Mythos Prelude

Episode Jackie

Chapter 1.1 — The Taboo, Part 1

by Caide Fullerton

Cover by Azulino (@azulinobh)

???: “Despite how ya look, I know ya can understand me, ya damn beast.”

Standing in the shade of the crimson willows, an aging man with greying, purplish hair declared so, an old sword propped lazily over one shoulder. His free hand stroked the stubble of his chin as he continued,

???: “I’m givin’ ya one warning. Stay the hell away from my family.”

He narrowed his eyes, fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade. Across the clearing, the monstrosity standing in his way offered little in the way of reply.

In the next moment, a bladed tentacle shot for his eyes.

The man simply cocked his head to the side, clicking his tongue in annoyance. A shower of sparks erupted beside him, accompanied by a metallic screech as his sword scraped across the monster’s blade.

This was far from Alistair’s first time dealing with a Feracule. Despite their horrific appearances—being little more than writhing masses of skin-toned tentacles ending in hands or jagged, blade-like nails—they were beings possessing a degree of sapience and intelligence.

Unfortunately, they also tended to be arrogant fools.

Taking his sword in both hands, Alistair began to sprint forward, his blade cutting into the flesh of the outstretched tentacle as if peeling the skin off a vegetable. Naturally the beast retaliated, several more tentacles stretching out from the coiled mass of its main body in different directions, each curving towards him as they sped through the air.

Alistair slid to a stop and twisted his wrist. With a flick, he drove his blade deeper into the Feracule’s flesh, dismembering the tentacle in a flash of silver.

In came the flurry of tentacles. The first shot right for his head once more, and Alistair batted its bladed end aside, a metallic clang echoing across the clearing. The second came from above, Alistair throwing himself to the side in a somersault to avoid the open-palmed hand. The third and final tentacle moved close to the ground, shooting for his hands.

“Too slow, bastard.” Alistair pushed off the ground before the blade could reach him, but rather than continuing in the same direaction, he pivoted, flipping towards the third tentacle. Its soft flesh was swiftly pinned beneath his boot, and he wasted no time in cutting the restrained tentacle in two.

He rose and turned just as the first tentacle was coming in for its second attack, having curved around the second. Once again he batted the blade aside with a well-practiced motion, and with a flick of his wrist he swiftly dismembered it just below the nail. With a grunt the old man lunged forward to the remaining tentacle, cutting it in two before its hand could rise from the ground.

Returning his gaze to the main body, Alistair held back a sigh as several more tentacles emerged from the wriggling mass. While Feracuels didn’t seem to bother with manipulating tentacles that had been disarmed, they seemed to possess an almost infinite store of the things.

Readying his blade for the next wave, he muttered a quiet curse. A curse for the Feracule, a curse for Roy, and a curse for everything that led to this terrible situation.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

???: “We will be splitting up. Today.”

Alistair was leaning back against one of the walls of the overgrown ruin he and the others had called home for the past few days. His comrades were gathered in a rough circle in front of him, at their center the remains of the morning campfire, built just below a large hole in the flat stone roof.

Seated just in front of him was a purple-haired woman with a baby in her arms, and beside her a pale, lanky man with messy black hair. Directly across from them was the stern, muscular man who’d just spoken, a black-haired woman beside him; to that group’s left a dark-skinned woman sat, and behind her a red-haired man paced with low murmurs.

Altogether, an impressive seven Humans had gathered in this place—eight, if you counted Alistair’s infant grandchild.

???: “Of what little of our ancestors’ wisdom remains, one thing is made abundantly clear: we are not to remain in large groups, or in one place, for long.” The man spoke again, turning his fiery orange eyes and bushy, reddish eyebrows to the purple-haired woman, “We’ve broken both of those rules for the sake of you and your child, but we can’t remain an exception anymore.”

The man’s name was Roche. He was the second-oldest of the group after Alistair, and over the last year they’d accepted him as their de-facto leader. With his long reddish hair cut into a meticuously-maintained flat top and a large, jagged white scar over one half of his tan-skinned face, he was stern and hotheaded, but not unwise.

