowing screech that reverberates across the bones on its body and echoes outward, digging into Ambrose’s mind and sending her reeling. Her ears start to bleed as she tries to gather herself back together.
Ambrose launches herself towards the creature as it opens its mouth again, forcing it to dance around her. Its clawed hands dig into her torso as it passes and carves large wounds across its surface.
It begins to open its mouth but Ambrose twists around and runs at it again, forcing it to dodge away. Her fist slams into its side and sends it spinning backward. The monster lands on its feet and bounces further back.
Its eyes study her own as the two take a breath. Ambrose can see part of its stomach caved in by her fist, and can feel her own cuts dying her cloth pink. The world is quiet for a moment as they look at each other. Eyes cold, face impassive. Neither ready to give an inch.
The monster grins. It opens its mouth and Ambrose can only watch as its scream hits her. She crashes against the floor, her hand gripping tight to the card. She stares down at its surface as blood drips down her face.
It looks down at her, and after a moment it opens its mouth again. Ambrose continues to stare at the card. Her mind conjuring what she wants. Her will shaping it into a purpose. And with a sudden click a feeling of heaviness takes over her, like wading through mud. The witch in the middle of the picture turns slightly as if looking at Ambrose, her grin widening, and with a flash the card disappears.
The monster screams, and its voice crawls over her skin like a deep, unrelenting itch. Ambrose smiles at the feeling as she slowly stands, its own wary eyes following her. She walks forward. It screams, and the itch intensifies. It backs away and screams again.
Ambrose forces her lethargic body to move and settles into a quicker pace, almost a run as the creature continues to back away. The chase continues for a minute until it gives up and turns on her.
It brandishes its claws toward her and Ambrose side-steps its attack, her own fist barely clipping its side as it tries to dodge. Ambrose and the creature both stagger together as a wave of weakness washes over her, before she forces it back down and jumps forward onto the creature.
One fist slams into it. Then another. Its claws cut into her sides as it desperately tries to get her off, but she doesn’t relent. Slowly, agonisingly, the monster weakens and then finally stills. Ambrose looks down at it as she catches her breath, her figure kneeling above it. Her clothes are bloodied and in tatters, the bleeding across her torso intensifying as her vision blurs. Everything seems so far away.
Even in her delirious state Ambrose stumbles onto her feet. Her eyes wander the fog as she stumbles back and forth on the spot. Barely holding herself together. The fog billows, picking up into the air and swirling around into a huge storm with her body as the centre.
Each time it circles her figure her wounds recede like water being drained away. Each spot getting smaller and smaller, until nothing but unblemished skin remains. Pure and untainted cloth once again covering her. Her eyes grow less glazed and more certain as Ambrose gathers herself back together.
At its end the fog slows down and sinks into the ground, revealing the world around her. Ambrose looks around as she finds herself standing on an island with solid ground. A new emptiness replaces the fog that surrounded her, though this one does nothing to shroud her vision. A vast void with nothing as far as the eye can see.
In front of her stands two women and a man, each with a wary look on their face as they watch each other. And above them sitting on a throne, a towering being that Ambrose can only describe as ‘all-encompassing’. As Ambrose stares up in awe, one of the women turns to her and speaks, to which Ambrose finds a mild itch spread across her skin. She looks over and sees her mouth moving. The absurdity fills her, and for the first time Ambrose opens her mouth as she doubles over with laughter.