A Chimerical Hope

A Bloody Wolf

Ooliri had never been on a C​-​rank mission before.

Every mission that took banes — and it had to have banes — outside of the safety of the stronghold walls was a C​-​rank at least. Even if combat or politics wasn’t mentioned in the brief.

Ooliri is staring down the reason why.

The direhound roars, crouching, and then it leaps for his vulnerable neck. The pawn is freezing up.

And that’s why I haven’t been promoted yet, he thinks.

A metal mass cracks against the hound’s skull mid​-​jump. It falls limp and bleeding. Well, the direblooded are always bleeding. But it’s blood that flows rather than crawls.

The metal mass is attached to a staff, held by a diamantis with Ooliri’s same gray​-​green chitin, same golden yellow antennae, and a welkinmark between them.

Oocid smiles and firmly pats his coxa. “Breathe, brother. I’ve got your back.”

His abdomen rises and falls, and his right raptorial is taken in the nymph’s grasp.

“Do you remember how to hold your baton?

Consciously, Ooliri tightens his grip.

“Do you remember how to swing it? Get ready, it’s standing back up.”

The direhound is panting, but still has fury in its eyes.

“Let’s give it a try.”

And, with his older brother guiding the swing, with him providing half the force, Ooliri knocks down the hound.

That doesn’t kill it. That happens when a brown nymph with burnt​-​orange antennae comes up, and plants a sword right in the beast’s bulging heart.

“You’re wasting time,” she says.

“This is partly a training mission, Fihra.” Oocid directs Ooliri to hang his baton at his side. The older nymph steps away, graceful in flowing red and white robes.

“Was that the last one?”

“I took out the other two,” the orange​-​antennae’d nymph replies.

Oocid nods. “Did anyone get hurt?”

Ooliri looks around to see if any of the other two pawns say anything. Then, hesitating, he lifts his foreleg.

Oocid curls antennae in concern. “Let me get that.”

He grabs a ritual knife and slits the palm of his tarsus, then his fingers contort into tarsigns. He has to make the full sequence of ten, then blood crawls out from the wound, over his flesh, deep red rather than mantid green. Empowered, the ichor of vesperbats grows brighter in the air, much brighter than blood exposed to air should. Then, it clears, transparent and pure.

Oocid’s mandibles crunch in concentration as he presses the hand to his brother’s wounds and closes them.

And that’s why I was supposed to be good enough to promote, Ooliri thinks. Oocid was only one instar older than him, and he was already using ⸢Serum Form: Pure Healing Palm⸥ in the field.

At Ooliri’s age, Oocid had already been promoted from pawn to wretch. They were both supposed to be the great prodigy sons of the Arch​-​Sovran Silverbane, legendary knowledge​-​hunter.

And he couldn’t even hold a baton straight.

“Excellent work, my little nymphs.” Their mentor steps forth, wearing the gray vest with the Windborne Stronghold insignia, four spirals arranged in a diamond. The same symbol, etched on the blood​-​iron plate, adorned her antennae​-​band. “This is why you never drop your guard when traveling the heartlands.”

It’s why every mission that left the safety of a stronghold was at least C​-​rank: the world​-​scars. Direbeasts were merely the most common, least threatening of the horrors plaguing this land.

And one had nearly killed Ooliri.

“Who can tell me what exactly this is? Was, rather,” their mentor asks after calling them all to sit before her. Oocid’s antennae perk up — “I’d like to hear from one of the pawns, if you please.”

Through his goggled eyes, Ooliri glances at the other two, one shrinking down and the other tapping antennae nervously.

Cautiously, Ooliri lifts a leg.

“Yes, darling?”

“It’s a maned wolf, madam.”

“What do they eat?”

“They mostly live on a diet of fruits and smaller bugs.”

“Then why attack us?”

“It wasn’t just a maned wolf, madam. It’s infected with the direblood, which turns any mammal into a vicious predator.”

“And how do we deal with direbeasts once they stop moving?”

This time, all the pawns have an answer. “Burn them.”

“Adequate answers. But there’s more to these beasts in particular, I suspect. Pawns, set up camp. Oocid will need a meal after so much bloodletting.”

“Madam, it was only a few cuts I healed—”

“Oh, I don’t mean that. Dissect these beasts, and taste their ichor. I expect a full report of your findings.”

The pawns get to work under a sky still dark with clouds and black orbs. At least the wisps had stopped falling this morning. But the sunless land still felt desolate.

In the horizonward distance, you see the crags and creeks of the Duskhold territory. They could reach it by day’s end. Then they could start carrying out their mission.

