He sniffs the air, smelling the dry, sickly aroma of scorched earth all around him. He takes in the sight of the barren field, the dead spiders, and finally lights upon the form of the old Salien tree standing tall on the hilltop. Proud and regal.
He smiles.
“A small act of resistance,” he says. “Irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. But still, a respectable defense.”
Something at his feet has been screaming ever since he arrived in the field. Only now does he acknowledge it.
“THORN!” it screams, scythes clawing at his boots. “POINT ME AT THEM! SHOW ME WHERE THEY HIDE! COWARDS! COWARDS AND FILTH. VERMIN! ROTTED DUNG STEWING IN A SUN THAT SHALL SOON BE SWALLOWED!”
He looks down at Seneca’s thrashing form, her upper torso being all that’s left of her. The long, ugly worm-body she’d spawned for herself lies torn to shreds beside her, burnt to a shriveled crisp and left to fester in the field.
She is covered in cuts. Pieces of her plant-flesh have been seared away to dust. With every pained, furious movement, she scatters more of her ruined flower-helm across the barren landscape.
He gives a loud tut, touching her with the toe of his boot.
“A shame,” he says, relishing the word despite his best efforts to maintain a professional detachment. “To sully Lady Gyko’s Gift by failing to capture a mere pup.”
She roars up at him, her fierce eyes bulging with undying fury.
“THE STEPPE HUMAN..!”
“Indeed,” he replies. “You must have known you were no match for him. The Belchometrists of the Steppes invented and perfected the art of spirit-based combat.”
“DRUNKEN FOOLS, ALL!” she screams back.
“Large, drunken fools,” he corrects. “And with strength enough to topple any threat, should their Clans ever manage to unite against a common foe. You should be thankful that our agents in their mountain-realm are currently ensuring they remain an isolated people.”
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He bends down to meet her gaze. She’s quiet now, still seething, yes, but present.
“You’ve done enough,” he tells her. “You have inadvertently managed to let us corner the dog, chasing him to a corner of this earth that shall be his ruin.”
He stands back up and turns to leave, taking a calculated gambit.
“I’m…not…done…yet,” she snarls.
He smirks.
“No?” he says. “How do you know the Lady is not dissatisfied enough with your failure to remove you from her service?”
“If she was,” Seneca snarls. “She would have delivered the…message, herself.”
He smiles again. “That much is true.”
He feels his hand reach for the locket round his neck and grasp it tight.
This is the moment, he thinks. One step closer. One small step…
“Then, you are ready to do as the Lady bids you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Without que-“
“I AM!”
He nods, taking his time to size her up.
“Then the time has come,” he says, taking a small pouch out of his pocket and pouring three small, glowing seed bulbs into the palm of his hand.
She watches them roll around the groves of his palm hungrily.
“The time,” he continues. “To bring an end to your Sisterhood.”
Her eyes flicker momentarily. Sparks of memories, perhaps, that still linger in the back of all the growths and spores that serve as her mind, now. Gaps that Lady Gyko’s blessing had not truly managed to plug. Small. But significant.
That was becoming a theme here…
What hid in those gaps, though? Truthfully, Thorn wondered. Sorrow? Jealousy? A sense of moral obligation to her former people? He had known Elves in his lifetime to be a prideful and reserved bunch. Never ones to let their emotions rule their thoughts. That was what had peaked the Lady’s interest in using one of them as her agent of ruin.
And yet here that very agent lies, considering whether her life is worth betraying her kind.
She snarls up at him, her eyes finally settling on the offerings he so tantalizing plays with in his hand.
“This…” she starts. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod. He shows no emotion at all.
His eyes, however, tell her what she needs to know.
“Fine,” she says with a swipe of her claws through the air. “I’ll - bring you - to them. And in return-“
“You shall have your chance at revenge,” Thorn finishes. “As will we all.”
The two of them – General and assassin – lock gazes as the gloom of twilight rescinds and the thick specter of night drapes itself across the world. No stars. No howls to the moon. No life at all but theirs in the dead plain.
With a final smile, Thorn drops the three seed-bulbs into the dirt beneath Seneca and then turns to prepare for the battle to come.