Hello friends and lovers!!!!

Welcome to Arc 3!

To Break a Blight Weaver

 

CW:

Spoiler

Lyra POV, Then Tretion POV! Talk with a new headmate. Attacking a headmate and eating them. Mention of past a Sexual Assault.

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“What’s the plan?” Awnya murmurs as I stare at the shadow.

 

“Well… the first thing is to make sure this is a manifestation of the soul, and not the mind.” Tretion replies.

 

I turn so I can keep an eye on both my lovers and the shadow. “Huh?”

 

“It can hear us, correct?”

 

I nod. “A– and see.”

 

Tretion rises then, and moves to one of the closest tables. Takes up some notebooks and quills before moving to sit with us again.

 

I’m lost as to what she’s thinking, but our Fae’s eyes dance with understanding as she whispers. “Ooooh. That’s a good idea.”

 

Tretion shrugs, turns to face the general direction of the shadow she can’t see. “May we ask your name?”

 

The shadow smirks. [Tell her… ‘Your’s first, Half-Brewn.’]

 

I hiss, but… repeat her question. Albeit with a few extra stammers and murmured apology at what seems to be an insult.

 

But our watcher doesn’t seem too upset. Answering politely. “I am Matron Tretion, granddaughter to Detlina.”

 

[A Matron? But I don’t see a brood about.] The shadow quirks an eyebrow. [Did you lose the art of crafting daughters in whatever horrid twisting made you a Matron?]

 

“Was yours so degenerated that basic pleasantries were forgotten?” Our watcher replies to the questions I repeat. “I’ve given you politeness. Offer us it’s like in turn.”

 

The shadow sighs. [It was, but I’ll not have it be said my manners were lacking. I was and am Muphrel, daughter to Phrot. And a past Goddess of Theradas.]

 

I feel my own eyes go wide, and sputter more than usual to get her words out. Expect our Watcher to balk but… she only nods and jots down my words. Awnya purses her lips, but… otherwise seems only… only…

 

[Ah… They’d already put things together.] The shadow smirks while resting her chin on steepled fingers.

 

“Muh!?!” I turn to look between them. Such sudden worry and fear and… and bubbling furious somethings rising up.

 

“It… Was one of multiple possibilities. Many worries about what your consumption of the mantle could mean.” Tretion murmurs. “That… that some past godthings might be imprinted or… or trapped within the mantle once it passes.”

 

“Would explain why they are always such cruel monsters.” Awnya growls. “Getting haunted by those old horrors. Probably even gifted like… old nasty magics too.”

 

Such a tremble rolls through me as… as the last god’s final words flash through my mind.

 

“Wonderful.” They hissed, voice a small and almost singular thing. “Such a delight. Let’s hope they are kinder to you than they will be to me. I’d hate for you to choke on them, little Fae.”

 

My eyes drifted open, fresh and healed from the venom that melted them. Just as one of their hands drifted up, cupping my cheek as they whispered so softly. “Can’t wait to… to dance with you ag–”

 

But in a flash of sudden rage one of my Naranggas snatched up my discarded soul tearing blade and slammed it down into the god’s heart and soul. Splitting and Reaving them from the Dream.

 

“F– Fuuur– Furtho– nois.” I growl.

 

The shadow’s laugh rolls through everything within and without me. [Oh… She might claw her way up from the muck. But… Not sure it’ll be anytime soon. Lots of others have scores to settle now that she’s just another shadow.]

 

I jerk to stare. “Wh– where?”

 

[Where we all go till the flame rekindles.] She shrugs. [Fumbling and clawing in the darkness. Lost as they try to remember themselves.]

 

I almost just ask another question, but our watcher lays a hand on my arm. A reminder to convey this conversation. I do, and it’s her who asks for us, “How’re you the first to arise then?”

 

Muphrel smirks and wiggles her head noodles. [Luck, and… I knew what to look for.]

 

“How many more could bubble up?” Awnya asks next.

 

[Older ones, like me, have farther to go but… more experience. While newer ones can sometimes slip by and get a foothold. I’ve no idea how many swim in that pit.]

 

A pause, and then Tretion lays out the question that is making her tendrils wiggle and children ripple in worry. “How much of a threat are you all to Lyra? What will they want? What do you want?”

