A Blade and Her Witch

It Begins Softly (Blade)

Content Warnings:

Borazag is a proud chitin-eater, feasting on the carapaces of his foes and protecting his tribe from any who would invade the Archives they call home. Unfortunately for this dumbshit, he's nothing more than just semi-intelligent sets of graspers, compound eyes, and an absolutely infuriating sense of taste-touch-sound through the set of odd spiral antennas on his head. I would have drained his Ousia to Manifest my human form moons ago, but tragically, even draining him to death would only be enough for a few dozen heartbeats before I would require a new mobility aid. Instead, I suffer through his use, hoarding what Ousia I can from those he kills with me in hopes of — something.  

I desperately want something else, another serial killer, or Warlord, even a Denizen would be better than being stuck in a basement level archive with Borazag. 

I refuse to even attempt to talk to someone who treats books as building material and tried to use me to itch his joints! He learned quickly the only time he did that though. Started draining his Physis fast and hard, not enough to kill but he collapsed and didn't touch me again for seven Driftdreams.  

Bitches love respect, and I'll be a bitch to get it, even from whatever the hell Borazag is, the weird cannibal beast.

A messenger approaches Borazag from one of the numerous tunnels they've dug into the rock around the Archive proper, chittering about some impending invasion, likely from a rival clan of these awful insectoids. I rouse with the influx of new information, so rare these moons.

Please let it be something with the ability to read. 

There's something deeply ironic about how despite being trapped in an Archive, I miss books most of all. An age ago, a Bondsmith won the right to handle me from the hands I was using and it wasn't until she held my length that I realized that the old bat was blind. BLIND! What’s the point of subjecting myself to an inferior mobility aid when there are perfectly functioning ones all around that I could just barely sense with my Ousia‽ Tragically, she did not take kindly to my opinion on the matter and left me in a storeroom to collect dust where I wasn't found for almost four moons. Me, a Blade five meters long, crafted from the purest iron. How dare she reject me when she's clearly the inferior one! Stupid decrepit rotting meatbag.

The idiot grasps my shaft without even cleaning the graspers and sends a squad to investigate. I’ve learned from generations spent with these things that they'll either come back victorious or not at all. This entire tribe is too proud to ever retreat, and if they didn't breed so disgustingly quickly they would have died out because of that before ever tunneling into the Archive and finding me. 

I adjust my form, consuming the slightest smidge of my Ousia to hone my edge to razor-sharpness and add a bit more weight to my pommel. Borazag has a tendency to aim too low with me, and it is unacceptable to have my point driven into anything other than the flesh of a target, especially not shit-brick tiles.

Imagine taking the impurity that a body rejects and using it to build something designed to outlive them. Disgusting. Unacceptable. 

My pommel is slammed into the gross bricks below Borazag's feet as he puts his weight on me to stand. I consider biting at his Physis for that but… there are other things to feast on in these tunnels. I don't truly hunger but at times it seems like it would be nice to experience something inherent, something that isn't filtered through another, something mine, as personal as a fatal blow.

Squad's already dead. I can taste the miasma of rotting Ousia that flows through the halls long before the scout reported that the invasion is advancing. Doesn't even offer numbers or composition, why did I ever bother wasting my time learning this blighted language? It’s SUCH an ugly thing. 

*    *    *

We’ve been waiting for… a while now. Not a full sleep cycle for Borazag but long enough for a stupid thought to bubble up.

I miss Home. 

And like some stupid rotting sack of meat, I chase that odd thought. Too bored to consider the pain it will bring. 

What is home to a Weapon aside from the battlefield? I belong to no one, I exist to… to… 

I feel myself slipping into existential dread once more. Flashes of silver-gray before horrid pain. So much mewling and sobbing as girls I think I care about lay still and dead. More pain follows, and then I cry out as I realize it’s my turn to die…

I don't know how long I drift in my personal abyss divorced from the outside world, drowning in wretched sensations as potent as the bite of any spell. Which is so stupid. I’m not supposed to feel this way! Not supposed to wallow in the weakness of rotting flesh! Why do I even have these memories‽ Those girls were simply the Ousia needed to forge me, I don't even know their names. Mere fuel for the fire to melt iron to a pure unbreakable form of perfect death and hunger.

I am abruptly torn free of my pitiful dredging by the sudden explosive taste of… Blue? and find myself captivated by the taste-sound of blue bubbles clashing against Borazag's Ousia. Looking through his compound eyes I see Her. 

My Newest Victim!

A whirling wellspring of deliciously flavored Ousia! The perfect feast to drive off the wretched memories for at least another cycle!

Yet Borazag is not capable of winning this fight. Not without my help and a generous investment from my own wellspring. The things I do for a good meal.

Thanks SO much for reading this SUPER fun collaborative project we is doing with Ruby, Blade of Dusk

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Aaaaaaaaaaaand check our our (Nevarii & Els') other works below!!!

Lamentations of The Dead Dreamer

Sun Spoken Turn