Towards the Golden Throne (Warhammer 40k Xianxia)

Focus. You need to focus. The Inquisitor… Nazauth Karkalla is dying, and you cannot afford to waste time on your own shock or needless pity, not when he might yet share some manner of wisdom in his last moments. Not while you might yet remember him for those he loves.

"These… people," Monsters, "what is it they plan? If I am to stop them, I must know."

Flayed and impaled, Karkalla yet manages to laugh, a brief spasm of amusement that shakes his broken frame and pulls his lips back in agony.

"Two… two heads. Two plans," he gasps, grinning through tightly clenched teeth, eyes burning as he looks at you, "Always the way. Heretics, villains, they're never unified. Always scheming, against us, against each other. Vulpa, Markus Vulpa, the Jackal… a small man. Petty, deluded fool. Coin and pleasure, that was his goal, stolen beasts and forbidden treasures for those of wealth and power. Came here to bargain, to scheme, to take commissions. I followed. Thought I could catch him, catch his clients, all at once."

You nod soberly. Such men are known to you, by reputation if not by face. The Omnissiah Igvita has no need of middlemen or contractors, possessing the wealth and power to seek out what marvels and secrets of the universe they desire without such external aid, but there are a thousand, thousand lesser sects that are not so well supplied or possessed of such scruples. Men like the Jackal - like Vulpa, though the human name sounds wrong when applied to a beast such as him - exist to meet those needs. A smuggler, a bounty hunter, a provider of rare beasts and precious reagents… he comes to an old and decrepit place like this with merchandise in tow, ready to strike deals with the hungry and the mad far from the Imperium's watchful eye. That must be where you are, some frontier outpost or neutral ground.

"And the other?" You ask, averting your eyes from the ruin of the Inquisitor's flesh. Not that the rest of the hospital pod offers much better, between the flayed skin and the blood-splattered trophies. "The man in the Heron mask?"

"He is a liar!" Karkalla hisses, thrashing on his bed, flesh tearing around the myriad impaling wounds that hold him in place. The Inquisitor struggles for a moment, writhing in agony, then stills as control asserts itself once more. "I thought… it does not matter. He did this to me. Said I would be bait. He's luring it out, teasing it with old blood, smoking out the lair. He wants it… dead or bound or simply gone, he wants it, that spirit…"

…if the Widower has his way we will all drown in black hells uncounted, so perhaps that might serve as a basis for our pact…

"The Widower…" you whisper, and despite his fervour, Karkalla's eyes snap to you, gleaming with suspicion. You hold his gaze for a moment. "The Heron-mask mentioned the name. He seemed to think it a threat to this world. To all of us."

"Hah. Yes. A threat," Karkalla chokes for a moment, bloody froth leaking from the corner of his ruined mouth, "Very much so. The Widower is a spirit, bound and enslaved. A guardian, a mediator, an executioner. Bound here generations ago, keep the place safe, keep it running. The old masters are dead now, their line extinguished. The Widower rattles its chains, strains against them. If it gets free… hah. Everyone gets what they deserve."

You swallow thickly. A spirit, bound in service… you have heard of such things, but it was never a focus of your schooling. The Thousand Scars sect dealt in such things, but the Igvita had no need to, not as a Sect. It would have been improper for a Young Mistress to dabble so far afield, or else taken as a sign of her intentions come the day of her inheritance, and you… damn you for a fool, for neglecting the knowledge that could help you now.

"Is it a daemon?" You ask, keeping yourself as calm as possible, your eyes sliding away from Karkalla's ruined flesh once more. This time you see something more interesting - a locker, a sealed crate pushed against the far wall, blood splattered but intact and recently opened. Slowly, you make your way around the perimeter of the charnel house towards it.

"A daemon? No, no. Not yet. Maybe not ever," the Inquisitor wheezes, following you with his eyes. "It was bound too long. Took a name, a face, a duty. No daemon is dutiful. No daemon can be trusted, but the Widower can. Or it could. The Heron wants it, thinks he can have it, use it. Fools listen to him, to their False Prophet. He uses them just the same. A monster like that, with the Widower at hand… you must stop him. You must."

Earlier, that had been a command. Now it is a quiet wheeze, a plea from a man without the strength to see it done himself. Karkalla is no longer looking at you, his eyes half-closed, his breathing laboured and growing slower. He is dying. You suspect his wounds were always mortal, and only the attention of the Heretek's ruinous Arts kept his ravaged body alive. Survival turned into a torment, salvation wielded as a weapon. Even if you could somehow prolong his life, you do not think you would. It would be too cruel.

