The Furies are at home in the mirror

[MalfGuy2]

---

Act I

---

---

I resolved to trudge onwards from the oasis, burning a fragment of divine light to keep the mortal disguise going. The pangs and aches of starvation and dehydration dulled the baser senses, but did not prevent me from forcing the way forward.
After another few hills of dust come and go, I find myself looking upon a crumbling sandstone-limestone town wall. Simple iron gate bars jut out every here or there from the entryway, the city council having neglected to replace it for concern of their own coffers;
The guards present, too, were ill-equipped with only soft copper halberds that would nominally fail to penetrate flesh without a strongman’s force – But the guards were so emaciated in their meager pay from that very same council, they could barely keep up with the townsfolk walking around.
I sauntered along the main street for a moment longer, finding myself in the local bazaar. Fine silky fabric decorated the T-junction leading here, and the smell of cured meats and jeweler’s forges carried well here. I stood for a moment to look across the way, only for a merchant’s personal guard to grab at my shoulders and shove me away. The dirty and the broken did not belong here; And so, I was left bereft for the present.
…Until, out of the quiet work of the lonely market, a lone trader had got up the courage to walk to me. ‘The commons do not normally shop here, old man. Why might you be here, of all places?’ His eyes’ preternatural glow betrayed his status as a Spirit Magus – Or at least, a budding novice of as much – And he went on to peer over that tiny spark of power I had held so close.
 
 
In that moment, my existence befuddled him, confounded him so much, he ordered me to be packed away in his personal carriage for the afternoon trip home. He offered the minimum to live, a half-loaf of garlic breadstuffs and a bottle of alcohol; But it was a point of his own self-interest. The merchant Magus wanted to bring me back to his king as some form of social prize, and he began verbally offering more. His carriage we were riding in, his bodyguard retinue, his favorite spellbook; The merchant increasingly made more, yet more offers of the present,
They openly threw away the present…

So they deserved no present.

---

Act II

---

"Your choices don't matter."

A low-pressure gust crests over the volcanoside. Warm air paradoxically falls to the south, fueling the humid jungle's constant growth.
Kindling in a more temperate clime.
Fertile stock in the extreme spaces.
You try to place the voice that came moments before another Domice den crumbles beneath your hunger, but come up clueless.

"I'm not trying to 'violin' you, obviously."

"The only good Monster's a dead Monster."
"Can't have bad luck all the time."

Neither here, nor really there, you float between moments - Important memories sting bitter, deep barbs,
While the chaff fall by the wayside.
A Faeborne, gifted to the highest degree in swordsmanry & championing a modest sliver of the divine spark, falls before you in mock-battle.
The opportunity arises.

"Prime territory."
"But it wouldn't be right."

"And Lore is watching."

The dark urge subsides, staying your fullest blast;
Maybe you merely wanted a taste.
Little technicolour sparks, a miniscule exchange of flowery wisps: Their soul wasn't even close to forfeit, but you possess the tiniest of sacred souvenirs now. Not even enough to power a a single magitech trinket...

---

"I understand. The sword is simply too fast for you."

Another, golden-burning-crown crests the glen.
A familiar blur among the faces. Your vision narrows, and a plethora of barrage spells fire off to give you space to back away.
Backing away to aim.
The last two beams strike their opposing targets true, leaving you with a similar dilemma to before -
Only it was the divine spark's possessor that had brought us to an inch of our lives.

"Fraid you still have a long way to figuring us out."

You try to elaborate further on their point, but all you can do is cough up some of the counterspelled golden magicka and say,
"Merp."
...
Like clockwork, some silly animal sound or other defused whatever little tension was in the air.
He chuckles, causing the crown to bob in place like an overly-glowy Energy Constriction invocation.
Again, you touch upon only the tiniest traces of greatness, teasing at the edges of a fog-of-war.
Some kind of inevitable dread pervades you when you look upon the Nephilim now.
Even still, as he goes back to muse over the Aphrosi crowd,

"...If I keep fighting all of them, and collect a tiny morsel of all of them..."

---

"Down."

A deeper gravitational, centrifugal force threatens to wrap you around the nearest tree.
It could have made more progress if you weren't already flying and willing forth an abjuration of your own.

"Aim true."

Through a narrow opening in time, their own shield of Aether tried to raise up in anticipation of your beam:
But the broken, aging woman didn't look forward to you simply waiting them out.
Even through your terrible vision, you get the distinctive sense that her eyes locked with yours.
A split-second of knowing what came next.

"Damnit, damnit--!"

Another crumb of power flows from one conduit to the other.

"It's still not enough to replicate anything, but at least we know how to time them out more consistently now."

Add it to the reflex counter, and let others know that Aether is getting less effective against you.

---

"...No, Kynodisme."
"It is clear that you are the stronger, more talented at fighting than I."

A pause. A definitive lull in the battle.
Technicolour, flowering aurorae die down in their failed counter-assaults.
Holy Barriers had occluded the sparring arena - As do the Timestream Runes, yet in this instance, you're unable to cast them yet.
A vision? A dream? What portent?
This must have happened before the others. So why is it showing up now?

"You would be just as majestic as our own."

"Thank you, Heir-Sunsets."
It feels foreign to leave your mouth.
Is it really you talking?
...
You fail to offer much in the way of longer sentences but protestation,
"I know you have more power than I. Clearly, you were the better."
The Author offers their own protest.
Some deflecting compliment.
But deep down inside, these memories suddenly link together in a terrible thought pattern, an equally horrible insight.

"Is it fair?"

---

"There ya go, buddy. Eat up."

With every some dozens of thousands of other Monsters absorbed, the ore compels you again.
Austereia 'was' just the mineral version of Aether-touched Arcanium.
Nothing could go wrong from continuously feeding from it.
Right?

"Feed."
"Oh, he's back."

Chalk it up to the sheer instability present in your form.
Maybe this Aether, this divinity stuff isn't so bad an idea.
Even if you're just using it like tiny scraps of tape all over yourself...

"I'm allowed to have an artistic side."

Yes, the art of Beating People Up and Being Beaten Up.
And, evidently, coming up empty on useful ideas for useless amounts of inexplicably useless-but-apparently-powerful things.

---

Act III

---

---

There is nothing.

Only cold, primordial darkness.

Your being, your consciousness ferments in it - No larger than a single grain of chlorophyll.

It is safe here. No grand failures, no impersonal malaise encroach you.

Safe and sound in The Long Quiet.

...

An inordinate amount of time passes.

You feel like if you lay here, you might not ever wake up.

...But what's this? Somewhere in the sore, listless *imagination* around you - A sensation!

---

"I.F.F. ping detected."
"Enemy retreating..."

Like a metal ghost, full of rage and fear.
The clanging noises of your 'mouth' resound against bony skull and hardened sinew.

"Fire at the maintenance panel on the shoulder."
"It will break their guard automatically, no matter how fast they want to go."

Your talent for visual calculus, no matter how flawed, precedes even your existence; Random chance and luck smile at your trajectory,
Cracking open the shell with ease.
Only to be greeted by a horrendous outpour of watercolour blurs,
Both unfamiliar worlds.

"Judgement."

But your malformed feet carry you faster than you can think, dragging you into the wilderness,
An instinctive response to flee firstly and foremostly.

Self-preservation apparently overrode your will to consume,
Just as the leafy-green canopy clashes against autumnal leaves.

---

New Magickal Attunement acquired: Time Magic.