Nemesis, also known as Noctum Edeaum Inais, Adrestia, the Sanguine Huntress, was a monster hunter with a reputation for lethality. Her services could not be paid with coin, as no treasury was secure enough against her if she so desired. Instead, her fee was something much more valuable and often taken for granted.
She collected a unique trophy from each of her kills, capturing their fears and memories in their final moments of terror. Demons and empresses would plead and rub the mark she left on their flesh, while others would hide or flee. But in those moments of desperation and surrender, the Sanguine Huntress would consume the memories they released in their wails, as she had none of her own.
The remains of her victims would be left with an unbroken writ, sealed with wax, which carried the unmistakable scent of fetid nightshade. On request, Adrestia would provide proof of her completed contract, such as the head of her quarry or other evidence.
In her past, Adrestia belonged to a high-caste Laconian clan, but those memories were now buried deep in the recesses of her mind, partitioned for her own safety. She underwent the same trials as other Laconian artisans, learning the arts of painting, calligraphy, and stone carving. She was taught language and etiquette, and was even tutored in the ways of the Historians and Keepers of the Cradle of Oduum.
Her true talent was not in the traditional crafts, but in the art of coal and canvas. With her stained hands, she created stunning images of things she had never seen, but was sure she would eventually encounter. Her instructors believed she had the potential to be an oracle.
Despite her success, Adrestia often grew frustrated with the repetitive requests of her admirers and longed to be left alone to pursue her own visions. On her thirteenth birthday, she entered a quiet garden filled with fragrant herbs and pops of color, seeking solitude and inspiration for her craft.
She sat still, feeling the vibration of life around her. It was an energetic motion and signal that felt like a private song meant only for her in that place. She breathed deeply, focusing her mind, and stretched her skilled limbs. Rolling her hand back and forth over the coals, she let her instrument call to her. There was a resonance from an unused one that she chose, grasping it like holding hands with a friend, the way telepaths would practice with crystals or gaze into fires. She felt a kinship with her chosen instrument, and sneered at the wise ones with their deep minds and skinny arms. Her arms were skilled and graceful, effortlessly plying their trade.
In a flash of nostalgia for an unknown moment, Adrestia drew a likeness of the gentle woman who had raised her and whom she called Al Mater. She drew the sun-battered, salt and pepper hair that was always pulled back with a cloth twine or the occasional vine, the comely jowls, and soft face that was intimately familiar with the outdoors and its daily rhythms. The artist felt a foreign yet euphoric connection to this image, and couldn't recall anything more satisfying. This memory was a frail sliver buried deep within her heart, one she couldn't grasp or free. She continued to sketch the smiley wrinkles on the woman's features, well-deserved for a life filled with hard work in the outdoors.
As the artist put the finishing touches on her trug, the hood was suddenly placed over her head, stealing the happy day from her. A voice spoke close to her ear, "Do not resist. The time of your trial has arrived." Hempen vines were loosely placed around her as a reminder of her submission to the voice's commands.
The journey with her captors was long and silent, and as the warmth of the day faded, Adrestia felt the fellowship of the trees around her tighten. She heard the rustling of branches above and the constant crunch of the well-worn path beneath her feet. Despite her racing heart and the sweat on her back, she breathed steadily. They descended a long flight of stairs that echoed with each step, eventually arriving in a natural hollow that she could sense but not see.
Her shoulder brushed against root and stone, and the damp earth smell filled the air. For the first time, these familiar sensations did not bring her comfort. Adrestia realized she may never return from this place, and she panicked at the thought of never seeing her garden or having the freedom to choose her own path again. She fought the urge to gasp and weep, clinging to her memories of the garden and her beautiful day alone. The journey was long, and even in her frightened state, she began to ache and tire.
Eventually, the steep stairs leveled out and they arrived at their destination. This place was deep, hidden, and far removed from the world, filled with thick mystery and ominous, ancient vibrations that hummed in Adrestia's head. She was led to a chaotic, crackling fire in the distance and knew that her journey was coming to an end. A slightly different, aged voice spoke to her, "Kneel here. Prepare your mind. Make your offering to those who watch so closely from afar." The bindings and hood were removed, and Adrestia's sight was restored. She was far away from where she started, in a deep and alien place that was horrifically ancient. But she was attuned to its purpose: it was a place where grain was threshed and separated. The old Laconian chant of the children came to mind, and she knew where she was: the hallows.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Do you know of your hollow-day is coming?