"Do you have… any last words?" You say, wondering what rites this man from the stars might want observed, who could be waiting for him out there in vain. "A message, to be passed along when I depart?"

"Seek the White Scholar… one of mine, escaped the attack, still out there," Nazauth Karkalla gasps, his voice softer now, almost too quiet to hear, "Ninth stack of Prol, the passphrase, he will answer emptiness if it is safe… burn my body, cannot risk it… May the Emperor make you a vessel of his wrath…"

The Inquisitor falls still then. His eyes close, his breathing stops, the machines wired into his flesh beep in shrill alarm. You close your eyes and bow your head in silent respect. No fear, even at the last; only duty and as many weapons as he could grant you. It was not a good death, something so slow and torturous could never be good, but… if and when your time comes, you hope you can display even a shadow of his valour. For now, duty will have to suffice.

The locker is sealed by a passcode, but you are Mechanicus, and within moments you override the security and have the sealed casket opened. As you half suspected, within are what can only be trophies and other items of interest taken from the Inquisitor and his team when they fell upon the battlefield. You set aside the weapons and the small personal mementos, for neither are of any use to you, but there is a blast-weave smock that you pull over your head with a silent prayer of thanks and a pair of old combat boots only one size too large for your feet. Together they make you look like an orphan waif borrowing a soldier's spare clothes, but the constant effort of blurring your form with the Radiant Aegis was growing too much even for you and this is the lesser of two evils. Doubtless you can find better clothing in time, something more suited to your station.

There are also data-slates, a series of parchment strips inked with prayers and a small leather-bound diary, all of which you hesitate over before securing in a cloth bundle and slinging over one shoulder. To go through an Inquisitior's personal records seems a deeply foolish idea, but so too does leaving them here for anyone else to find, and you cannot bring yourself to destroy them out of hand. Then, with the formalities attended to, you call the heart of a star to hand and commit this den of horrors to the flame.

"Rest now, Nazauth Karkalla," you murmur, turning your back on the ruin of what was once a loyal servant of your god, "and know that I will finish what you have begun."

The menials are waiting for you outside, staring at the Inquistor's funeral pyre with some concern until they see you emerge unharmed from amid the flames. You can see they have made good use of their time, seizing firearms and flak armour from the bodies of the slain and gathering up what rations and other supplies they can into old canvas bags carried by the strongest among them. There is one less now than there was before, a casualty you did not even notice and a name you never thought to learn, but you push down the brief surge of feeling and nod to them in silent respect. They fought at your side and together you triumphed; that is greater testament to their worth than any words you could offer.

There are several lift platforms scattered around the vault, it transpires, but without anything to recommend one over the others you elect to simply take the nearest available option. The metal platform is just about big enough to hold your entire group, and when you throw the lever the whole thing judders slightly before beginning its slow and rumbling ascent. The darkness of the shaft swallows you whole, stone and steel and fire-scorched brick passing by one layer of strata at a time, and you can feel the tension from your improvised retinue mount with every passing minute.

"When we reach the surface, we must keep a low profile at first," you instruct them, if only to give their fearful minds something to focus on, "Until we have discovered the nature of this place and what form the authorities may take, it is better that we stick together and avoid unnecessary spectacle, so…"

You have no time to give further direction, for in the span of a heartbeat the shaft floods with hard, brilliant daylight as the platform breaks the surface and shudders to a halt. A wave of sound assaults you and sweet air chokes your lungs, and for a few precious moments even your vaunted intellect is left stunned and reeling. A frontier outpost, you thought, some hidden redoubt where criminals and their clients could meet on neutral ground far from the judging eyes of their peers. An old ruin, something ancient and decrepit, some industrial hellhole to suit the blood-swamped machine now far beneath your feet. You have never been quite so thoroughly wrong in your entire life.

The platform has deposited you atop a raised marble dais, one of many that grace an ornate high-sided plaza bedecked in opulent excess. Statues and billowing silk pavilions flank wide walkways thronged with crowds a thousand strong, while beyond you can see the looming outline of sumptuous palaces and verdant gardens, all awash in a riot of gold and pearl and polished adamantine. High overhead a grand dome of crystal and steel hedges out whatever natural atmosphere this world possesses, replacing it with a warm and perfumed breeze that carries echoes of sweet music to your ears.