As the banes and pawns eat packaged meals prepped over a fire, Oocid is sharing his findings.

“They’re arete​-​touched,” he says. “This isn’t the result of natural direblooded infection. A vesperbane did this.”

The mentor is nodding. “I knew something was wrong.”

Ooliri can’t help asking: “How? What tipped you off?”

She points out toward Duskhold. “Tell me, what do you see in that country?”

“Hills… grassy hills? Crags from erosion, so streams, creeks, I’m not sure what you’re looking for, here.”

“Exactly that, darling. It’s a healthy land, more or less. Not many trees, but there are some, and the mountains are kilometers distant. And it’s late spring! Given all that, how in E’yama’s name is there a wispfall? A wispfall that lasted three damn days?”

Ooliri thinks to what his brother just said. “It’s a bane’s work too. But that would take…”

“Shadowcalling,” their mentor finishes gravely. She looks out, not to Duskhold, but the plains they had just crossed.

“Navera better not have sent us to die. Pray the prophets this just a C​-​rank.”

The mentor is scraping out orders, tone buzzing high. “Fan out. Check the tents.” The team has marched upon a camp where two dead bodies are still lying around.

The noise spurs motion. The flap of a tent is opening. Awelah emerges. Makuja is behind her, the glint of a knife visible in her hands.

“Threat spotted. Fihra, engage.”

The wretch with burnt​-​orange antennae rushes at the pale purple nymph.

Awelah has time to get her spear up — having started unfolding it as soon as she saw the fiend — and she blocks a swing of Fihra’s sword.

The pale nymph never gets a chance to attack; she’s buried under a rain of blows. Some she blocks, and some quick and weak blows break through her guard. In seconds, it is clear: this nymph, who had taken down half a dozen trained pawns, is utterly outmatched.

Fihra hadn’t even used any vespertine arts; just her hands and a sword.

The fight’s over when the wretch throws out a foreleg to wrap like a vice around Awelah’s. She’s pushed to the ground by the novice bane’s weight, and another foreleg seizes another limb, completing the lock. It doesn’t matter if Awelah gives up; she can’t move.

Makuja’s knives are nowhere to be seen; she’s now kneeling before Oocid, having surrendered in the course of Awelah’s fight.

“Stand down and face judgment. You are hereby detained under suspicion of defection against the Pantheca. Laymant, are these the bandits?” That last line wasn’t for Awelah, but for a mantis hidden safe behind the banes. They tentatively step forward.

“You!” Awelah says, struggling against restraint, making Fihra suddenly redouble her grip. “Why aren’t you killing me?” The mantis who stepped forward — it was one from the camp, whom she’d spared.

The mentor arches one antennae. “There is no warrant out for your execution.”

“Beetleshit! Your pawns have been hunting me for days now, Unodha.”

At this remark, Makuja’s expression flickers.

“There has been a misunderstanding, then,” the mentor says. “Allow me to grant you context. I am Emusa Rutabrood, fiend mentor under the Windborne Stronghold’s countenance. We’re here because communication lines with Duskroot went dark days ago, followed by anomalous nervestorms in the region. Team nineteen — that’s us — were dispatched to assay the damages and provide emergency relief to any refugees we find, escorting them back to Solaroch.”

“I am a refugee!” Awelah says. “I was there, I watched my home get destroyed, and now you’re detaining me for defection against the Pantheca?”

“Your name?”

“Awelah Asetari.”

The mentor’s gaze flickers to her chitin, pale violet tint visible despite the grime and dirt. “Thought so. Release her, Fihra. The story checks out.”

“You’re buying it just like that?”

“You don’t have the diplomatic briefing I do. I know what a member of the noble clan of Asetari looks like, and I was advised personally to give any Asetari refugees high priority.” Rutabrood looks at the bug with orange antennae. “That was an order, wretch.”

Fihra complies. But Awelah’s eyes are on the traitorous pawn who led them here. But it seems she was the only one; they’re taking this moment to slip away from their baneful entourage.

Awelah shouts alarm with her spiracles, but the mentor raises a tarsus.

“They’re getting away!”

“Let them.”

“Aren’t you going after that lying sack of shit?”

“Outside of mission parameters. You and your companion are our concern.”

“They tried to kill me, and will try again.”

“Do you not trust banes of the Windborne Stronghold to defend you?”

Awelah looks to Fihra. The wretch smiles, baring her mandibles.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Awelah and Makuja join the vesperbanes on the road, and journey on — but in the distance, they hear wolves howling.