“The Gods made our world to be their hunting ground. This we all know.
There is no suffering in the Spire of Heaven, where the Deiuos dwell. There is no pain, no hunger, no fear of death.
Nor is there challenge, excitement or growth.
Thus the Deiuos made Pangaea, land on which to walk. They made people like us, creatures of flesh and spirit with which to talk. They made fearsome beasts to chase in glorious hunts.
So you see, the hunt is the holiest of rites! Why then do you fear, little spark? Be generous, and the gift of your slaughter shall honor the Gods themselves...!"
Arjasoot drew their sword, a straight leaf of bronze, and made three cuts:
Their first cut sliced through the spear-shaft the Bog Hunter had buried in their gut.
Their second cut severed the Bog Hunter’s filthy, wart-stained hands.
Their third, most gentle cut carved through the Bog-Hunter’s throat, silencing their oily words at the source.
The Bog-Hunter’s head flew off their shoulders in a spray of filth and peat. It landed in the bog-waters with a loud plop and sank; the rest of their mossy body soon followed, mud returning to mud.
Arjasoot called forth inner flame, the tips of their fingers glowing like candles, and burned away the slime clinging to their blade. "A child of Smoke," they told the dead Bog-Hunter, "does not grant the wishes of the ravenous."
Mollusk horns echoed in the distance – loud drones followed by a chorus of shrieks. Arjasoot turned and narrowed their eyes. The mist veiled everything in this Gods-blasted swamp, but...there: they could see shapes moving through the fog. More Bog-Hunters, riding on the backs of their Gorgons, brandishing grey bone darts in their many hands.
As they ran, Arjasoot clenched their teeth and ripped the spear-head free from their gut. A loud groan slipped past the gaps of their teeth. Threads of smoke and spark gushed from the gap in Arjasoot’s ashen chest, dissipating into the foggy air.
“Ah!” Arjasoot tossed the spearhead aside, a thousand foul profanities brimming at their lips. They were faced with a quandary: keep their true feelings bottled up, or voice their outrage and give their exact position away?
The Smoke Spirit decided to compromise.
“Salt-spawned, slither-brained pieces of filth,” the Arjasoot whispered under their breath. “How dare you smite a child of Glass?” They fumbled with their shoulder bag and pulled out a round brass pot, engraved with slender glyphs of warmth and safe travel. “A curse on you all, illiterate lickspittles of Foam…!” Their fingers trembled: a handful of embers spilled from the pot’s rim, sizzling as they vanished into the murk. “May the Deiuos…”
A puff of smoke escape from the hole in Arjasoot’s side, followed by a groan from their lips. The Smoke Spirit clutched their fire pot close and breathed deep, drinking in the sweet, fresh threads of smoke that wafted from its depths. Slowly, the hole in their chest closed up, smoke weaving together into new flesh.
From behind their back, the hunter shrieks grew in volume.
Arjasoot turned and ran, clutching their pot of embers as they wadded through the swamp mud. "Where was I?” They whispered to themselves. “Right. Deiuos.” They cleared their throat. “Maybe the Deiuos wither your tongues in your mouth, splinter your many fingers, shrivel up your twenty eyes…”
Bog mud clung to Arjasoot’s legs, cold and thick, dragging the strength from every step they took. Their kilt and bark-cloth sash were caked with slime, brushing roughly against their thighs with each step they took. “And may the Deiuos curse this wretched stretch of Bog too!” Arjasoot croaked, raising their voice a touch. “May this filth grow dry and dead like the Crimson Wastes…!”
A whistle in the air. A bone javelin flew past Arjasoot’s ear, embedding itself in one of the giant swamp ferns.
“Nevermind curses”, Arjasoot declared, ducking their head down and quickening their strides through the clinging muck. “If you’re listening, Kindly Deiuos, could you give me a hand? I know I haven’t made offerings in a while…”
Another whistle. Another javelin that missed Arjasoot’s pointed ear by a mere inch.
“…and I know I brought this on myself. But I was told to run! They want me to live! So please!”
Arjasoot’s toes bumped into a solid rock. The Spirit’s eyes smoldered with light, their vision coming back into focus. They saw a long shelf of rock, which led to an arid stretch of land. With shrubs.
Arjasoot’s mouth went dry. They crawled and clawed their way onto the shelf of land, straining their ash-formed sinews to the brink. They left a trail of slime and charcoal stains as they crawled, carrying their fire pot closer and closer to the dry, desiccated shrubs.
Just a little further, they thought, I can feast on a scrumptious blaze! The Deiuos love me after all!
Three bone darts sank into the small of their back. Arjasoot stumbled. Two more Bog-Hunter darts pierced their sword arm, tearing it from their body in a gush of smoke. Their sword clattered to the ground, as did their brass pot, coals spilling from its brim as it rolled out of reach.
Arjasoot collapsed, their smoke-formed flesh unraveling, withdrawing into the cinder-filled depths of their brass pot, there to hibernate and die in darkness as the last embers of their being went cold.
The hunting horns blared loudly in their ears, the Bog-Hunters rejoicing as they ran their prey down.
