Morgue sat in thought, of what happened. Every time he blacked out, he thought of getting rid of the the fleshdrive. But he couldn,t do it, it was a still part of him…meh.
He clicked his claws together, creating a small black flame from the necrosis that he was enmucked in him. On his wall, there a broken shard of glass. He looked into it, a makeshift mirror. His face, a house divided. One belonging to the past, when he was but a slave. A normal human soldier ignorant to the truth. He helped build the city, kept it clean, defended it. And he even started a family, continuing humanity,s blood line. Doing his part for the human race.
Morgue wondered how his kids did, he wondered if they had died of old age. Or in combat. Other then the Incarnates who were continuously recycled and the Eldritch who lived god knows how long, nobody really lived long these days. His left face, scarred. Fangs, long. His other side, a monstrosity. A long gash of a lip, teeth continuously bared. Dark leathery skin. Long oily hair, intertwined with black feathery plumes trailing down his back.
He was shorter then N3t by a good foot or so, a few inches taller then Neia. Great Black shadowy wings draped behind him. With red feathers forming red pupil slitted eyes that never blinked. Good for alarming the prey. Umbra tendrils continuously wriggling, occasionally strangling some nearby rat or gulping down some cockroach. Morgue rarely felt hungry.
His tail snaked behind them, a hideous tendril, pockmarked with eyes and a venom tipped stinger. Great crooked legs, like that of a bird and continuously hunched over. Morgue felt better on all fours. He had claws now, making it hard to manipulate and pick things up.
He used to love to write, now if he picked up a stick of granite to write or to try typing, he either missed or crushed it into pieces. For typing, he had to be very careful, stabbing each holographic key. Nowadays, N3t had reconfigured the keyboard to have bigger keys for him, but Morgue still missed writing with his bare hands.
The nanites they had were limited, only able to multiply a certain amount of times. All nanites they had were used in repair or letting Neia able to shift back.
For God,s sake, N3t could have been fixed with them, instead of continuously wasting vat bodies fixed up with metal braces bolted into the flesh. Always wasting away. When he asked N3t why nanotherapy, he went very silent and uttered a very small and quiet, “No.”
He liked this base better then the old one. More space to move, more darkness, more underground. Plus hollowed out giant trees with lead lining to hide from detection. A coating of titanium kept his recruits safe.
He and N3t had built these networks of bases, years ago. Scavenged from the Old Ruins, he remembered.
N3t had used his powerful link in, jack in abilities to control the swarms. Projecting his spirit into their microscopic bodies, millions, nay trillions of them. He jacked their hivemind. And ended up collecting many of them for their own purposes. Programed the little fucks to take apart the Vat and the Recycler after they collected them from the swarmlands, this was before HIM, Morgue didn,t dare say his name built….he made his mind go blank.
The Ramshackle Houses were more numerous back then, with many humans among their numbers. Joing their flesh and their Aethyr-infused magics to create Chimeras. No, wait, Morgue had to remember. No, the correct term was changeling. Yes, that was right. Born humans who took up the mantle of the Fae. Not as strong as Wanted Incarnate but could give a well-trained Beast or even Elemental a run for their money.
Morgue remembered the ceremony, ages and ages ago.
The baseline human was laying on a slab. A healthy human male. Soul projected, hollowed out in the chest. Energy lines glowed. Splitting open his chest. – holographic xrays. The Fae of Iron Knives, an anomaly created from spilled blood on an iron quarry, brought to life by the Antlered God of Steel Tines weiled a subtle knife. Capable of cutting the lines that binded souls together, a scapel of the spirit. He flipped it and twisted it, the subtle knife became a subtle needle, now stitching together what must be brought together. Two souls in union. This was in the underground. An EMP powered by Aythr kept the nanites at bay or as the Ramshackle Hauses called them, Hungry Bits and Pieces. They, being two mothers of miscarriage. brought in a fae, this was a young flower fae. Not very strong an orphan child.
Around the age of four, semi-transclusent, green healthy glow. Pudgy baby fat. A nest of vines sprouted from her head, framing her cherubic face. The forest in which came from was destroyed by a scorched earth war campaign. Infernal forces were spreading their territory, into the lands held by Fae, demanding their eons old Tithe. And interest, one soul for each year not paid. The lands and skies from the Up Above too demanded their share. The middle world was suffering, breaking apart. Eaten by an cancer from the outside. One end, holy, divine. The other wracked by pain. Both sides out of touch with the other. The balance was out of it.
