Jonas

He follows the youngling as it climbs up the side of the shelter with an alacrity he could never hope to match. His heart beats for what is to come. On top of the shelter, he looks down.

The city is a symbiosis of life and death. Divided into multiple parts, it clings to the dead ancient; growing on its limbs and hanging from its belly. Emerald-green vines cascade living waterfalls.

He looks down. Miles and miles of empty air until an eventual death… and hanging bars of tightly-secured wood that are open to said air. The youngling bounces on them as though it is an immortal entity free from the horror of gravity.

He sighs, then takes his first grip, letting his legs fall loosely.

Suddenly, he is over the void. Death creeps up his legs like a thousand ants. He stills himself, then sets about swinging from bar to bar.

Progress is fast; yet the youngling seems almost bored, swinging a little and then stopping to look back at him. When it swings… it lets go entirely, using the momentum to get to the next bar.

Jonas does not do this — instead opting to grab between the bars using his longer arms. It is slower… but it makes him feel less afraid.

Eventually, his muscle memory begins to return. His swings become faster without loosing a drop of the safety in his grip — and he begins to look at the city.

Father had taken him many places. Many beautiful places, even, but none won out over Thirstedge for him.

The dead ancient is one of many that litter the Savannah. They had once roamed the world; but now came here to die. The As’tiki had found this — the exact date unknown to the legends — and settled.

It has four legs, and a large disc-like body. Down the four legs, wooden buildings grow like weeds, jutting out from the segmented legs but ever-so-careful never to chip nor damage the ancient’s corpse.

The buildings that do not cling to its legs instead drape from the ’belly’, thick spider-silk ropes wrapped around in massive coils as to support the structures.

If he peers closely, he can see the spider-tamers upon the rope, checking over it endlessly to entire the entire city does not plummet. Houses created from shadow-wood and stuck together with nails and tight, strong rope; only embossed by the gold-liquid that continually drips from the surface of the stone.

Some of it forms outcrops; which bathe the city in reflected light from the low sun. All the beauty of a sunset mixed with the allure of gold; cast out over the dark wood and vibrant vines to craft something out of a legendary painting fit only for the eyes of the greatest of higher society. Yet he gets to see it all in person.

Though… there is one thing that Jonas marks against the city of the dead ancient… the very ceiling. Above is a writhing mass of black. He shudders, and his palms grow sweaty.

Arachnids, a mass of them continually eating each other and the provided foodstuffs, as well as slurping the gold-liquid like gluttons. As’tiki ’livestock’.

He had never gone up that far; and Gods be praised he never will. Even seeing them from afar makes his clothing feel itchy despite it never having done so before. In truth, it glides over the skin.

That doesn’t make it feel any less pleasant.

He stops as the youngling switches direction. Jonas frowns. They are not going to the Elder’s Quarter?

They are not. Instead, the youngling sets upon the track that would take them to ritual basin; a massive bowl of ancient flesh — the only stone the As’tiki had ever intentionally harvested.

Jonas speaks; but then stops. He is already out of breath; speaking — and thus dawdling — may very well be a death sentence. He looks down; then wishes he hadn’t.

It is unspeakable to describe the feeling he feels. It’s like having a knife to your throat. One wrong move and that’s it. Only he’ll have practically minutes to regret his decisions before the eventual impact.

His hands grab tighter, and he focuses on switching the lanes. There is a fork in the ’road’; either a continuance forward or a small leap to the left that would put him on another track.

In this case, to the ritual basin.

This leap, however, cannot be done in his usual manner. He is forced to let go of the bar and swing to the side.

He’s never had to do it before. The ritual basin is off-limits. His heart slams into the walls of his chest and his breath shortens. It’s only a short distance once he makes it… but his hand already ache, clutching the rough wood tightly enough that his knuckles grow white.

The wind whistles in his hears. His heart fails to pump blood into his forearms.

There isn’t much option. Either he tries it now or he waits for the eventual welcoming embrace of gravity.

The As’tiki youngling lets go of one hand, bringing it down and squeezing its hand into a ball over and over. Jonas watches as colour returns to it; blood filling the veins. Then it continues to stare at his life-or-death predicament with blank, waiting eyes.

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Does he dare to do the same? It feels as though two arms is barely enough to hold him. His mind goes to his metallic bracer. This would be a great feature to add. A brace of some sort.

He shakes his head. Not the time nor the place for a wandering mind. Though the distraction is welcome… and his heart seems to slow.

He makes a — proverbial — leap of faith, releasing the grip of one of his arms and letting it drop. Blood flows into it as he pumps his hand like an arm.

His other hand strains, but it holds. There isn’t any other option. He swaps, and immediately feels the difference. It isn’t life-changing; but it’s beyond noticeable.

He grips the bar again, then kicks his feet out, giving himself a little swing. The ground below taunts him. It begs him to fall. He kips, swinging his legs out quicker, harsher.

Then he pulls back, shoves himself forward; and relinquishes his grasp. The world doesn’t slow. If anything, it seems to speed up. For the briefest of moments, his entire life is in his hands.

His fingers scrape the bar. The sweat makes it slick off. His stomach lurches; fear encapsulates his entire being. He feels each groove in his fingertips rub against the grainy wood; then his clawed fingertips scrape notches into it.

Then… there is nothing but the plummet below. Until something grabs his arm. The youngling looks down at him, holding on with its legs. They have folded over to grip the bar with every single part.