You have lingered on the dais for long moments, and now it seems you have drawn attention. An ethereal-looking noblewoman clad in blue shimmersilk and an immaculate pearl mask sweeps through the crowd, attended by men in midnight blue who bear heavy iron staves and trailed by ivory-skinned Cherubim. She pauses at the base of the dais, looking up at you, and you can feel for one brief moment the flickering dance of akasha brushing against your skin. An Adept, one of dozens, nay, hundreds. You cannot tell how strong she is, not amid such a cacophony, but there is no mistaking the way her pale eyes pick you out from the crowd, nor the way her thin mouth curls up in a smile.

"My, such a delightful costume - so decadent, so visceral," she purrs, narcotic vapour spilling from between her perfect lips as she studies you, "Oh, it seems you have come from quite the revel. You really must…"

The air trembles, the ringing retort of a great bell tolling out across the plaza with all the shuddering volume of an artillery barrage, and while your mortal attendants wince or gasp in pain the noblewoman simply rolls her eyes and turns away. You were the interest of a moment, it seems, nothing more. Part of you is outraged at being taken so lightly, but the rest of you is more reasonable. Set against such a backdrop, in a place such as this, what else can you be? For the first time in your life, you have come to a place where the Young Mistress of the Omnissiah Igvita is… unremarkable. Mundane.

What is this place?

Article:

You have no idea where you are or why you were brought here, but you know that somewhere within this absurd carnival can be found the villains - and the answers - that you seek. The question is where to start.

Choose a destination:

[ ] The Promenade of Arenas
Tiered amphitheatres and marble walls topped with pious statuary enclose a raucous array of fighting arenas, bestiaries, xenological exhibits and bloodsport pits, along with their attendant gambling houses, bars, feast halls and other facilities. Gold for blood and flesh for sale is the order of the day, fortunes won and legends forged beneath the eyes of the roaring crowds.

[ ] The Pleasure Gardens
Rising against the gentle slopes of the great skydome is a mass of artfully weathered stone, tiled staircases and shaded promenades, all surrounded by the most wonderfully exotic plants and flowers. Amid clouds of narcotic pollen and flower beds of peerless blooms, one may negotiate with veiled handmaidens for any good or service, though the price is rarely as banal as coin.

[ ] The Collapsed Palaces
The closest thing this city has to a slum is a great rent in the ground, half a kilometre deep and filled with the shattered remnants of marble palaces and private compounds laid low by some forgotten disaster. Here can be found the detritus of the spacelanes and the outcast of paradise, along with those who seek to save - or consume - their souls.

[ ] The Refutation
Forlorn and decrepit, these old colleges and wretched grey ziggurats are the closest thing to imperial authority one might find amid the city, a pointless afterthought long since cast aside by the whims of fashion and fate.

--/--

Additionally, by escaping her imprisonment and obtaining some small understanding of the nature of her situation and the threats at hand, Miraxa has begun to prove her worth. She has 500xp to be assigned according to a plan vote.

Please note - XP may also be earned by fanworks, discussion and general audience participation, assigned at the whim of the poster who earns it. The 'Apocrypha' threadmarks contain fanwork about the wider setting that I approve of but has not yet become directly relevant to the quest, while the 'Sidestory' threadmarks deal with fanwork related to Miraxa, her Sect or anyone she has encountered in the main story updates.

Assign 500xp as desired:
[ ] Write in (Plan Format)

Collaborative Purging Exercise

Ashild Brandottir cleaved the last sporespawn in half with her crackling runeaxe, and cursed as its wet guts splashed on her artifact armor. The wretched things looked like some Allfather-forsaken melding of mold, decayed flesh, and an absolutely gratuitous number of teeth and claws, and they smelled like nothing she'd wish on her worst enemy. A Blood Claw wasn't afraid of getting messy in battle - couldn't be, in fact - but these filthy dirty-green and shit-brown creatures made it a much less appealing prospect than usual.

"By the Allfather! These things die easily enough, but they stink like the privy the morning after a great feast. One where the fish turned out to have gone bad," Runa commented, scrunching her nose in distaste. Her best friend and packmate had a delicate sensibility, by the admittedly low standards of the Vlka Fenryka at least. The tragic result of leading a soft life as a chief's daughter before joining the Sect, no doubt.

Ashild grinned at her, ignoring how she'd been cursing for a similar reason a mere moment ago herself in favor of the far more important priority of teasing her friend. "Oh? Would the princess like a scented handkerchief to mask the odor, then?"

Runa scoffed at her. "Of course, an icelicking savage like you would try to offer courting gifts in the middle of an unholy cesspit."