She was walked to the slab. No, escorted was a better word. My memories are getting fragmented, blurred. But I will go and keep telling my story. The child was flanked by Two Mothers of Miscarriage, great wobbling creatures of breast and flesh, nursing the young of many races who have died in the womb, the caretakers of all unwanted newly formed lives. They had their pudgy arms on each shoulder, one was on both her side.
She was crying as climbed to the sacrificial alter. From the pain of the scorched earth. Her upper half may have been healthy and transnclusent, a cheerful green-yellow glow in a world of smoky greys, dormant browns, and dried reds of spilled life along with the depressing blues of tears. But her legs, once leafy and sprightly like a proper vine child should be were nothing but burnt withered stumps. Chemical scars cruelly inflicted by the uncaring and unthinking ruthless God of Agent Orange.
Born out of hate and paranoia the God of Agent Orange, thrived in this day and age. The child, wait, she didn,t really climb the stair, she was more forced out of it. No, into it. You see, a withered little one is useless, especially with no hope of recovery. This is what the chemical wrath of humanity has done to use. She is too young to regenerate and with her forest gone, there is no hope.
Period. Quite sad, but there was a way to make her useful. And give her new life at the same time. This ritual. And humans, we,ll they,re week. I know I am one. Can,t fight, they, the Eldritch toppled their civilizations, the very same Eldritch who claim to have helped us grow and flourish into the dominant species on this planet.
Let me keep going. The fae of iron knives, he was….let,s see. A hulking brute. Resembling the iron ore that he was born out of, great rocky chunks of metal that burnt any fae in his, her vicinity. But not always. Sometimes, it was a long slim figure compromise of nothing but long gleaming jagged shards of metal. Living javelins that would skewer you if you looked at it wrong. The reason it was here, well, you,ll see. Shut up and listen to me.
At the very top of this ritual chamber, the candles were blown out and the small firefly sprites hid in the cracks in the brick basement of this small squatting hovel. Darkness had come and the atmosphere became even more gloomy. The ceiling parted opening to another realm. A fate had come. What it looked like depended from entity to entity. It had one eye, three heads.a drapery of pale hair. Flesh, if it had any were stitched together. It had come for the subtle knife and needle. Or the replicas anyway. The knife resembling one broken half of an old fashioned metal hewn scissors. One of the few Eldritch from the beyond that had not invaded and raped the Earth. A great manquein handle was carried by it. Strings descended from this smoky horrible orifice into the Beyond. String down attaching itself to the man and the vine childe.
The string raveled itself around the heart of the vine childe, the little one was shrieking at this point. The Fate, the Weaver of all, pointed to the Fae of Iron Knives. It levitated into the air, a crown of knives circling it. One bony thin hand from the Crone of Fate, Grandmother of time, Kronos, directed the Fae of Iron Knives, born out of cold blooded murder on cold earthborn iron, fathered by the Antlered God of Steel Tines.
The string pulled the vine child. It was insane. It was crazy. It yanked her towards the man. The subtle knife slashed her legs off. Removing the burn rot of the plant necrosis. It fell to the ground with a splatter, removing a brown stain on the floor. The earth ate it. And then the vine child was pushed and slammed into the hollow of the human man,s chest. The human was heaving and breathing, hyperventilating, his eyes were squeezed shut. When the little one was pushed into the hollow, he and the vine child were screaming, shrieking. A chorus of pain.
The Fae of the Iron Knives and the Fate hovered over both the sacrificial victims. The strings were drawn tighter into the astral hollow of the man. The skin of his chest were sewn together. The astral needle flew and flew, wounding them both, diving into their souls, stitching them together, making them one.
The deaths of two to become one entity. A chimera, a changling making two useless people, useful.
The crone of time ushered the entire crowd, human, fae, and others alike out of the basement. This part of the ritual was private, not meant for human eyes. I felt sick at watching it. That child?
Hours later, the doors to the basement blew open. Something stumbled…out of it. Lurched. Shambling. It was a human, hulked up, hunching over. His skin was mottled and grey, speckled with browns and moss. Scales of bark grew in patches and splotches among his skin. Out of his back, grew a tree. A dryad. Her feet were roots digging into the his fleshy back, living off his blood and nutrients.
