Humanity is, by and large, ruled by hope and doubt. It’s two of the many things they exploited, during the Quiet War. The doubt is what I let it fuel me. I can feel the blood, still wet, dribbling slowly down my face. The fire burning around me as I point the obsidian blade forwards, towards the strange, malformed amalgam of flesh and souls. I finally have it cornered, trapped in a cave whose only exit is the entrance I’ve come through. There’s nowhere left to go. The fire is keeping it at bay due to fear, for the moment. That moment won’t last long now that it’s cornered, though. “Who brought you here?” I ask. It groans, as despite the presence of many souls and vocal cords, it has no capability of speech. If the crafters don’t have that intention when they’re forging the creatures, the creatures aren’t really capable of it. And most crafters, at least before, cared primarily about the flesh mounds being able to kill things and consume souls. It being able to answer would tell me a lot, but I wasn’t really expecting that. Always worth checking, though. Raising my hand, my suit’s formal glove recedes, revealing the blooded bandages. I run the blade of obsidian across my palm, cutting through those bandages and into the flesh. Reopening the wounds. Pressing my palm into the wall of the cave, I let the rippling echo out through the cavern. Rather than drag the creature into the earth, I hold it in place, dragging the earth out to it. Skewered by several dozen spines of rock, the crude construct of violent intent begins to squirm, trying to wrench itself free from the situation. I wish I could draw it into the earth and lay it to rest, but there is more important business on my mind. Because while this has been acting mostly like a feral creature, I don’t recall a fleshforger from out here during the final days of the Quiet War. Meaning unless this migrated across several hundred miles since the Rising concluded with a bang, there’s someone forging anew.
I mutter the incantation and trace my bloody hand across the air and over my eyes. Several points on the struggling monster begin to glow. One at a time, I plunge the cold obsidian into those glowing points, trying to avoid the wandering mouths within the creature. With each one, I poke and prod to find the small statuette used as a soulbinding agent. Once the blade tapped against anything that felt different from the flesh and the teeth, I cut around the object and wrenched it free through the hole. The process is slow. It’s always slow. Seven points. Seven objects that needed to be traced, found, and cut out. All while keeping my intention focused on holding the creature in place. But it would be worth it. The statuettes used in the bindings could tell me a lot about who did it. I don’t bother checking at first. Thinking about that might risk altering my intents, and such alterations could be deadly. I keep my focus on carving out the objects from the amalgamation of flesh. As I wrench the seventh statue out from its seat in the amalgam’s heart, the flesh begins to collapse in on itself. No longer held together with the souls, the flesh is no longer alive. Still stitched together, but like experienced fleshforgers do, the souls do their part in holding the flesh in form, to allow the flesh to adjust itself to the situation. And the souls are no longer bound. Calling on the fire that burns around me, I touch my head to the most head-like head of the amalgamation. And slowly it begins to immolate. “You can rest,” I whisper to the soulless form. I’m not sure if there is anything to it, but it’s useful to remind the dead of how lucky they truly are. Just in case any of the original spirits from the corpses that make up the body of this construct might be upset with the magical cremation taking place.
Even with mystical flames, the burning away of all flesh takes some time. And for that time, I just stand there, staring into the lifeless eyes inside the remaining flesh. Eyes so much like my own. Such a curious things, eyes. And I remain staring at one pair after another until there are no more eyes contained within the flesh. And only once the last bit of dead flesh has become ash do I turn my attention away from the construct. I unwrap my hand, wiping away the blood from my face with the already bloody rag. I then rewrap that hand with the same bandage, tight once more. I’ll replace it next time I wander through an enclave that has spare bandages on offer. Or next time I run into a group with spare, clean rags. Taking a moment to breathe, I let my suit reslide back down my forearm over my hand, once again forming a formal glove to hide the bloodied bandage. With the moment concluded, I look down at the seven small statues, each made with a different material and intent. Gathering them up, I walk out of the cave, so I can examine them in the light.
The carvings are in the old style. A style I’m used to. And it’s done in a well practiced manner. That shouldn’t be concerning, because that should indicate this creature was an old one that survived the end and has been wandering. I think that’s the case, truly, up until I take the obsidian blade’s tip and break the seal on the first totem. The spirits burst free, as they always do, washing over the surroundings. Jean-Paul taught us to do this from afar. But I want all the information. I want to know where it’s from. So I take a calculated risk, and break the seal up close. Let the spirits trapped within wash over me. And the thankful spirits break my hopeful illusion. While the carving and styling is both well practiced and old, the spirits are neither. The spirits remember the Rise. Felt the echo of the implosive explosion that never was. This binding took place afterwards, after the cults were already shattered in the fight in New Orleans. Well afterwards. I continue to break the spirits free, and each gave me the same feeling of thankful hope for their newfound peace. A feeling of hope that washed away my own. If this was created after the cults were broken, it would be recreated now that I cremated it. Which means more poor souls are going to be forced into these jars to animate flesh.