"Wh- that's not what I - shut up! I wasn't!" Ashild spluttered. She had gotten busted checking Runa out one time when they were both aspirants, and she'd still not gotten to live it down.

Runa smirked back, smug at having won the exchange this time, before replying, "Enough. We need to focus."

Reluctantly, Ashild had to admit she was right. The situation remained dire. Oh, the sporespawn fell before them readily enough, considered as individuals. Most were barely more than mortal, and even the strongest they'd fought so far had only been in the First Realm that elevated an adept above mortality. Certainly no match for Second Realms like the two of them, even without accounting for them being adepts of the most matchless sect of the matchless Astartes.

The problem was that the enemy seemed numberless. It was supposed to have been a simple assignment, just a joint purging expedition with the Forge of the Omnissiah Igvita against a minor disease cult festering in the depths of an unexceptional hive city. A good place to send newly-ascended Blood Claws from the Stormwolves Great Company to cut their fangs on real foes and practice coordinating with allies of another tradition. The lessons and seedling Galdrar embedded in the geneseed gifted to them from the Senior Disciples were powerful spurs to growth, but it took some settling in for the recently graduated scouts to get used to their new strength and enhanced instincts, much less to develop their new Galdrar. Combat was, as ever, the best teacher.

It went well enough at first as they fought towards the supposed "headquarters of the disease cult" as both the Stormwolves and the Sunforged were well-equipped for burning their way through the occasional clot of disease-sodden cultists that tried to bar their way. The problem was that once they got there, the "headquarters" was revealed to be nothing but the bait in a trap. And the disease cult?

Well, it turned out it more properly should be called a fungal infestation - likely not actually a cult at all, but rather some strange sort of Xenos Horribilis. The local population - thousands-strong just in their immediate vicinity - had turned inside out, and sporespawn had stepped out of the wet ruin of their insides where they'd been growing all along. Then more of the sporelings had poured out of the residents' homes and businesses as hidden fungal farms had disgorged their reeking, sharp-toothed progeny en masse.

Their rear guard had been buried in a tidal wave of enemies in a matter of moments, though Ashild would bet that at least some of them still lived. Astartes adepts in their artifact armor didn't die easily even when literally submerged in foes, though she couldn't speak for the coggies.

Still, the fact remained that even the pack instincts of the Vlka Fenryka and the vaunted coordination and precision of the Mechanicus had proven no match for the chaos, and the remainders of the purgation force had been largely split up. Ashild herself had been driven from the side of her packmates - Runa excepted - by the tide of foes, leaving her to hunt these dark, dank tunnels for signs of her comrades while she cut down enemies as she found them.

Speaking of. Ashild narrowed her eyes and bared her fangs as another cluster of enemies revealed themselves to her enhanced senses. They were about twenty strong of the near-mortal variants - mere ten-to-one odds, nothing to concern even Second Realm adepts of a lesser tradition, much less two Astartes. The enemies didn't appear to have noticed them yet.

She prepared to charge, only to pause when Runa put one hand on her pauldron and subvocalized, "Hold. These ones are doing something different. We should observe before exterminating them." The faint sound was easily perceptible to Ashild's enhanced senses.

Reluctantly, Ashild had to admit there was some good tactical sense there. Getting taken by surprise by the enemies' capabilities had already cost the purgation force severely. So be it; wolves could be patient hunters, too. She and Runa settled down on their haunches to wait to see where this went.

There were already about five charred bodies of the sporelings on the ground here, and Ashild was heartened to see the evidence that they weren't the only ones still fighting. Not that she'd doubted, of course. A matching number of the living sporelings draped themselves over the corpses and their bodies shuddered as their teeth went to work on their fallen fellows. In a matter of moments they'd swallowed the entirety of the corpseflesh and absorbed it into their own mass. "Reclaiming resources…?" Ashild subvocalized.

This thesis was swiftly challenged however, as the sporelings that had just fed rose and each cut down another of their fellows. Oddly, the victims didn't resist at all, nor did the others react to this. "Allfather!" Ashild and Runa both subvocalized simultaneously, then exchanged a glance of mutual incomprehension. This scene repeated itself several times, the Blood Claws allowing it to happen without interference to try to divine the purpose underlying these peculiar actions.

That purpose revealed itself before much longer, after each of the five feeders had claimed a total of three victims apiece, leaving them the only survivors. Ashild's eyes widened as they arose from their last meal as First Realms, near-mortals no longer. As always with a Realm ascension, the difference in the threat level was near-exponential. They were a negligible threat no more, though at least they were still only outnumbered two and a half to one. The implications, though… "Well, shit fuck."

