The thunder sounded different today, somehow.
Usually it was a low, constant hum that faded into the background. A distant susurrus, almost comparable to flowing water. But today, there was a sharp crackle to it that set Tanglebud’s teeth on edge. Perhaps the sky is cracking like glass, up above the clouds. That would seem to be the next logical step, based on how terribly wrong everything has been lately.
He sighed. But then the next moment he firmed his resolve, and stood straighter – as much as he could, his situation being what it was. None of that. Though our fortunes have fallen as of late, that is only the product of an ever-changing world. We will weather this. We must weather this.
There is simply no other option.
Sixty-seven days ago. The first day of the third month of the bright season. That was when Tanglebud had made the decision to collapse a section of the Pit; a futile effort to trap an alien warrior whose powers they had only ever understood the edges of.
And also the day he was punished for that decision.
They never found the man; investigations eventually uncovered a small tunnel leading upwards, but by that point he had managed to slip away. But the Tunnel Dogs found them, found their involvement in the disaster, and before even a single day had passed Junk Dog managed to assemble all the leaders together. They trickled together from underground, from the sky, from the various battlefields to the east and west, and arranged themselves into a circle.
They sat, with Tanglebud in the centre, and debated an appropriate punishment. Grandmaster Two Worlds Gestalt argued for leniency, the other leaders pushed back, and over the course of an agonising two hours Jonn the Brittle dragged the entire debacle – no, not all of it, not the most important part – clawing and biting into the light.
Then it was Tanglebud and Gestalt both in the centre of the circle.
Enlightened Wail-Blow was an ally, as was the council of Mechanicals. The cultists, both flavours, were the opposite; they argued that the brotherhood be slain in its entirety. The other brotherhoods at least attempted impartiality, though the Jonns looked at them with visible disappointment.
In the end, Junk Dog rendered his sentence. The normally jovial warrior wore a dour look on his face throughout the proceedings, and that did not change as he spoke.
“Grandmaster Gestalt, it pains me that you have kept these important matters from me. Are we not all warriors of Junk Dog, brothers of the same flesh?” He shook his head, the movement swinging a large shadow over the entire assembly. “Fight, if you desire. Consume, if you desire. That is the way it is and must always be. But concealing this man Guanyin from me – that was a mistake. You placed your brotherhood above the clan.”
Something pressed down on him, then. It was unlike any type of power he had ever felt; chaotic in substance, but somehow made orderly. An ever-shifting kaleidoscope with faint echoes of every concept he had ever touched, as if the entire world was rearing up to crash down on his shoulders. He clung to Gestalt’s nearby consciousness like it was a stone pillar, borrowing that enduring nature as they were both lashed by an angry sea.
Junk Dog exhaled, and the force of it moved more sand than Tanglebud could lift with all his kinetics. “But you might be redeemed.” He leaned closer to the ground, his round face filling Tanglebud’s entire view. “You shall be placed on the Tree of Spears, both of you. If you still live in a hundred days, then that shall be the end of it. If the two of you should die… that will also be the end of it.” Stinger-Tail made an amused sound. “And if one of you dies and the other lives, than I will kill the survivor. You bear equal responsibility for this crime; let your punishments be equal as well.”
Beside him, the grandmaster attempted to speak – but failed. He gave up, and resorted to telepathy. [Thank you for your mercy, Junk Dog.]
Thirty-three days to go. The Junk weapon pierced his body in a great many places, but that pain had faded in intensity as the months wore on. Even as the Tree grew into him, his body adapted, veins shifting around the questing spears of living wood. Heat drawn up from the ground tried to burrow into him, and succeeded – only to be swiftly digested by his stomach and growing Comprehension.
No, only in that first week, when his body had been soft and immalleable, could the Tree have killed him by force alone. Now that he had evolved, it was only hunger and weakness of spirit that he had to fear – and the former was well in hand.
Every day, his brothers brought a liquid slurry up in buckets; waste and scraps from the kitchens, ground up and dissolved. They were not permitted to feed him or the grandmaster directly… but Junk Dog was indeed merciful.
The Tree of Spears was not an actual tree; it had no roots, or leaves, or bark, and was only a great number of wooden spears twisting around and through each other. But it acted as if it was alive: it grew into the ground, moving nutrients into itself to become larger. So his brothers spread the fertilizer beneath its branches, and that nutrition made its way to him and the grandmaster by proxy.
In fact, Tanglebud was almost hesitant to call it a weapon at this point. While the Tree was indeed doing its best to kill him, it did so in a way that almost forced the victim to comprehend the energy of wood. Compared to the him of three months ago, Tanglebud’s regeneration, digestion, and durability were an order of magnitude higher, despite not consuming the psychic energy he had made the core of his spirit. While his techniques remained stagnant, he assumed that when the ordeal was over he would be a much more effective combatant.
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Unfortunately, the grandmaster was not doing so well. His body, younger and weaker than Tanglebud’s, could not fight off the piercing spears and struggled to heal the constant damage. He was able to survive, but only that, and each day he grew a little more emaciated. Whether he would live to see the end of the punishment, neither of them knew. All Tanglebud could do was try to keep their morale up; he couldn’t transfer any energy or flesh to the grandmaster, since they were on opposite sides of the Tree.
This often took the form of long debates. [What do you think is up above the clouds? I’ve always found the curse hypothesis most convincing.]
Gestalt’s body no longer moved, but his mental voice was as strong as it ever was. [Hmm. I fear I have a bit of an advantage on you in this subject. Wail-Blow often weaved truths about the nature of the sky into his Secrets – he’d word them simply like ‘the sky is what’s above the earth,’ or ‘clouds grow from the sky like salt grows from the ground,’ but underneath there would be layers of additional meaning.]