“Please…” Arjasoot murmured, already feeling their lips start to dissolve. “Deiuos…” They clawed at the ground with their one remaining hand. They looked up with their fading eyes and saw a hazy, two-legged shape drawing near, a bright moon-blade burning in their hands.
“Please,” they whispered to the approaching creature. “They told me to live…”
#
Fwoosh.
Arjasoot burst back to life, rising from their brass pot in a shower of sparks. They drank in the flames and warmth and acrid smoke, rebuilding their body grander than before.
More ash-white hair tied in coiled knots! Plump cheeks, with which to better smile! More slender fingers, six on each hand to better grip a sword! More sculpted muscles and folds of fat! A pair of eyes that gleamed a beautiful ember-orange!
They grew feet with which to touch the ground. They raised their hands towards the sun, drinking in the delicious golden light, joy and love for life warming their entire being…
“Oh!” The person standing by their side exclaimed. “So you are a Smoke Spirit!”
“Aiee!” Arjasoot sprang back, drifting through the air and landing like a bird on a nearby rock. “Who goes there?” They squinted with their half-formed eyes, trying to make out the blurry, bipedal figure before them. “Name yourself!”
“What are you doing here, so far from the Hearth Vale?” The stranger asked, running a rag along the length of their long, curved, blade. “I thought your people didn’t like to travel.”
Arjasoot felt a westward breeze blow through them, a chilly reminder that they were naked, weaponless, and short on fire-power. A quick scan of their surroundings, even with their blurred vision, was just as disheartening: fields of bright green moss, with the occasional fern and jagged sandstone pillars looming like a tree. No water to drown them, Deiuos be praised...but the vegetarian would hard to ignite if it came to a scuffle.
Absent better options, Arjasoot fell back on the sole asset they had in bulk: sheer bravado.
“Brigand,” they said, puffing out their chest and standing tall. “Know that I am scion to the Tribe of Glass, Free Blade of the Ancient Guard, scholar of the Copper Fern Mysteries. I am Arjasoot of the Vale, a spirit not to be trifled with!”
“Lovely titles,” the stranger said, sounding more amused than anything. “I had my own share of epithets before…well, that was the past.” They tossed their rag aside and rested their sword – an inward-curved, two-handed Rhomphaia – against their shoulder. “Call me Varayana if you wish. Call me mercenary if you must. But I’m no brigand, and no enemy of yours.”
“Varayana, is it?” Arjasoot rubbed at their eyes, kneading them into a better shape, and took another look at the mysterious stranger, “Ah!” They said as they glimpsed Varayana’s earthy skin and wine-colored hair. “You’re a human!”
Varayana looked down at their finely manicured and sword-scarred hands. “Am I? Hadn’t noticed.”
Arjasoot examined the human carefully, taking special note of the long-lashed eyes and ruby lips behind their veil of copper links, and the rounded breasts beneath their checkerboard-pattern dress and cuirass of bone tiles. “And you’re the…woman kind of human?”
Varayana nodded. “A not unreasonable assumption.”
Arjasoot thought back to the many books they’d read about human lore and recalled a recurring claim. “Oh! Should I be wearing clothes right now?” They looked down at their decidedly naked form. “I’ve read that your kind have taboos about these things…”
As Arjasoot scanned their surrounding for their missing clothes, they suddenly became aware they were surrounded by corpses – six Bog-Hunter corpses half-melted into puddles of brown-green goop, the bone darts and coral spears in their hands the only proof they were once more than peat and mud.
And there, on the other side of the sandy clearing, stood Varayana, the long hilt and curved fang of her Rhomphaia stained with soil despite her best efforts to clean it.
“Great Deiuos,” Arjasoot whispered. “Did you…?”
“It wasn’t as impressive as you think,” Varayana muttered, fidgeting where she stood. “I had the element of surprise, and well…” She bent down and lifted a bundle of bog-drenched fabric. “Here. Your clothes, sword, and pouches. If I was a Brigand, I wouldn’t be handing these back, now would I?”
Arjasoot accepted the bundle, inclining their head in gratitude. “It seems I’m in your debt, Varayana.” They snatched up their brass fire-pot from the ground as well, taking a look inside: a small blaze burned merrily in the pot, fed with a handful of dried moss and twigs. “Twice over in fact. If there’s anything this humble Smoke Spirit can do to repay you…!”
“No.”
Arjasoot blinked. “Pardon?”
“There’s no debt between us,” Varayana said curtly, sliding their Rhomphaia blade back into the broad, box-like sheathe by their hip. “I had my own reasons for killing those Bog-Hunters, and my own reasons for rekindling your flame.” They picked up their own bag, a bindle of faded red linen, and slung it over their shoulder. “Go free and wander where you will, Arjasoot of the Vale. Don’t let me keep you from your goals.”
Arjasoot felt a strange mixture of relief and hurt as Varayana turned to walk away. Like it or not, she had hit the nail on the head: they did have a mission to complete, and no time to waste repaying a debt to a human. And yet…
“Did I do something wrong?” Arjasoot asked, cradling their pot and bundle of mud-stained things close to their chest. “Say something to offend you?”