The shadow of a long dead godthing smirks. [Were I you, I’d be more worried about myself. This little monster is quite the–]

 

I… I don’t know what about that word from her lips does it, but next thing I know I am leaping across the floor, writhing my seabed of a soul into… into…

 

Into a maw of death.

 

Amwella suddenly the jaws of some great beast.

 

Muphrel doesn’t even get the chance to move. Each tendril becomes a twisting nonsense shape of razor sharp fury as I descend on her. I only see a whisper of sudden surprise and fear as I just… engulf her. Like a whirlpool her everything seems tied to me. Caught in some great swirl that she can only hope to paddle at the edges of, but never escape.

 

A Crunch and a munch, and my soul gulps her away.

 

But there’s no euphoria from it. No thrum of warmth and life and… and wonderful dead emotions that should come from a feast. Just my own hissing thrumming anger as my soul slowly shifts back into an only slightly agitated seabed.

 

“Beloved?” Tretion whispers. “Are… is she…?”

 

“G– gone. N– nnn– nn– not.” Squeeze my eyes shut as… as I try to force out. “M– mm– mmmm– monster.”

 

A pause, and Awnya lets out such a wonderful laugh. And I jerk back to see her moving to stand. Struggles with the new weight on her soul for a few steps, but otherwise just… comes right up and sweeps me into such a hug. “No. No you are not. Good girl.”

 

Tretion follows close behind, soul and head tendrils wriggling in exasperation. “That… No. Awnya’s correct. If this strange spirit claimed you monster she was gravely mistaken, and incredibly foolish. Both in her observations and in invoking your anger.”

 

“And… Dreamer’s Tits if they can just be slapped back into whatever muck they came from then… why not? Especially if they mean to hurt you.”

 

Tretion wraps her everything about us, and her Amwella thrums in worry. “I… I worry it might not be so simple. Or there may be… I’m not sure. Reactions to it.”

 

“Like…?” Awnya prompts.

 

Tretion huffs. “Just… Let me look into it a bit more. Ask someone I think might be able to give some advice or context.”

 

“Muh?” I turn up to look at her.

 

Who else could even hope to understand this? Much less give advice!?!

 

“Just… I’ve been asked to keep this a secret. Would rather make sure she’s comfortable with me sharing this with you both after questioning her.”

 

“Oke.” I quickly agree, then pull back to look between them “K– keep o– our ch– children s– safe? F– for now?”

 

They both assure me with nothing but eager delight that brings such tears to my eyes. Causes me to hug and snuggle close again while reaching out to encompass us all with my big mess of a soul.

 

*     *     *

 

I gave up trying to count just how many little soul passengers my Bound Beloved carried with her back to the manor. Not because they are without number, but due to the fact that they are difficult to focus on for any length of time. Forms are always shifting and changing and… and even when sleeping some invisible tide seems to push and pull them all about.

 

For weeks I concluded it was just… my broken Amwella sight. A thing that has never worked right since I died all those years ago. But eventually I had the good sense to ask Awnya to try, and even Lyra herself when our Fae had worse luck than me.

 

Neither could give me a good count but… at least a dozen was our final conclusion for the number of children resting in the care of Our Beloved Bound.

 

I have to stop at that. Take more time than I’d like to steady my mind and soul as fingers drift up to touch the renewed binding. Feel… well sharing Amwella dances with our Fae always leaves a soul thrumming more than it was before, and Awnya told me of the songs she’s enjoyed weaving about and through me.

 

“A sign to anyone with ears to hear that you are mine.” She’d laughed. “Not… not like in a possessive way. Feel free to enjoy Nelops and anyone else’s company. This… hm… I’m not sure if It can be explained well without the Fae song. Is almost more like…”

 

But I understood quickly, and shushed her with such a dizzying kiss.

 

And now… I have not just an angry scar to remind me of my returned lover, but a thrumming from deep within I can only barely understand. A thing that draws our… our…

 

Our children.

 

I can’t help but gasp and need to steady myself against a wall as they draw closer. Sleepily drawn to the sudden delighted burst in my soul for them. I’ve… Lyra’s let them lay close before but… but it’s never been this many and it was always with a subtle melody of temporary affections.

 

But this mark, this ‘Dreamer’s Lamentation’... It marks them as mine too.

 

A mother to them, Always and Forever. To… to raise them like our own mothers never did or could. In any way they might grow from this current state. To keep them safe from any and all who may harm them. Even from the threats that seem to rise from scars their mother bears.