"Yes. 'Fuck shit' would also have been acceptable," Runa subvocalized back. She continued, "It makes a kind of sense, though. Fungus feeds on decay. Whatever intelligence controls this infestation must have a curiously poor understanding of the Imperium, though - if they had this capability for rapid advancement via cannibalism, they should have used it before springing their ambush instead of relying so much on numbers. They must have somehow thought a purgation force would consist much more of mortals."

Ashild rolled her eyes - it was a valid insight, but she couldn't just go and admit it. "Yes, yes, thank you for the wonderful theoretical analysis, princess. But I think the upshot is that it's time to get our axes dirty again, before they pull off anything worse." She grinned. "Try to keep up, yeah?"

And with that she charged, leaving Runa to scramble to follow her. Their enemies finally noticed the hunters as their pounding steps brought them ever-closer, and as the sporespawn spread out in some strange version of a combat formation, Ashild breathed deep and unleashed the Howl of the Bloodmoon Galdr, one of the signature techniques of the Vlka Fenryka, joined a heartbeat later by Runa in eerie chorus.

The deafening sound smashed into their enemies with an almost physical force, making them stagger and fall out of their nascent formation - the infusion of seidr in their howl made it as much an assault on the spirit as on whatever their enemies had instead of ears. The sound might attract more enemies, but it could serve as a rallying cry for allies just as well, and it wasn't as though the Vlka feared battle.

Just before impacting the first enemy, Ashild instead stutter stepped and spun to the side of the sporespawn while feinting at one of its limbs. Runa seamlessly swept in in her wake, their movements synchronized with eerie precision by their Red-Fanged Pack Instinct Galdr, and cleaved the wretched thing cleanly in half, each severed segment igniting in the crackling lightning carried on the blade of her runeaxe.

Ashild grinned wide with the joy of combat, her fangs gleaming in the low light. When outsiders and foes looked at the Vlka Fenryka, they saw uncouth savages in bulky artifact armor, and imagined that they must fight like some kind of mindless berserkers just bulling their way through every obstacle. Somehow, despite their very name, it never occurred to them that the Vlka might dance around and through their enemies like a pack of wolves instead. If one of the Vlka berserked, it was for a damn good reason and usually as a last resort.

Despite the strange collective consciousness the fungoids appeared to possess, they were no match for the coordination of the two adepts - if they'd ever had a chance of that, it was shattered by the Howl. Even with only two members currently in their pack, they went through the foes like a monoknife through blubber. Sure, the sporespawn could have been a real threat after their Realm ascension, if they had been able to outmaneuver the pack-sisters and effectively use their superior numbers to pin them down and overwhelm them.

If.

Ashild finished off the last enemy soon enough, a privilege Runa did not contest by unspoken custom since Ashild had set her up to take the first kill. "Well, that was bracing," Ashild said with a grin. Rather than responding as Ashild expected, Runa's eyes instead widened and she exclaimed, "Behind you!"



Ashild spun around just in time to parry a blow she barely saw, only managing through raw instinct honed by countless hours of practice. She barely caught a glimpse of the creature before it bounded back into the shadows, but the eidetic memory of an Astartes meant a glimpse was all she needed to analyze the details of the new horror. This one was more humanoid in its bodyform than any of the others they'd encountered, though the pincers, spines, and four-foot prehensile tongue covered in teeth meant that was still a very relative assessment. It was actually the latter that she'd parried as it had speared at her.

Worst of all, though, was that it was well into the Second Realm - significantly further than either herself or Runa, by her guesstimate. "Damn! Don't you think they should at least buy a girl a drink before trying to slip her some tongue?" Ashild quipped. Runa's answering chuckle was weak, though, and Ashild understood her unease.

The enemy's approach had gone unremarked for far too long - if not for Runa's warning, Ashild might well not have noticed the ambush until it was too late. Worse, even after they were wise to it, it had been able to slip back into the shadows far too easily - the keen senses of the Vlka Fenryka were not supposed to be so easily defeated. The enemy must have some Galdr of its own to obscure its presence, to complement its apparent role as an assassin.

Without needing to speak, Ashild and Runa shifted to stand back to back. They knew better than to think they would be shut of this enemy so easily. They began to chant a Saga infused with seidr together, the skaldic technique sharpening their focus and bolstering their reflexes and endurance. They wouldn't be able to keep it up forever, but it might be enough to make the difference.