[And? Don’t just say you know; actually state a position.]
The next thought was preceded by a feeling of amusement, and Tanglebud could tell that he was about to be subjected to a long, rambling lesson that was ten times longer than it needed to be. Good. There’s nothing else to do anyway; better to draw each subject out to the use maximum amount of time possible.
[Ancient scholars of Lady Uriel record that before she shattered the sky-cities of the stars, and laid their armies to waste, the great cloudscape did not exist at all. That the sky was visible at all times. But other, older accounts make mention of the cloudscape waxing and waning with the turning of the seasons. How can we interpret this contradiction? Is one group lying?]
[I would assume that the meaning of the word ‘cloudscape’ might have changed over the ensuing years.]
A burst of confirmation. [That is my thought as well. But it remains a useful question to ask; what exactly is the cloudscape? Where did it come from, and was it formed naturally by the destruction of the ancient skies, or was it created? The Brotherhood of Sky-Touchers believe it to be a natural feature of the sky, but at the same time they- ah?]
The grandmaster cut off, at the same time the light visible through his eyelids – an anatomical feature he had lost through mutation, but recently regained – dimmed. Tanglebud opened his eyes to see a great white shape standing over him.
He wet his mouth. “Junk Dog?”
“Congratulations.” Tanglebud’s Sun-touched eyesight was a touch too blurry to make out his exact expression, but his tone of voice was faux-stern. Unlike during their trial, Junk Dog once more had an amused lilt to his words. “It seems that the consequences of your actions have arrived. Invaders from Horrible Swamp are approaching the Pit, along with strangely shaped warriors clad in thick armour. I cannot discern their consumption.” He leaned in, and Tanglebud could begin to identify a smile. ”They are not from any clan I have encountered. Do you want to know where I think they come from?”
Tanglebud’s tongue was clumsy from disuse, even more than usual. “The Steadfast Heart… has discovered our involvement. They come seeking vengeance.”
“More likely to recover their lost brother, but correct enough.” Recover..? Surely he’s had more than enough time to reconnect with his people? “And can you guess why I’m speaking with you right now?”
There was an obvious answer, and Tanglebud spoke it. “You are changing our sentence. Combat, against the force we provoked.”
Junk Dog’s smile widened.
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After about an hour, Lu ran out of explosives. Well, not completely out; he still had a few handfuls for emergencies. But in terms of being able to push the flying kite, he was out.
“Holy Hell, Lu. Where did you get so many explosive pills? Why did you get so many explosive pills?” Hu Kuon’s eyes were wide.
“Well, you see…” I was so pleased at the ‘successful’ pills that I made several batches before I thought to test them. Very silly in the moment, but it ended up being useful, so that’s the important part! “…I acquired them before I was confident in my martial prowess. And for the firearms, of course.”
“Right, but you must have used a few hundred-“ He cut himself off with a shake of the head. “Never mind. [Sirs Horrible Swamp, do you think we’ve cleared the mined field?]”
Dreamfever looked back with a different flavour of sour on his face than usual, though Lu wasn’t familiar enough with the local’s expressions to gauge his exact mood. “[Could be, but I’d prefer not to gamble. We’re almost there anyway; maybe another hour at most.]” His gaze turned up. “[We could be hitting cloudboys any minute now. Keep an eye out; they tend to be pretty slow, but there are a few of ‘em that can hit like a fucking meteor.]”
An image of Fellhair crushing the Metal Tooth clansman to paste passed through his head. “[Of course, of course. We’ll be sure to keep an eye out.]”
The following hour passed in a sort of tense sedateness. The kite dragged behind the speeder, which cut their velocity greatly but allowed the disciples to rest for a time – not that the higher realms needed it. But at least it gave everyone the chance to take out their spirit stones and replenishment pills, and top up their qi reserves.
It also gave Lu the chance to experiment more with his Comprehension, though he wasn’t learning much. I’d probably need to take my suit off to feel anything subtle. Immerse myself in ki. It’s actually kind of interesting that I can feel anything at all; the seal should be perfect. Does that mean I’m not sensing ki at all? Or can my comprehension go through the suit, like my spiritual sense can?
He pondered ways to test the distinction, but was roused from his thoughts by a word from Bone Softener. “[Contact!]”
The group’s eyes snapped forwards. “[Dust cloud on the horizon. Bigger than a speeder, smaller than a wormdragon. Moving faster than us, I think. Go up?]”
Dreamfever grunted. “[Might be trying to spook us into doing that, put us in range for lightning volleys. No, the current altitude is good. Humans, you want us to drop you?]”
Ging answered. “[We’ll take care of ourselves for now. We’re quite vulnerable bunched up like this.]”
Before Lu could open his mouth, both sides of the rope started to drop – along with him and the other disciples. Not only had Bo dropped his end, but Lady Scarlet had stowed her treasure away; they were now in free-fall, some faster than others as the more martially inclined disciples let go of their Weight Reduction.
The ground approached, as did the mysterious dust plume. They wouldn’t send their own men into an explosive trap, right? So we must be past it, right?
The logic failed to calm his racing heart. Lu hit the ground softly, still under the effects of his spell, and braced for an explosion.
...Nothing. Well, that's a relief. None of the other disciples had exploded either; they were either inordinately lucky or actually past the trap.
Well, either way we'll just have to deal with it. The forms of Desert Crossing Fist assembled themselves in his mind, and with a burst of qi he rocketed forward.