What a mess. Enter the cave, futz around a bit, and stumble upon Wimbleton. That’s all it was supposed to be. And now here he was, fresh out of a surgery room carrying 4 unconscious teenagers through a hole he punched through the ceiling. Now, admittedly, that last part had been his fault, that much he’d own up to, but the rest of it was only tangentially related to him. Especially all the dwarves he now also had to deal with o because of course the only graviturgy mage was barely breathing.
Wimbleton walked up the vertical stone wall leading out of the pit, ruminating on all that had transpired in the last 15 or so minutes (he hadn’t really been keeping track of time). Had anyone been awake to see this, they might have questioned how he pulled off such a gravity defying maneuver without the aid of magic, something he was sorely lacking, but alas, no one was. The only ones that were even of a mind enough to still be capable of speech were the dwarves, who were currently lumped together in a heap, trailing some 100 feet behind him.
Was there a better solution than just tying them all up and strapping them to his chest? Probably. Could he think of one? Potentially. But were the sounds the dwarves made when they hit the wall funny? Yeah. Yeah, they were. And, really, what was more important than that? Sure, he’d probably get his ear chewed out by the old short one, or maybe even the young short one, when they reached the surface, but that was a price he was more than willing to pay for a bit of on the road entertainment. He had already done quite a number of favors for them, afterall. He deserved it, didn’t he?
Although, the more he thought about it, the more he should probably have been planning what to do next. A sudden “sink” hole forming so close to the city boundary was sure to attract unwanted attention, which happened to be pretty much any attention at all. The less the better. And if it was soldiers he was dealing with, then it’d only get worse. He could try playing the child card, but that one usually never played over well. Something about his large black cloak, bone masquerade mask, and…eyes that people very often told him reminded them they were going to die really made any alibis he could prepare hard sells. Ah, but what was a little improvisation on this fine sunday afternoon…night.
Wimbleton neared the surface of the whole, pale white light dimly peeking over the edge, a rather cold greeting for his first time in the city proper in the last…long time or so. At the very least he would’ve liked a welcoming party or something, ideally one a little less heavily armed and hostile. He didn’t even want a large party. Throw up a handful of streamers, maybe a small sign, and call it a-oh yeah, and definitely no corpses. That really killed the mood.
As Wimbleton hoisted himself and his companions over the edge, setting them down gently a little ways from the hole so he could focus on pulling the dwarf clump up, he noticed that there were a handful more dead bodies than he was expecting. Corpses of mostly one shape and size were littered across an expansive field some mile or so outside of the city boundaries, each one maimed in a unique way. Some were only missing limbs or chunks of flesh, some had been skinned alive, some had been brutalized beyond recognition, and some almost looked deflated–empty sacks of meat harvested of all their worth whilst keeping the skin mostly intact…kind of impressive, one had to admit.
“Scraps, all scraps. Useless. Pointless.”
Crouching atop a great pile of corpses some 5 Wimbleton’s high, a humanoid figure was engorging itself on the feast of meat below itself, shoveling handful after handful into its open chest cavity. It looked to be the gaping crater of a beast's maw, a single crease which splayed open to reveal dozens of layers of gargantuan, spikey teeth, and a brilliant purple orb which hovered ominously within the mouth’s center. It almost looked like the orb was absorbing all the flesh, but without a closer inspection, an idea he was really not fond of seeing through, Wimbleton couldn’t make out the exact functions of the orb. Shucks. What a shame. Oh well. Better luck next time. Now the only problem was what he intended to do next.
The creature looked up at him, suddenly noticing that something was still moving. Y’know, the uncanny warped white skin pulled taut around very clearly malformed muscles and the gaping chest mouth with a magical all-consuming orb he could forgive. Those were classic features any reasonable person would be dying to have. He could even forgive the unnaturally smooth, plastered over face hiding all that useless pentimento like…a nose and…a mouth and…ears. But the one large all-seeing eye pulled nearly from missing ear to other missing ear, 3 glowing, multicolored irises circling around each other slowly in the center of it all? That was where he drew the line. Absolutely not. In fact, how dare it? It should apologize for being so ugly.
“You. Boy of white mask. You know master. You met master,” it said, stopping its incessant banquet to give him its full attention.
“Uh huh. For sure. Yeah, master. What a guy,” Wimbleton said, slowly creeping back over to the edge of the hole.
He was so preoccupied with all of the corpses that he’d forgotten about the dwarves. The timing wasn't super opportune but now was definitely better than later. Wimbleton slyly started tugging at the rope connecting his torso to the dwarves, doing his best to glance back and forth between the very obviously dangerous creature and the very angry dwarf ball.
“Speak with you. He demands it. Listen,” the creature crawled on all fours from the top of the pile of bodies, stopping a little ways from Wimbleton and pulling out a very familiar mask. It was one of the Collectors masks, a dazzling golden mask with a vertical slit in the middle and two very animated eyes, one on the right towards the top of the mask and one on the left towards the bottom. Of course, he should’ve realized. This was one of the Collector’s puppets, and by the looks of the damage it caused, a pretty powerful one at that. Although it was of a make unfamiliar to Wimbleton, likely a new model since last they’d met. Wimbleton had obliterated most of his puppets, after all. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice but to make new ones.