Alistair narrowed his eyes as he considered the words of his old friend. He could tell that behind his sternly-arched eyebrows was a genuine concern for Jacqueline and her child.

Sitting across from Roche, Jacqueline gently rocked the baby in her arms as she considered his words. Mixed emotions fluttered across her distinctive red eyes, her long hair falling in angular coils around her shoulders.

???: “Is it really true? We’re sure there’s a Carrion nearby?”

Placing an uncertain hand on her shoulder, the man beside her spoke up in her stead. His black hair cut short over his thin face and lanky limbs, he wore a button-up white shirt and a pensive expression, a pair of patchwork glasses resting lopsided over his nose.

At his question, all eyes turned to the side—past the dark-skinned girl, who sighed with her chin in her hands, not bothering to turn herself—and to the ginger-haired man pacing by the edge of the room, Roy.

Roy: “Hah!? You think I’m lyin’, Loid!? I saw it with my own eyes, damn it! A Carrion!”

Roy was thin and fidgety, his chin coated in thick, unkempt stubble. His old jerkin bore various stains, and he perpetually stank of alcohol. Alistair didn’t much like Roy—and as far as he could tell, the rest of the group only tolerated him. He had a hard time believing they’d have kept Roy around if he weren’t Roche’s brother.

Roche: “Roy! Calm down. He isn’t accusing you—“

Roy: “Well, I know what I saw!” Cutting off his brother, Roy threw his arms out to the side, his eyes wide and lips curled with exhasperation, “It was a Carrion! If we don’t get moving, we’re going to die!”

As Roy’s exclamation echoed around the room, the group was consumed by silenced, aside from Roche’s signature low, irritated growl. After a moment, the woman in front of Roy broke the silence with a sigh,

???: “I can understand why you’d doubt him, but it’s true. I saw the footprints myself. They’re unmistakably a Carrion’s. Wasn’t heading here—not yet, anyways—but it’s only a matter of time.”

With dark skin and hazel eyes, her coiled dreadlocs fell down one side against her shoulder. She wore a simple vest and baggy pants, a spear strapped to her back and a finely-carved bone bracer over her right forearm.

Roy: “See? Wren saw it, too! Why don’t you ever listen to me!?”

Roche: “Roy!” He shot a glare to his brother as he raised his voice, Roy jumping with a slight yelp. “Stop your instigating. You know that isn’t what Loid meant. Why don’t you think, just for a moment, what’s going through their minds right now? And stop your pacing!”

Jacqueline: “It’s fine. He’s right to be worried.”

The group’s gaze shifted as Jacqueline raised her head, finally speaking up,

Jacqueline: “I wouldn’t want any of you to face a Carrion… So, Roche.” Determination shone in her sharp red eyes as her lips curled into a grin, “Thanks for putting up with me.”

Roche’s eyes widened for a moment, and he lowered his gaze, clasping his hands together as he knit his thick eyebrows. Then he shot up from his seat, turning away and crossing his arms in a huff,

Roche: “Damn you, woman… You think I’ll entrust my son’s life to the likes of you!?” He growled, stamping his foot, “For that matter, you think I’ll just leave my grandkid in your hands!?”

Alistair smirked. Nobody present fell for Roche’s act.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Loid: “Dad—“

Roche spun around, clenching a fist, “I’ll go with you, and that’s that!”

Faced with that stern proclamation, Loid swallowed before continuing, standing up to match his father,

Loid: “You know you can’t come with us.”

Roche: “I can and I will.”

Loid: “You and Al are the best fighters we have. It wouldn’t make sense for you to both be in the same group.”

Roche: “Wren’s strong enough to protect them.”

Loid: “And you’ll just leave her and Mom behind?”

In the background, Roy rose a complaint for being excluded from that statement, but it was instantly drowned out by Roche’s reply,

Roche: “Damn it, boy!”

He swung an arm forward, and for a split-second it seemed as if he was about to punch Loid. Instead, he took the man by the shoulder and yanked him forward, pressing him against his chest.