Whoever said plants were not predatory was wrong. Dead wrong. Dear damned humanity, it was ghastly. The dryad was clearly flourishing, thriving. All markings of the scorched earth chemical scars from the god of agent orange was gone. Her arms were upraised, her fingers, nimble branches with bright green leaves. A spine of brown a trunk was fastened to her nubile body. Her vagina was wide and wet, out of it grew a flower, bright orange and red. Hummingbird and insect food.
She clearly needed to be fertililized. Her human half on the other hand, was struggling to move. He was hunched over, arms dragging drooping uselessy, the burden of the tree bending him over. He couldn,t deal with it. The stress, the exhaustion. This human was , I mean changeling, was clearly did not consent to the ritual. Perhaps some captured soldier that was meant to be plant food or perhaps some witless thrall that served the Eldritch Demons, or an idiot slave that continousely sang praises to the tyrants of the Up Above, I do not know. Some changelings are perfect blends of the duos or trios or more that went into their creations, others are a mere host in this case. Usually the fae is the domiant with such types. But I have heard some enclaves have an alternate ritual to dominate a fae and thief its abilities away.
The human kept going, then collapsed. The Fae of Iron Knives hosted the human over his shoulder while the dryad fluttered in nonexistent wind, her eyes were closed, in rejuvenating sleep. He was quickly patched up to an old bed on the floor, an IV tube of fertilizer and nutrients was pushed into a vein. A sleeping draught quickly brought him to rest. The Ramshackle Houses will ally themselves with humans in exchange for supplies such as food, and ritual material.
I heard talk of combining this changeling with that of a centipede so that he have more legs to locomote the dryad around and so that he can properly eat. The dryad, once properly fertilized, will give lifegiving fruit, a must in today,s tattered patchworked realmshattered world.
And the centipede will let him crawl over the scrapers of the sky and give her proper sun and clean air to thrive.
It was a good idea in a twisted, twisted sense. I wasn,t there for the second ritual, a captured millipede from the Underground kingdoms was taken. From what I know, it quite a hoot. Haahahahahah.
Once I would have against such things, finding them horrible and amoral, a destroyer of the ethical code that I once possessed. But now, I just find it hilarious as I stare into my broken mirror and remebmber my past.
The millipede human dryad fae was quite a horror to behold. A beautiful horror, heh. Most of the legs were actually human arms with hands, with claws, the better to grip you and climb over you, my dear. It,s head was an elongated and exaggerated face, locked ajd frozen into an endless screen, out of its neverclosing jaws was a second mouth, massive pincers that jutted out of it. It,s eye sockets now home to many little beady insect eyes, armored plates covering it,s long fleshy back. The skin of human millipede was covered in scaly bark with roots from the dryad above intertwined into the flesh and the veins, drinking in the blood.
The roots were transparent, you could actually see the blood flowing from the human millipede to the dryad above now a ghastly horror. What was once a peaceful face had now pincers that demanded meat, it,s plated branches were now segmented and the branches, the leaves. Oh god, the branches were were.
Millipede legs. Wriggling and squirming right out of the segemented bark. The leaves were still there. An atrocious mockery, the last sign of the once beautiful dryad, formerly a suffering child. A creature with three minds, what can such a creature thing, the thing it shuffled out of the door. The last half of the millipede was more normal with a drapery and train of roots spidering out of the tail end, and an army of insectlike leggs.
Hissing at the crowd, snapping them out of the way, It climbed the stairs to the roof, where the creature built out of unwilling three can feed and hide itself from the judging beautiful eyes. A gasps of horror from the mess of humans. But it was considered necessary, the crowd put their masks back on, beautiful moving faces that hid the sewn together wrong horror below. Out of the dryad millipede,s vagina was a mess of reddish orange flowers, covering her crotch, her breasts full of lifegiving nector. Her pregnant stomach full of eggs. Eggs that would hatch into what? I wonder if the Mothers of Miscarriage had some more children to care for that night?
Yes, she would be good for the medic sector.
The old computer didn,t have where the other bases were. Some things he didn,t tell N3t. Some not even Neia. It was safer that way. He hated this isolation. And wondered when his Final Death will come.
Neia, hello. Are you need of medical help?
Glimmering pearl skin, scales that shimmered in the moonlight. Four legs. An angel in the horror of this world. Symmetircal. The only one untouched. All of this was bullshit of course. She wasn,t that pure.