The creature placed the mask on its head, securing it tight against its face. For a moment, nothing happened, but then it started to spasm, limbs seizing against some unseen force, sounds of shearing flesh emanating from the mask. The creature's face split open, and suddenly the mask's two eyes, which had been meandering about independently of one another moments ago, focused, locking directly onto Wimbleton. The puppet’s body stilled, standing up right fully for the first time since Wimbleton had seen it. It’s calm, icy gaze and professional posture were unsettling for a creature so clearly bestial, unnatural. Somehow, Wimbleton found himself wishing it’d go back to just eating the corpses. At least that was simple.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
“Ah, Wimbleton,” the mask spoke, a higher, twinier voice than what he’d heard moments prior. This was no longer the beast's tongue, but an intruder, a voice he recognized very well–the Collector. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know it isn’t. How much easier my life would be if people like you didn’t exist. But, at the same time, I must owe you some thanks. See, after you kicked me out and massacred dozens of my masterpieces, it really did put things into perspective a little,” Wimbleton finished pulling up the bundle of dwarves, quickly undoing their knots as the creature started to circle around Wimbleton, hands folded behind its back.
“What the ‘ell is that thing? And-oh gods,” Harvir said, panic creeping into his voice as he gazed across the field of corpses, many of the dwarves going pale at the sight.
“I don’t want to stay to figure it out,” Jarce replied, looking towards Wimbleton with admirable confidence. “The kids, we can take them.”
“Don’t,” Wimbleton said under his breath. “I’ll see to them. Leave, and quickly.”
Jarce hesitated, but didn’t see fit to put up much of a fight. The dwarves quickly grouped together and made a break for the city, completely forging any sense of decorum as they sprinted through the corpses of their fallen brethren. That couldn't have been easy on their psyche. They’d be unpacking that one in therapy for years to come. The creature looked passively out at them as they ran, stopping for a moment to watch them scramble like rats at dinner time, but made no move to stop them.
“Cockroaches hiding away in the mountains. It’s a wonder this city still stands,” the puppet returned its gaze to Wimbleton and resumed its calculated circular march. “Where was I? Oh right. Along with my forceful relocation, I decided to try a couple new things I thought beneath myself before. Among them was looking for allies beyond my creations, natural flesh and blood beyond my own, which could do many things I could not. They were powerful, resourceful, and most of all, unquestioning. And so, with some help, I’ve made a couple new masterpieces, works beyond my wildest dreams. I’d like to share them with you, but first, I need something from you. You have something I want. Garrote, the Maiga boy. Give him to me.”
“Absolutely not. Let me guess, Drawven called you here?” Wimbleton said, walking back over to the pile of children, ensuring they weren’t left undefended.
“He did! Told me he had the boy all chained up and waiting. What he didn’t tell me, though, was that he sent the boy into his mines to die. Seems like old hatred won him over in the end, even more so than a deal he would’ve been smart to uphold,” the puppet stopped moving and reached into the purple orb in its chest, pulling out a very freshly served head–Drawven’s head. His face was twisted into a mix of shock and terror, his last moments made immortal in flesh. “But I digress. I had a feeling you’d say that, so I thought I’d bring a couple bartering chips with me just in case.”
Once again the puppet reached into its gaping maw, but this time it pulled out something quite a bit larger, quite a bit livelier. The first was a chained up water spirit, a little girl, mouth pursed into a small whimper. The second was Evai, the old woman loosing a curse of insults back at the monstrosity behind her. At least she was still in good spirits.
“You piece of ****! I’ll rip your ********* throat out through yer’ ****** ****!” Evai said, using some rather colorful language among other things. She looked over at Wimbleton, only slightly calming. “Gods aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Do me a favor and waste this thing, would ya’?”
The puppet stepped forward in between the two hostages, placing its hand atop either head, squeezing gently, “I have something you want. You have something I want. Let’s make a trade! I’m a reasonable man. Give me the boy, and we can call this whole thing quits. Everyone goes home happy.”
The water spirit screamed, trying to pull away to no avail. Whatever chains she was bound in must’ve been restraining her magic, although the runework wasn’t visible from this distance, Wimbleton could feel the faint signature of dampening runes. Evai, meanwhile, simply sat there dumbfounded, rage turning to pale disbelief.
“No, but…you can’t…but,” she looked up at Wimbleton, now with pleading eyes nearly bursting with tears, her face much paler than before.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was faint, the slightest twitch of a movement one would miss even by eye, but Wimbleton knew better. Something was tapping at his heel, something fleshy, warm. He knew better than to look, of course, stilling himself to any reaction, but behind the scenes, his mind worked through thousands of possibilities, winding its way towards the best possible route forward. And now, it looked like one of the kids had a plan, or at least the inklings of one.
Wimbleton hadn’t been paying attention before, so he hadn’t properly felt who had been the one that moved amidst the heap to his side, but he did have one way of testing. It would only work if it was who he thought it was, but it was worth a shot. Wimbleton flexed his toes four times in synchronous pattern, a movement far too faint to be caught by the eye. The only one that would be able to notice such a motion would be a geomancer, one capable of parsing even the slightest vibration through the ground.
“And what if I gave you what you wanted? Do you really expect me to believe you’d stick to your word?” Wimbleton said, buying time.
“Of course I would. Like I said, I’m a reasonable man,” the creature replied.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“You drive a hard bargain. You couldn’t even bother to send a letter forward? Give me a little heads up? Give me some time to think about it? You had so much time to prepare, but what about me? I’m ready, don’t get me wrong. Of course I am, but still, so inconsiderate.” Wimbleton said, hoping his message would be understood.
“Please, spare me your tongue. Make your choice and make it quickly,” the creature squeezed a little harder, drawing a scream from each of the two girls. “I have no problem disposing of these two. They don’t really mean much to me.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“And you’re certain there’s nothing else I could give you in turn?”
Tap. Tap.
“Nothing. Make. Your. Choice.”
Tap.
“Well, isn’t that a shame. Don’t say I didn’t try.”