 

I take a steadying breath, and continue moving for the mother I will not let them lose.

 

Lyra’s auditory experiences that occasionally seemed to include vague visual aspects has grown to include full sentient projects. One possibly laden with details and names and personalities. While that could narrow this down to one a couple concrete things that I can postulate… none of them warm my heart or give me hope that this will be easy for her to endure.

 

If this is a symptom of trauma, either mind or soul or both, it has a high chance of taking years to settle. If at all.

 

Or… maybe this is soul feasting addiction. Lyra shows none of the recorded signs but… even the journals I’d found spoke of how unique each case was. Each drinker of Amwella bearing symptoms more akin to a curse or… or almost sentient fury in their pains. And if my beloved still suffered those Waking Nightmares then… This would be the easy and most likely answer.

 

But she insists that none of those have touched her mind for years. Not since that first night back with Thendra. And while she avoided discussing the… what the horrid woman’s sexual assault that night entailed, it didn’t seem to involve anything that explains their ending. So my thoughts are that the Blighted Sea might have cleansed her but… she insisted that she had another couple before Thendra ‘cured’ her.

 

She… I think she’s keeping something from us. A detail of that night. But, these only arose after she consumed the Godthing of Theradas. So… it can wait.

 

Regardless. My path is clear. No matter the root of this. Lyra will not just survive, she will find all manner of happiness no matter the costs. I will not lose her again to lonely misery and horrid sorrows.

 

So now I make my way through the manor. Leaving my Beloveds Bound to return to our chambers while I gather information. Only signaling to the soul I mean to visit when I stand without her home within one of the smaller communities main rooms that I need to speak with them about an incredibly urgent matter.

 

I hate to disturb her, especially after what the manor and Awnya conveyed happened but… She’d honestly insist I not delay. Might even grant her some manner of peace at the chance to aid in this.

 

My duenna’s door opens with an almost rushed clicking noise, and Raska nearly stumbles out into me.

 

“M- matron Tretion!?!” She stammers. Hair all disheveled and flame dancing in such odd patterns as strange hues glimmer through, only just pulling on what seems to be a loose tunic. “I… I’m sorry I–”

 

I raise a hand, “You’re fine, duenna Raska. I called you from your personal time. This is… not within normal workings for us.”

 

“I… no. But… The manor communicated urgency. Wh– What can I help you with?” She huffs and hesitates in the door when I don’t move, Sparkflame eyes dancing over my soul and…

 

Our children that still nuzzle within. Their comfortable delight literally acts as a cool balm that keeps my mind from dipping into dull panic.

 

“It’s a personal emergency, but… depending on what advice you can give me and future developments it could become more than that.”

 

“Oh… um… Alright. What do you need?”

 

“It involves me asking about some things you requested I keep private.” I elaborate as she flounders. “And I’d like to have this discussion where you are most comfortable and none others can overhear.”

 

“Oh that’s…”

 

And then I become aware of a second person hovering just inside. No Amwella for my senses to pick up quickly. Well… at least not a normal core of soulflame.

 

One of Raska’s closest and more interesting companions. A being of liquid grace and a form composed entirely of a type of… of strange melted substance that can interact with the physical and Amwella parts of the Rifts.

 

“Greetings, Matron Tretion.” She announces, and moves up to give me a slight bow.

 

“Lady Wren, was it?” I greet back. “I apologize for pulling Raska away this evening.”

 

She nods, but otherwise remains still and silent. Unreadable mostly but… I sense a tension that wasn’t there last we spoke and I welcomed her to my manor.

 

“Alright, let’s–” Raska starts to speak while moving to leave her home.

 

“Is this about Lyra?” Wren cuts off her Everflame.

 

Raska winces while I debate… but no. This could be perfect, actually.

 

“Yes, in fact it is.” I reply easily. “And… Some advice duenna Raska may be able to provide on this subject could aid her greatly.”

 

“Why me specifically?” The Everflame asks.

 

“Put simply and delicately, I would like to inquire about the nature of your Spark.”

 

A beat, then she nods. “Wren knows basically everything, we can talk here if that’s okay for you?”

 

I actually let out what I hope to be an obvious show of relief. “Wonderful, actually. A close companion's outside opinions might also be invaluable. If you are willing to offer it.”

 

Wren pauses, seems to ripple for a second. “Of course. Please, come in.”

 

 

 

 

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