Restrained like this, Loid was the only one unable to see the tear running down Roche’s cheek.

Roche: “You better stay safe out there, you hear me? Don’t you let anything happen to my grandkid, either.” He dug his storng fingers into Loid’s shoulder, causing the wiry man to wince, but he simply nodded.

Quickly wiping his eyes with his free hand, Roche finally pushed Loid back and clapped his shoulder. “That’s a promise, got it? I plan on seeing all of you again. If you go and die before me, I’ll kill you.”

Putting on a determined expression that didn’t suit him at all, Loid readjusted his crude glasses and nodded. “We’ll stay safe, no matter what. Besides, we have Al with us.”

With his name being thrown into the conversation, Alistair let out a low sneer and lifted his aging bones off the wall, stepping forward with a shit-eating grin. “That’s right, musclebrains. I’ll do a far better job protectin’ your son than ya’d ever do.”

Roche: “Oho? A bold claim, coming from the hag bastard with greying hair.” Raising one bushy eyebrow, he stepped past Loid to meet the approaching Alistair.

Both men came to a stop and swung an arm forward. Al’s fist swung above Roche’s; Roche’s swung below his. Swiping nothing but the air, both then reversed the movement and clapped the back of their hands together, striking knuckle against knuckle.

Roche: “Now then, howsabout you tell me where you hid that cask of good wine we found last month? I know you took it, you hag bastard, and I plan on drinking with my son before he leaves.”

Alistair: “I guess ya must be dumber than I thought, musclebrains, ‘cause I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about. If it’s missing alcohol, ya should go interrogate Roy.”

~ ⁂ ~

While Roche had insisted on calling the ensuing meal a celebration, life in the wasteland didn’t exactly offer the excess supplies or time required for such a thing. They could hardly afford to eat much more than their usual daily rations, and the group needed to take turns keeping watch. What little extra they did spend on this little event could be considered counter-intuitive to survival in this harsh land, but Roche refused to let the trio leave without honoring them somehow.

Alistair had no issue taking the first watch, leaning against the outer wall of the ruin, mostly obscured behind the cover of crimson willow trees between him and the main path. With twisted, bright red trunks that seemed to drip like coagulated blood and sickly green leaves that hung down, blowing idly in the wind, he’d always found the crimson forests of the wasteland to be oddly peaceful, despite the danger oft lurking within.

His term ended sooner than expected as Roy stepped outside after no more than 10 minutes had passed, a bottle of dark liquid snagged between his fingers.

Alistair: “What’s got ya out here so soon? Ain’t a fan of the festivities?”

Roy smacked his lips in annoyance, leaning back against the wall on the opposite side of the door and taking a short swig of his drink. “Roche’s orders. Wants everyone to partake in this joke of a celebration.”

His words were laced with venom, and he spat to the side before taking another drink. “We should be moving already. I’ll stay out here until they come to their damn senses.”

Alistair nodded. “Not a fan, then. Well, I’ll take ya up on that.” He stretched and turned, giving Roy a glance as he stepped through the doorway, “Just make sure ya pay more attention to the forest than your drink.”

Roy: “Yeah, yeah. Don’t patronize me, you old codger.”

Lightly snorting at the insult, Alistair stepped inside and looked around. On one side of the campfire, Roche and Loid were seated together, father and son engaged in some form of drinking contest, of which the result was already obvious.

Seated not far from them were two women—Jacqueline, the infant Jackie still in her arms, and Roche’s wife, Arianne.

Roche often joked that both of his children took after their mothers, and while his first wife died long before their groups ever met, Alistair could not deny the uncanny resemblance between Arianne and Loid. They shared the same pale skin, dark hair, black eyes, and thin frames—if Loid were to go clean-shaven and grow his hair out, one could mistake him for his mother’s younger self.

As Jacqueline was going on about the child in her arms, Arianne gave her a sweet smile and leaned forward, her long hair spilling over her shoulders as she touched her forehead to Jacquline’s, causing the latter to cut off in surprise.

Jacqueline: “Uh, An? What’re you..?”