Its arms hold his forearm tightly. He grabs the lifeline, panic swelling in his chest. His breathing is tight, his mind harsh with thoughts of dragging the As’tiki youngling down so that he can climb back onto the bar.

But he is better than that. The youngling speaks in its language, but in the sub-tone that is impossible for him to understand. A few moments later, a large mass climbs over the wooden railings that hold the traversal bars.

A spider looks directly at Jonas’s face, and its mandibles glisten with venom. Yet, a second later, an As’tiki climbs up from its back — looking straight at Jonas.

It slides down one of the spider’s legs, using it as though it were a metal pole, then speaks in a similar sub-tone, a strange ethereal whisper. The spider lowers the leg, and the As’tiki comes face to face with Jonas.

“You climb.” It says, and Jonas doesn’t move.

“Climb what?”

It speaks again, this time to the spider, who lowers two legs then holds them perfectly still.

“You ride da spider.”

Something twitches in the back of his mind; but now is not the time for it. The spider’s legs drip with a sticky substance.

It’s massive. It takes up most of his vision and it’s mandibles are larger than his legs. He’s paralysed. He can’t do it. Everything in his body tells him not to do anything; to freeze — to be safe.

But he isn’t safe. There is no choice here; only the acute promise of a slow, fearful death. Could the spider really be worse than that?

He knows the answer; and he reaches out to grasp the spider’s legs. It shifts almost imperceptibly as his puts his weight on it. The youngling zips back up and storms off, leaving only the Spider-Rider and Jonas.

And the spider.

It looks down at him. It looks hungry. Yet the sticky saliva that drips from its mouth down to its legs is strangely sweet-smelling, and has a glistening gold to it.

It’s also incredibly sticky. Even without gripping the leg — which he is most certainly doing — it makes him stick like the strongest glue.

The spider-rider clicks again, and the spider lurches, raising Jonas up. The fear grows until he is face-to-face with massive, death-singing mandibles…

But then he is past them, and the spider deposits him on its back, right on the…. Cephalothorax. The anatomy comes to him unbidden, and far sharper than he would expect.

The two legs rush at him… and he puts his arms up to defend… only for it to lay silk across his legs and secure him tightly to its body.

He doesn’t know if that makes him feel any safer… but the spider moves to the sound of the As’tiki spider-rider’s voice and shoots along the wooden rails until it even overtakes the youngling from before.

Above the rails, he gets a glimpse at the ritual-area. It’s not something he’s ever seen before, the highest area of the entire city.

And highly forbidden to outsiders — even those who are Honoured.

—

EMERIC

Emeric is done with this. This… cat and mouse game.

And he is very unhappy. His prey has been taken. The stupid insects have taken his prize.

Now they’re on the chopping block too. It’s time for them to know fear; hiding in their mountain like vermin.

He smiles; seeing another mark on a shadow-tree. They are appearing with more and more frequency. He’s getting close.

He climbs through a bramble of thorns, ignoring the stabs that make him leak blood. The holes pour for only a second before they scab, his blood as thick a cake-batter.

Yet he still has another potion to take. A gift from his master; a potion that would make him immune to the senses. No sight, no sound, no smell, no taste.

He lays eyes on the nest. Duskwraiths. No more than two feet in height and less than four foot from snout to tip of sinuous tail.

A streamlined body, covered in midnight-black scales to the point where Emeric can barely even see them in the low sun.

The thing that sets these apart is simple; the forelimbs. Each limb boasts a set of terrifyingly large, razor-sharp hooks, like wickedly elongated claws, designed for two simple purposes:

Climbing the shadow-trees without setting them off… and death. They bounce around from tree to tree. They’ve sensed him. Sensed the blood, maybe, or just the scent. But they don’t know where he is.

The shadow-woods obfuscate his presence thanks to some well-timed scrapes and scratches on his way here.

This is a large pack. 60, perhaps 80. The largest Emeric had heard of, at least. He looks around, trying to spot the discerning feature he requires.

He spots it; the matriarch — bigger than the rest and laying on the ground, iridescent scales bouncing small fragments of light into his eyes.

Lichen strands, woven into her hair, glow with a light bio-luminescence. Six feeding-tendrils attach to six shadowlings that suck greedily.

A duskwraith’s matriarch is one of the rarest things a alchemist could acquire. It has so many base traits, so many evolution’s that could be distilled down to be consumed.

The matriarch stands as one of the pack starts to crackle. Then a burst of fire spurts from the right, coating the trees in a orange glow and singing the surrounding brambles of the duskwraith’s nest.

He unclips the green-black potion and downs it in one. Immediately, he is nothing. He is that of the void; of the wind without scent; of the touch without feel.

He passes through the brambles as though he were a ghost. He flies past the duskwraith’s Matriarch and scoops down to lay claim to her clutch of children, ensuring the scent of fear spreads through the air as he whisks them away. These creatures, as strong as they are, have a weakness.

A severe case of attachment to their young. No matter where he may go, they will follow.

Such is why they are so difficult to use within the bounds of alchemy. But he has no interest in that. He has no time to distil them.

They had already fed on the ferocladon the troll had killed. He smiles at the irony. He had coated the meat in potions, even injected it deep into the flesh — and they had eaten their fill.

Oh yes, they will follow. Even into the heart of a city, miles above the ground.