Requiem.

“{Right, you are dear. As for a better introduction, this is Reginald. He was a soldier, given to us by one of the nobles here. One that we will likely meet with again during the normal course of events. He has pledged us his insights into the local politics. Perhaps more interesting, however, he needs a new outfit. If the armor is truly undesired anymore, we imagine there should be places where it could be sold or bartered for more appropriate attire.}”

She buzzes over to him, looking him up and down, “^Well, young man? Are you centered enough to be around the fragile ones out there, or shall I call for the attendants of this place to shop for us? Do you have enough coin or [Currency] on hand to update your wardrobe?^”

Confusion dances across his face before a too quick look around and a glance back at the state of his armor, the dents and wear being from his own strength rather than actual impacts from us, “(I have some coin on me, yes. We’d- I’d think it would be best to sell or credit out the armor regardless, though I don’t know how much robes cost. I’m also… not really sure about being around people. I discussed it some with Milord Requiem already, about the familiarity of the hunger and the edge of violence I now feel.

“(But when it was familiar, I was weak and not even capable of really striking out. Now though…)”

She lands on his outstretched fist, “^Well then. We suppose the last question is simple then. If Requiem is Milord, do you see Us as Milady?^”

We see the weight of that question hit the man hard. Harder even than the pledge that he gave to us, but of course our pledge wasn’t backed by the sort of Authority that she can wield. There is a lot left unspoken in the air, even if we have an idea of why she is asking for this. While our domain would be a poor substitute for self-control, especially in a place like this or at a distance when it could be washed away. However, being supported by a caste, especially considering both of their classes?

Darling isn’t the queen of just any species of bee. She’s a Serene Zombee. For a dead man with concerns about their own violence, well, she’s a lucky find. If he has the faith to take the leap, the cunning to [Inspect] and better understand her offer, or the courage to ask questions.

With her perched on his finger, he extends out that arm and goes to one knee, bow his head to her, “(If your orders do not break the faith I have placed in Milord, I, Reginald Un’Ronin, shall view Milady with the same respect and honor as I do my savior.)”

The moment is practically dripping with ceremony and seriousness, his soft but clearly enunciated words, the formal posture, all of it. So, we can’t help but laugh when the first thing that Darling does after such a declaration is to fly up, and sort of sway her streamer at him, “^Foolish boy! Your first encounter with a bit of Authority just makes you bend the knee on faith?

“^I can read between the lines just fine young man. You had no need to pledge to some stranger without learning more about me first.^”

She turns and closes the gap to me, buzzing noisily with false anger and exasperation, “^Requiem! What are we supposed to do with a soldier, a guard, just going around and kneeing to every Noble Speaking creature he meets?^”

We can’t help but continue laughing at the spectacle she’s made of the event, and the confusion that seems to be dazing the poor soul, “{Oh, come now, Darling. He’s young. Barely hours old. Should we tell him stories of what you were up to at that age? Have pity on the poor thing.}”

She buzzes an equivalent to humph, before landing on his shoulder, “^You may rise, Reginald. I have no need for more mindless foot soldiers, not even with your mass. But being part of my hive lets you more easily understand me. You should also be feeling an easement to the burden of this unlife we now share. My species mixed with the Authority of my class dials back a lot of that instinctive drive to consume present in your new base arcana.^”

As he hesitantly stands back up and our chuckling dies down, “{Darling would be better informed about things like that. We’re such an anomalous existence that our perspective is essentially worthless as a means of comparison. Plus, we choose to take a road less traveled, [Ironman]. Not something to recommend lightly, especially not in an unknown situation. But it suits us well, even if we complain about it from time to time.

“{Welcome to the family, kid. Maybe once you’re older, we’ll let you look after some of the pests- err, pets.}”

We see his gaze dart to a section of Acolyte where a Froggie seems to have breached the surface and is about to lead away, only for a cage of teeth to erupt around it and drag it under. His gulp of uncertainty, fear, and general stupefaction at the insanity that is Acolyte’s biology, now that he’s actually paying attention to it, “(Thank you, Milord, Milady. And yes, I can feel your presence soothing the ache of those needs, it reminds me very much of Milord’s domain.}”

“^Yeah. It’s very much a chicken vs egg sort of origin story with us. We existed as a concept which inspired how they built themselves, but they also rebuilt us and we patterned off of what they are most like conceptually. Anyways, enough of all this formality and stuff. Ready to go shopping? How about you, Requiem, care to join us this time?^”

We shake our heads at the offer and return to our sunstone once more. At least one thing has been accomplished by Reginald’s revival and the fresh air of Darling’s sweeping momentum. The stain that the {Master} left upon this place has shifted away. We can relax and enjoy ourselves again while plotting and fantasizing about his demise.

Darling will be the one best served by his information about the city and the Courts. Our needs are more visceral, in origin and intention. While we did not [Inspect] him, in either of our meetings so far, he provided us with a sufficient demonstration of his status and his soldiers to be sure of one thing. He’s not something we can confront head on, not in his seat of power.

He also has at least the possibility of being able to manipulate the city itself against us if we don’t play this right… Play seems such an uncomfortable word to use, because it definitely seems like it’s a game to him, and playing by his rules feels like losing already. But sometimes you have to fight the dark slime at night.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

We may not be strong enough to fight our way through dozens of soldiers at Reginald’s tier, especially if they’re far more afraid of the Master than of us. But his formality and presentation are weaknesses we can exploit all the same. For now, we’ll enjoy our small victories and peace and wait to see how he reacts to our countermove. If we find ourselves outmaneuvered and should his information network be so thoroughly entwined with even this place, we’ll just have to rely on impulses instead of plans.

A rumbling, growling sort of chuckle spills forth from within us. The thought of being an entity of action blossoming into unforeseeable chaos for those who would plan around us is a delicious treat.