Arianne: “Sh.” She interrupted the younger woman again, this time with a soft whisper. “I’m sorry that this is all happening so suddenly. I wish you could stay with us.”

Jacqueline’s eyes flickered with realization, and she gently shook her head. “No, no, it’s alright. I… knew this was coming, eventually. It’s my fault you all had to break the taboo to begin with.” She leaned back a bit with a soft chuckle, “Really, I should be apologizing for making you all put up with me and Al all this time.”

Arianne: “Nonsense. Roche and I wouldn’t have taken you in if we didn’t want to.” She closed her eyes, cocking her head slightly with a beautiful smile. As with her husband, she looked shockingly youthful for her age, only sporting a few wrinkles and greying hairs.

After a moment, she opened her black eyes again and continued, “Roche said it himself, but I also want to see my grandchild again one day. And my daughter, for that matter.”

Jacqueline: “I thought Roche had Wren with his first wife?”

Arianne: “I’m talking about you, silly.”

Alistair couldn’t help but smile at their exchange. With all but one person accounted for, he turned to the side to find the remaining lone wolf of the party. Wren was leaning against a wall, watching over the others with an unopened drink in one hand.

With a click of his tongue, Alistair sauntered over, propped himself up against the wall beside her, and plucked the drink right out of her hand, popping the cap off of it with a flick of his thumb.

Alistair: “What’s got ya all down in the dumps, eh? Not a fan of the festivities, either?”

She rolled her eyes with a scoff, “Not much of a party, is it?”

Alistair chuckeld in reply and took a swig of his drink; it tasted disgusting, as to be expected of alcohol fished out of an ancient ruin. Wren shot a glance at him, rubbing one arm as her gaze drifted away. After another moment she finally spoke up, “I just… can’t help but feel tense.”

Alistair: “On the Roy train, then?” He replied with a nod.

Wren: “Ugh.” She kneaded the bridge of her nose, letting out an exasperated sigh, “I really hate to agree with him, but we really shouldn’t be wasting time—and supplies—like this. That, and…”

Alistair: “And?”

She hesitated, raising her right hand and slowly opening and closing her fist. “Dad’s strong. I know that, but… he’s getting old. He’s only going to get weaker—and Mom and Roy are only a few years behind. With you and Lyn gone, I… I’m not sure if I’ll be enough.”

Casting his gaze sideways at her serious expression, Alistair thought for a moment before turning to her with a wry grin,

Alistair: “C’mon now, Wren. You’ve been trained by both me and Roche. Really, I’d be shocked if there was a better fighter than ya out there.”

Wren: “There are two of them in this room.”

Alistair: “Old men don’t count.”

At that, she couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s real reassuring.”

Alistair: “I ain’t joking, ya know? You’re one strong girl—and ya sell yourself too short. I reckon ya could beat old musclebrains in a serious fight, so knock that count down to one.”

Wren: “Heh. Whatever you say, “hag bastard.””

Alistair: “Oi, don’t go pushing your luck. Only fellow old men get to call me that.”

Wearing a slight smile, Wren looked back to her hand, closing her fist one last time before returning her attention to Alistair,

Wren: “Could we test that theory? After all, I won’t get to spar with you again for a while.”

Alistair cocked an eyebrow at her and threw his head back, chugging down the rest of his drink. “Ha! Getting cocky, are ya? Well, if that’s what it’ll take to put your mind at ease, so be it. I’ll meet ya outside—we oughta give Roy something to watch, anyhow.”

Wren nodded and swiftly ducked out the door as Alistair kicked off the wall, tossing his empty bottle aside. “Oi, Roche, ya drunkard! Ya still got that wooden sword?”

Roche: “Who’re you callin’ a drunkard, you hag bastard!?” Roche stood with a start, his cheeks flushed with alcohol. “Aye, I’ll get it and knock some sense into you, howsabout that?”

Alistair: “Tch, I’d love to see ya try, mu…” He trailed off as he heard hurried footsteps at the door, turning to see Wren peek her head back inside, her face knit with worry. “Wren? Somethin’ happen?”

Wren: “It’s Roy. He’s not here.”