Varayana halted mid-stride. “What? No, not at all. Did I say something wrong?”
Arjasoot came to a decision. “How much for me to hire you?” They blurted out.
“Eh?”
“You’re a mercenary, right? You said so yourself.” Arjasoot knelt and started fishing through their bundle of belongings, searching for two specific items of theirs. “What do people hire you for?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Varayana turned back around and let their bag drop to the ground. “Well. I’m mostly hired to slay monsters. Behemoths, mindless spirits, bandits. Sometimes I escort caravans…”
“Perfect!” Arjasoot exclaimed. “I shall hire you as an escort. A guide too, if possible!” They slipped on their bog-stained kilt, then buckled on their sword belt, a leather loop studded with faceted rubies and polished red garnet. “I can pay your handsomely, of course! A gem a day for as long as you’re willing to work!”
“A kind offer,” Varayana mused, “but you should know I’m great as far as traveling companions go…”
“And once I return to the Hearth Vale with the Godcarver in hand, my people will shower us both with a king’s ransom!” Arjasoot smiled beatifically, imagining their triumphant march down the streets of the old Caldera: the golden garlands draped around their neck, the rejoicing of their fellow Smoke Spirits, the dismay of their enemies as they were banished back to the sea…
“You’re searching for the Godcarver?” Silently, without even stirring a breeze, Varayana had closed the gap between her and Arjasoot and now stared into the Smoke Spirit’s eyes with a frightful intensity. “The Godcarver? Do you even know if that thing’s real?”
Varayana’s words, and her gaze, cut deeply into the heart of Arjasoot’s doubts and fears, filling their mind with questions that should never have been asked.
Was I sent off to die?
Was I sent off so everyone else could die?
A fresh breeze blew in from the west, weaving its way through the tooth-like pillars of stone that surrounded their little clearing. Arjasoot shivered as the wind passed through them, and shifted their arm to shield the fire in their pot. Goosebumps rose on Varayana’s bare skin, stirring her hair and knee-length dress.
To burden this human with their worries would be disgraceful, Arjasoot decided. And so they gave her a gallant, wide-toothed smile instead.
“I maybe well be foolish to seek the Godcarver,” they confessed. “But some dreams are precious enough to be worth the cost of foolishness.”
Varayana slowly and nodded. “A bit simplistic, as far as philosophies go,” But you’re right.” More loudly, and with a hint of surprise in their tone: “You’re right. What is hope, but just another curse?”
“Curses? What do curses have to do with anything?”
Varayana took a step back, giving the Smoke Spirit some space."Tell me, Arjasoot: have you ever heard of Wedwel Dom, City of Springs?"
A shudder ran through Arjasoot’s flame. “Do not speak that place’s name,” they said, crooking their fingers into a ward against evil. “It’s a foul citadel of darkness and moisture.”
“Really?” Varayana said, ruby lips curling up in a faint smirk. “Who told you that?”
“My people speak of it in whispers.” Arjasoot intoned. ”A cruel edifice rising from stagnant water, whose sodden denizens study blasphemous secrets wrung from the infernal depths.”
“Are you sure your people have their facts straight?” Varayana asked.
Arjasoot tilted their head to the side. “Reasonably so. Why do you ask?”
Varayana’s devilish smirk deepened. “Well. I grew up in Wedwel Dom.”
“You did?” Arjasoot scrambled for something witty to say, something that would make them seem like less of an utter idiot. “What was it like growing up there?”
“It was – is – lovely,” Varayana told them. “It had –has– wonderful people, beautiful temples, and Holy Archives filled with books on every topic.” She paused for emphasis. “Every topic.”
Arjasoot felt their heart-flame surge with a warmth they hadn’t felt for weeks. “Even topics like ancient artifacts?”
“You’ve guessed at part of my deal. I lead you to Wedwel Dom and tell you where to find the books on artifacts and sacred weapons. If anyone’s found more than rumors about this Godcarver of yours, it’ll be written there.” Varayana nodded at Arjasoot’s jeweled sword-belt. “And keep your shiny trinkets. I don’t want them.”
Arjasoot felt their heart-flame surge with a sudden elation “You would guide me there for nothing? Truly?”
Varayana shook her head. “Not for nothing, Smoke Spirit. Here’s the rest of our deal: when we reach Wedwel Dom, you’ll pay me back by breaking into the heart of the Archives and crossing my name out of the Book of Curses.”
For a moment, Arjasoot was disappointed. Then the rest of what Varayana said sank home. “The Book of Curses? Then when you talked about Hope being another Curse…”
Varayana nodded and took a deep breath, as if gathering herself to do something strenuous. “I am cursed” she confessed. “And not the minor curse of a dabbling witch or small. I’ve been truly cursed by the Deiuos themselves.”
“…oh,” Arjasoot said. “Oh!” They looked Varayana up and down, seeing her in a new light. Her strange reserve, her eagerness for solitude…and could the iron chains woven around her waist be part of her condition too? “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough that I’m surprised we’re both still alive,” Varayana clarified, resting a hand on the long hilt of their sheathed sword. “People near me tend to die horrible deaths, you see.”