42. The Dust Giveth
The Wayfarers made an early-dawn crossing of the Badlands, with a dying child in their midst.
Zacko cradled Dashi in his arms while Serac held the lantern and led the way. With no blood trail to track, the Rakshasa was free to run as fast as the weather conditions would allow—and run fast she did, now racing against a clock that showed no build-up bar and could run out at any moment.
She raced also for a second reason, desperate as she was to leave behind the site of her abject failure.
The whole point of Dashi accompanying the Wayfarers (and taking on lantern duty) was for the pair to work as the tag team they fancied themselves to be. And yet… what did Serac contribute to the fight? One measly punch at the very end that had been made possible only with a child’s sacrifice.
Up until now, Serac had coasted by with survival instincts, REVOLVER’s magic, and plenty of help from her companions. But this latest encounter had proven to be a rude awakening.
She was weak. Ambition, even when matched by talent, wasn’t enough. Survivor instinct wasn’t enough. She needed something more—something she sorely lacked and her Manusya partner had in abundance.
If Serac Edin had any hope of going the distance on her Wayfaring journey, what she needed to hone was killer instinct.
She saw the truth of it now, clear and unqualified. She just wished it hadn’t taken an innocent’s death for her to see it.
But… no. Dashi wasn’t dead. Not yet. If they hurried… if they could bring him back to [the Huskbound Sanctuary] in time, then perhaps—
Perhaps what? What sort of miracle did they expect? That the Waystation could be coaxed into breaking protocol and reconstituting an Anchored soul? That one of the other children had somehow inherited Dashi’s mysterious powers?
Serac shook her head and ran on. The doubts and questions were valid but also unhelpful. The first thing to do was to return to safety. Somewhere for them to shelter from the storm while they figured out what they could do for Dashi.
Speaking of the storm…
“Are you wondering what I’m wondering?” Zacko yelled from directly behind Serac, mirroring her own thoughts.
“About why the storm hasn’t waned one bit?” Serac elaborated in between short breaths. “If anything, it’s only getting worse. This time yesterday, it would’ve started to clear up. And I dunno about you, but I kinda hoped—”
“That smiting Hanuman would also get rid of the storm? Yeah, I had the same thought. Especially with how the thing seemed to live and die with the bone dust. Either this weather is here to stay, or… maybe there’s someone else behind it all.”
Someone else behind all the badness of the Badlands. Serac didn’t know enough to draw up a picture of who that might be, but the question did make her think of a name she’d heard recently…
“Assuming there is sentient machination behind these phenomena,” Trippy chimed in then, also mirroring Serac’s thoughts, “I would surmise they all lead back to the Bone Lord. A storm of bone dust, a [Sanctuary] for children who spout the Bone Lord’s name as their protector, and perhaps even [the Sentinel]—before it lost its way. We’re nearing the crux of the challenges that gate a Wayfarer’s Path out of Naraka. I daresay that, even now, we’re being tested, intentionally or otherwise.”
“Tested… You mean by this Bone Lord fella? Can he do that? We haven’t even met the guy.”
“… I’m not sure that’s entirely true, Serac Edin.”
Trippy didn’t elaborate on his cryptic statement. He didn’t need to. For Serac already had a similar inkling, one she hadn’t quite been able to put into words.
But right now, whether that inkling was accurate or not was beside the point. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that the dying child in Zacko’s arms was none other than Dashi himself—free from whatever presence might’ve possessed him before. And the Wayfarers owed it to the boy to do whatever in their power to save him.
It took some meandering without a local’s guidance, but the Wayfarers eventually made their way back to the solid walls of [the Sanctuary]. By then, enough time had passed for the night to turn over to morning, but one wouldn’t know it from the way the dust clouds filled the skies.
Serac squeezed through the secret entrance, still undecided on what to do next. Her first barely-an-idea was to activate the Waystation and see if it could offer any options she might’ve missed previously. Failing that, she could—
She froze before she reached the lotus flower. Something was wrong. There was a foreign presence here inside [the Sanctuary], one that colored the air with a heavy solemnity that couldn’t have come from the children.
Zacko stumbled in behind her, and he too stopped on a dime. His eyes immediately fell upon the source of the ‘wrongness’, and Serac followed his gaze until she too saw the culprit.
Stolen story; please report.
Or the culprits, plural. Two figures rose from amidst a gaggle of children, revealing themselves to be adult Rakshasa women. One was visibly older than the other, but both appeared hale and wore identical blood-red robes and impressive armor, which made them positively radiant among a sea of scrawny children in drab clothing.
“Well met, travelers,” the older one spoke first, voice carrying the kind of confident authority that was a real rarity among Naraka’s downtrodden souls. “Come in, and rest your weary bones. All are welcome here under roofs blessed by our Lord… but I suppose you know that already.”
Serac continued to stare, at a loss as to what to make of her fellow Rakshasa. The woman bore no apparent hostility, but that armor… and the pair of daggers that hung from her belt… those didn’t look particularly friendly.
Instinctively, Serac sought out Pathsight for some clarity, but the lack of an HP bar or a label seemed to indicate that the women were neither Aberrant nor Wayfarer. For now, she’d have to rely on her own judgment.