Wraithstorm. The Sky.

The mark bearer has weakened us greatly. Was this its purpose or chance? Our conviction is not as it once was and our mission has become clouded.

We were once boring a hole through the foundation of the city, content with tearing brick after brick away to achieve our purpose. Uncaring of the toll that placed upon our cursed form.

Why. Why? “{WHY!?!}” we roar into the world, into the storms that we’ve lived in, hidden ourselves away from even the wretched memories of the cage from before.

The thunder roils around us, massaging our wings as they beat. The lightning kissing our scales as it arcs and forks through the center of the clouds.

Our attention is drawn away from the nothingness for a moment. Our passageway has formed a cluster that is most unusual, most unnatural. Yet, this is not the same as those paltry traps we’ve taken before. Ones that we encourage in their utter failure to actually entrap us.

We peer beyond the veil and see a hilltop, set in a wide-open space with nothing around for miles. We see a man sitting at a table atop this hill. We recognize this man.

The thunder of the storm echoes and clashes louder in our anger. We deny even our thoughts from echoing that blasted question once more and simply make our choice.

There is a flash of joy and fulfillment. A sense of connection and wonder and the power of L I F- and then it’s over as always.

We’re here now. On the hill, at his table. What does he do now?

… He drinks tea.

We have arrived, on a path he conjured leading to him. And he sits and drinks tea. We know our Lethe doesn’t affect him, he can’t not know we are-

Is he baiting us? No, if he were to really want to get a reaction from us he’d-

The blade of our tail stabs his hand. All our force only able to dimple his old skin as our venom pours onto the table. “(Sorry dear. I knew it was a mistake to try and use that cup. But I’m in much of a state of ignorance on what to do next.)”

The pool of burbling black tar is ignored as he puts Her teacup back in his storage. “(I’ve let myself become an old man, instead of simply dying or leaving as I probably should have. But after meeting with that fascinating creature, I couldn’t help but offer an invitation when I heard your question.)”

He retrieves a new cup, a sturdier one, built rougher than many others. He fills it partially from the teapot but leaves the additives to the side, available, but not just making an old familiar blend.

Our talon taps on the table in a moment of deliberation. Then we grasp the cup and take a sip. The taste is bitter, if weaker than we expected.

With a flick of our tail, we scrape off the dollop of our venom from the table before we resume our stare.

Time passes. He drinks tea, refills it, flavors it.

“{Have you been to the iron lake recently?}”

He shakes his head, “(I haven’t been to that sad memorial in decades. My presence there always seemed to cause more woe than weal. Perhaps I should visit again. Much has changed in such a little time.)”

“{Can’t,}” we see his head dip. The cloak of sorrow wrapped tight and thick around him for a brief moment before he looks back up at us, “{It’s gone. Vanquished by that creature.}”

Words. Always more words must be used. They are exhausting.

“{MY DOM- My domain is changed. Misfortune instead of annihilation.}” Our breath panting now. Too weak from everything. Betrayal. Death. Reawakening. The cage. So much empty time. The escape. Missing the catch. Fleeing. Fighting. The discovery. Then the truth. And now… talking.

Too much, too fast.

He refills our cup and drinks his tea.

“{Legacy. Remains. In the heart of death, a spring of life.}”

We see his sculpted thoughts written plain upon his brow and face. Oh, so carefully not pointed at us, remaining unsaid, but there to see all the same.

We take another sip. Bare our teeth in frustration before mixing in some of the sweet and some of the smooth. He says nothing, shows nothing, just drinks. We glare at him.

“{It broke the weapon. The curse. There. It taunted us with lies and truth as it walked towards the prison. Even hobbled by poison it was enough to push aside our skirmishes.

“{It met our Full charge and fought our frenzy to a draw. It gave us…} hope {and let us go.}”

We swell and draw upon our crest of majesty, staring down at the little man, sitting at his little table, sipping his little cup, “{W h y ?}”

As our strength fades, we sink back into a smaller, lesser form and he puts down his cup.

We see him think on our question for a time, giving it its proper due, “(It is the creature’s nature. To be strong. Defiant in the face of power. To be kind. Finding pleasure in the simpler things in life.)”

Yojimbo looks into our eyes, “(They are old. Older than I. Perhaps older than both of your memories. Their life was certainly fuller than ours. Their pain deeper. Their hope… more distant.)”

We drink our tea.

He takes out biscuits and honey. The scent of the honey seems both completely unique and yet also familiar.

…

We feel the call of the storm once more. He has sat silent for too long. We fix him with a displeased stare, our comfort of these last moments washing away now.

“(Not all [Guides] are the same. Even a simple guide can be seen from many angles. Take someone down many paths. Enrich those paths in many ways.)”

He acts unbothered by our now murderous glare, but he at least ceases speaking.

We stand and stretch and shift and unwind ourselves for a moment, growling at him for disturbing the peace.

“{We enjoyed the tea. Yojimbo. Until next time.}”

And with one mighty flap of our wings, we leap back into the sky. No longer rumbling or shouting why.

We start working on crafting a sufficient distraction as we turn our attention towards our new destination.

After all… Why not? The thunder rolls as the lightning strikes to carry us away.

In those moments of bliss we see and hear the biting and snapping of a whole mat of fungus. It plays amongst its stalks and yet recognizes our presence when we arrive. With its immature voice it calls for us to, “{Bring back the cool-sweet mountain! The fluffy tinglers! More bees!}”

The transition isn’t as abrupt this time, when the journey ends and the flight continues. The new memory is not a plague of what was, but rather a change, proof of what is.

The smile on our face and within our heart is stronger and sharper for that touch of softness. Especially after we dip beneath the clouds and spot the great prison off in the distance.

“{Why… Not… Indeed.}”