Shoving the now useless statuettes into my bag, I walk over to my Missile, leaned up against the outside of the cavern. I should try to make it back to the enclave before dark. Tell them its safe, for the moment. Maybe even see how people react to the carvings. Starting the motorcycle, I can feel the silent humming of the bike under me. And slowly I begin to make my way back across the plains towards the barely visible walls. The ride is bumpy, but I keep my focus. As I cross the hills, a small crew of people on horses ride up, led by the mayor of the enclave. “Heading back already, wandering stranger?” the mayor asks loudly from horseback.
The man next to the mayor, one of his primary bodyguards chuckles. “Told you he’d be scared off.”
“That’s nothing for him to be embarrassed by,” the woman on the mayor’s right says, “After all, the monsters that haunt us are quite unnatural and worthy of fear.”
I look between the three of them. “Not exactly,” I reply, “Out for a patrol?”
“Not exactly,” the mayor replies with a wry smile.
I nod. “You shouldn’t need to worry anymore,” I say, pulling out one of the statuettes and tossing it to him, “Your problem’s solved.” He recognizes the statuette for what it is. As does the woman.
“That’s great,” the mayor says, in a tone that means the opposite. “We should tell everyone immediately.” he nods to his bodyguard. I begin to ready myself. The bodyguard is faster. I feel some shredding as a couple of balls touch skin on my jaw. But, as a trained fighter would against someone wearing only a nice set of formal clothing, he aimed for the center of mass. I feel the pressure of the shotgun blast push me off my bike. I pray it doesn’t hit anything. When I’m not dead by the time I hit the ground, I feel comfortable knowing it isn’t imploding. Once again, I’m thankful for Jim’s insane friend whom I hated for years. I look down as the suit pushes the pellets out and away, letting them fall into the dirt on the side. I’ll bruise tomorrow, for sure, but nothing worse than that.
I let the suit change into my all black with a red tie outfit, covering my face as well with a motorcycle helmet. Then I sit up in the least natural way I can imagine. “That was a mistake,” I inform the trio. I pull out the obsidian dagger, which I never cleaned of the blood, both mine and the monster’s. “Death doesn’t seem to want me to leave this world yet.” With a flick of my wrist, the obsidian dagger lights aflame, forming a billowing sword of fire. They try to move their horses, but the horses stand mesmerized. It’s hard to not be when witnessing my blade. With a single lunge, the flames slide directly through the bodyguard’s chest, burning his soul out from his body. I turn to the other pair. The amount of blood on the dagger, it should stay aflame for a few minutes. “One of you will get to live. Where did you learn the carving?”
“What?” The mayor spat out. The woman merely glared. So she is behind the creation.
“And why did you forge it?” I ask, knowing the answer. Fear can help give power and monsters are easy to fear. But I need to know whose idea it was.
The mayor looks smugly at me, the woman looks down. The mayor adds, “Why do you care?” So it was his idea and her hand. He deserves death, and she’s the only one I need to learn the information I want. I grab his ankle with my bleeding hand. The suit peels back, pulling back the bandages as well. My blood mingles with his skin, binding itself to him. I begin chanting the old song, and let the spirits do the rest. Open up this mayor’s body to powers beyond the human body’s ability to contain it. And let the spirits do as they see fit. He comes off his horse as my chant continues. Slowly, painstakingly, as though it were the first time using these legs, the mayor’s body stands up. “Ismael,” the spirit says, “This one is unprepared.” I stop the chant. They have a hold now. They don’t need my power anymore. They can simply eat through the mayor’s life and power, until they lose their foothold. And the mayor loses his life.
“Of course he is,” I reply, “You are not getting a true foothold. You should be thankful, that’s saving your life.”
The spirit controlling the mayor’s body looks around, and see’s the mayor’s assistant. “She is better prepared. Who is she?”
I glare at the spirit. “She is my prisoner. Her fate is mine to determine, not yours.” With a sigh, I turn to the last horsewoman. “Apologies for the spirits, they are not always the most tactful,” I begin to talk to the assistant. “My name is Ismael. You will tell me where you learned the soulbinding art, and whether you were also the fleshforger or if there is another in the enclave we must worry about.”
“Helena,” she says looking concerned at the body of the mayor, “And no, I don’t think there’s anyone else.”
“You wouldn’t be lying to me, Helena?” I muse, “Because I meant what I said, you will live. Assuming no more amalgams show up here. But knowing you’re the only one in the enclave, if any more do show up, you would have to be to blame. Right?”
“I guess,” she answers. She doesn’t look at me, stays focused on her former boss dying from possession. “Why didn’t I think of that?” she mutters to herself.
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