“Uh…” she stammered, unsure even of what tone the situation called for. “I’m sorry, but… who are you?”
“The child.” It was the younger one who replied—or rather cut in without answering Serac’s question. “Give him here, and quickly, if you want him to live.”
Zacko made no move to comply. Neither did he speak, instead meeting the woman’s solemn gaze with narrowed eyes. Watching this exchange sidelong, Serac could understand her companion’s reluctance.
The younger Rakshasa had a distinct energy about her. More… intense than her older partner. She’d stepped forward as she made her demand, and one of her hands rested on the hilt of a sheathed sword—not with overt intent… but not entirely without it, either.
Seeing that Zacko wasn’t about to say anything, Serac found herself interceding, if only in an attempt to ease the tension.
“Are you saying you can help Dashi?” she asked, now deciding on as neutral a tone as possible. “Do you know a healing spell or something?”
The woman snapped her gaze onto Serac, with her face darkening into a frown.
“Every breath you waste on stupid questions is time the boy can’t afford to lose. Give him here. I won’t ask again.”
“It’s alright, travelers,” the older woman added. “You’ve done well to bring him here. Now, leave the rest to us.”
What is this, Good Jailer Bad Jailer? The stark difference in the two women’s attitude threw Serac for a loop, and she found herself oddly enticed to give into their demand/suggestion. But Dashi was still in Zacko’s arms, and he’d always been the less trusting Wayfarer.
Serac’s mind churned, preparing an argument that might sway Zacko. To her surprise, however, the Manusya finally did move, of his own accord and towards the central mound of [the Sanctuary] where the two women stood.
The sea of children, acting almost as a single unit, parted as Zacko made his way through their midst. They watched his progress and Dashi’s limp body with a somberness that felt far beyond their years—as if they too had been painted over by a sort of illusion.
Serac shoved aside the disquieting thought, knowing that, right now, she and Zacko had little choice but to trust in the kindness of strangers. The Manusya was evidently in agreement, as he gently laid down Dashi at the womens’ feet. He then stood back a little—far enough to give the women room to operate, but close enough to intervene, should he see anything untoward.
Now, for the first time, Serac saw the full extent of the injury Hanuman’s Huskbound fist had imprinted upon a young body. And she wished immediately that she hadn’t.
The boy was all but fully drained of color now, with his skin nearly as pale as that of a Hellspawn Jailer’s. It wasn’t hard to see why, for his entire chest was badly bruised and caved in. Poor Dashi wasn’t so much bleeding out as bleeding into himself.
Yet, even that badly misshapen chest still rose and fell in time with his shallow breaths. And that was why Serac didn’t allow herself to look away. She owed Dashi at least that much.
The younger of the Rakshasa women acted first, kneeling next to Dashi and producing a small object from behind her back. It was a—jar? Urn?—of sorts, one of a simple earthen make. The woman lifted the lid and poured the urn’s contents directly onto Dashi’s body.
It was—surprise, surprise—more bone dust. The dust giveth, and the dust taketh away. In this case, the dust was clearly intended to give, as it settled onto Dashi’s chest and covered his bruise in its pale-gray.
Then the older woman stepped in, holding out a wrinkled hand and chanting something in a strange language. The bone dust responded to the woman’s words, immediately and rather dramatically at that. The particles swept up into the air, leaving a thin layer upon the site of Dashi’s injury while the rest formed a whorling, dome-like cloud over his whole body.
Serac sucked in a sharp breath. Beside her, Zacko visibly tensed. But neither Wayfarer moved, for they both knew themselves to be out of their depths. Trust in the kindness of strangers. That trust had gotten them this far, hadn’t it?
Soon, the younger woman too stood and joined her partner in the chant. Even here, the two women differed in their demeanor. The older had her eyes closed and recited her spell with quiet, practiced confidence, whereas the younger displayed a slight awkwardness—occasionally tripping over her words, as if they were still unfamiliar to her.
At first, Serac divided her attention between the women and the boy. Gradually, however, her caution waned while her wonder at Dashi’s visible changes grew. For even as she watched, the color returned to the boy’s skin and lips—not quite all the way cinnabar, but at least a faint rosiness that could only be a sign that he was trending in the right direction.
Eventually, the women stopped their chanting and took a step back, both visibly exhausted from their efforts. At their feet, the dust cloud continued to whorl as a dome of protection—perhaps not unlike [the Sanctuary] itself.
“There,” the older woman announced. “That ought to do for now. It’ll take some time for the dust to finish its work, but the boy should recover—well enough to carry on as before.”
“Thank—thank you,” Serac half murmured half sighed in relief. She then elbowed Zacko beside her, coaxing him into a reluctant nod of his own, before turning back to the women. “Seriously, I don’t know what we would’ve done without you. You—um, actually, we still didn’t get your names?”
“I am Sundara, a Bone Maiden in service of our Lord,” the older woman promptly introduced herself, then turned to her younger partner, who merely glared at Serac like the Wayfarer had said something to offend her, “and you’ll have to forgive my associate’s… lack of manners. She’s still new at this, and what you might see as standoffish is merely her working out her nerves. In any case, her name is Meetra.”