(Is coming, is coming along…)
when playtime runs away,
but still runs in your veins,
(in your ears, in your song,
upon your hearth, within your halls.)
When the swing upon yon willow goes still,
but time she has drifted too far gone
(drifts on, drifts away, and now drifts alone.)
When sky and stone all hidden in absolute dark.
(For the dark is not empty at all. No.
The dark is not empty at all.)
Do you know of your hollow-day?,
for your hollow-day is coming along.
(Is coming, Is coming, is coming along.)
Why you don't and you don’t,
and you won't see it coming.
(No, you won't see it coming at all.)”
Young and frantic, Adrestia clutched at her ashen fists, trying to cling to her sanity as she faced unspeakable horrors. Yet even in the face of such terror, something began to stir within her, a sense of destiny or a portent of meaning behind it all. "Open your eyes," she willed herself, desperate to take in every moment of this otherworldly scene.
The offerings table and the door beyond it seemed to lead only to death, and the sky-view chimney above the opening was shrouded from the outside world. The ancient beings that lurked on the edges of the night seemed to be watching, waiting for the next offering.
A voice spoke insistently, its hot breath sickening and hungry for Adrestia's youth and purity. "Make your offering or surrender your insignificant life. Yours is but the insect under the trodding boot! It matters not to them." To her surprise, Adrestia was able to respond with calmness, though desperation filled her mind.
She drew her blade from her plain hempen belt and hacked off her fine lengths of meadow-berry hair, once the envy of many maidens and young men. "The innocent commodity of youth," she offered, placing the golden bundle on the stone table. The voice boomed at her, demanding more.
With her head pressed to the stone, Adrestia considered what she could offer next. She removed her flax tunic and sandals, offering her bare vessel to the ancient beings. "I offer this vessel, if it pleases thee," she said, lowering her head and waiting.
The voice spoke once more, chiding Adrestia for her mistaken belief that her youthful vessel was hers to offer. "Your being and belief of who you are is at an end. Forfeit." They brought out a canvas that Adrestia had drawn, coating it in black powder oil and adding rough kindling and nightshade vine to the offering. Adrestia held her breath, staring at her work and memorizing its lines.
A calming voice spoke, urging Adrestia to surrender her sense of self and her past belongings. "Beyond the door, a new mystery awaits, but it is yours to commit to those beyond the veil. Yield to be cleansed in the primal fire." Adrestia was given a torch and instructed to burn the offering, watching as her hair, tunic, and memorial were consumed by the greedy flames.
In that moment, Adrestia inhaled the strange incense and let herself be consumed by the experience. Her hair stood on end, energy coursing through her as she convulsed and lost control of her body. She could no longer reason and let her waters go upon the steps in front of the ancient beings. In the grayish din, she was gone. She gave into the currents of energy and surrendered her will. Devoid of any conscious thought, Adrestia went unnaturally still all at once, halting the conclusive dance. It was other worldly. She was motionless, not a blink or a breathe.
They coated her in oil and covered her entire vessel with the remaining offertory ash. They then gave her one of the remaining ambered timbers from the pyre and said, gently, “Make your mark upon the door and enter.”
She did, walking gracefully and dreamily, as if in a trance, and as if she were very much intoxicated and not in control of herself. She was becoming something else now, but she could still see it all and she could see them as they saw her.
She no longer needed to move to see. She didn't need to move a muscle or even an eye. She saw the periphery and the entire stage. She could see them as they had been seeing her, with newly forming words, terms, and sentences that were terrible and beyond comprehension. These words could not be formed.
She could see and barely comprehend these astral forms. They were the others, the audience, made of little light and more of the other vacuousness of substance. Their many tendrils reached out for her. The many monstrous entities that looked like they were looking back at her with many, many eyes. The abyss of all human fears in dark places and wonder for what lies beyond was now her inter-planar audience and her companions in a celestial pantheon watching from afar. She was now keenly aware that if she did not finish the ceremony, this indoctrination, if she hesitated, she would be consumed by their collective will. Her mind was gone as she crossed the threshold to them, body and soul.