Sure enough, it was no time at all until the next strike from the shadows. They quickly fell into a frustrating pattern - the enemy would lunge out of the shadows, trying to strike from out of the corners of their vision as its approach went undetected until the last moment, them barely parrying in time, and the enemy then melting back into the darkness again before they could effectively retaliate.

Ashild knew perfectly well that it was trying to bait them out of position so it could ambush one of them more effectively, but that didn't make it any less grating to be forced to just hold position and endure. Worse, the standoff wasn't going to be tenable in the long run - if more enemies appeared, or if they slipped up even once, they could pay a dire price for it. If the sporespawn didn't make a misstep soon, they'd be driven to take some more drastic action to try to resolve the situation, even if it cost them.

Just as she was gritting her teeth and resolving herself to deliberately take a hit to lock it down long enough for Runa to actually land a hit - she didn't love the idea of accepting a hit (especially one almost certainly laced with some nasty fungal toxin Galdr), but if she didn't do it then she knew Runa would, and she couldn't just let that happen when she could take the pain instead of her pack-sister - a brilliant flame lit the darkness.

She and Runa adjusted their stances to be prepared in case it was hostile while still keeping their backs to each other, but hope bloomed in her hearts - she hadn't seen any of the sporespawn using any flame Galdrar as it seemed to be quite inimical to them.

The flame raced towards them at a speed startling even for adepts, revealing itself to be a human woman propelling herself forward with a jet of incandescent plasma like an anthropomorphic boarding torpedo. She barreled past them without a word, jetting unwaveringly towards a particular point in the darkness that was soon revealed to be the current lurking spot of the assassin sporespawn. "How did she…?" Runa murmured.

They immediately engaged each other with a flurry of blows. The creature was lashing out with pincers and teeth and (ugh) tongue as it desperately tried to create enough space to disengage, and the woman in return was unerringly parrying or redirecting each blow with her fists or some metal tentacles seemingly growing out of her spine (Ashild thought the coggies liked to call them 'mechadendrites' or somesuch), or possibly just out of her own artifact armor.

Runa and Ashild moved to support her now that the enemy's position was revealed, but the fight proved frustratingly difficult for them to catch up to. The sporespawn was just as eager to avoid them as to escape the woman, and their own movement Galdr was not quite fast enough to actually gain ground on them.

In seeming desperation, the sporespawn unleashed a Galdr that released a cloud of roiling spores that obscured both it and the woman fighting it from view. The combatants had gotten dangerously far from them, but Ashild and Runa accelerated further, driving themselves harder to try to catch up. It was never a good idea to plunge facefirst into an unknown technique, of course, but to abandon an ally who may be in need would go against the very core of what the Vlka Fenryka were.

The spore cloud cleared to reveal the woman coughing and giving ground for the first time, as the creature instantly changed tacks to go on the offensive and try to take her down before her erstwhile allies could arrive. It didn't look good for the woman, as her movements faltered and the sporespawn's frenzy only intensified.

The woman gained a little distance from the creature with a frantic jet of plasma propelling her into a wall, only to double over coughing. Allfather damn it, we're still too far away!

Just as the creature closed in for the kill, the woman suddenly snapped back upright, coughing fit seemingly overcome in an instant. Ha! It was a feint!

Taking advantage of the sporespawn's overcommitment to an attack against an enemy it thought was all but helpless, the woman temporarily pinned its limbs and (ugh) tongue out of guard position with her mechadendrites and plunged a fist wreathed in burning plasma into the creature's core. She then raked her hand upwards, splitting the creature in half vertically from the waist up.

As the sporespawn's corpse slumped to the ground in front of her, she raked a hand through her hair to reorder it and turned to face Ashild and Runa as they finally caught up to the now stationary woman. Ashild noted that the woman's eyes - well, the visible one anyway, the other was behind some kind of techno-monocle - was still reddened by the exposure to the spore cloud. Shaking it off wasn't as effortless as she had made it look, then.



"Greetings, warriors, and my thanks for pinning that foe down long enough for me to catch up - I had been tracking its heat since it failed to ambush me twenty minutes ago. Know that you have the honor of having your lives saved by this Young Mistress of the Omnissiah Igvita Sect, Miraxa SH-43893," she intoned formally, chin lifted proudly.

Uh, saved our lives? Ashild felt Runa stiffen beside her, and was in full agreement. Timely intervention notwithstanding, they hadn't actually been out of options even for that sticky situation. Speaking to them as if they were hapless mortals was simply too much. Sexy metal tentacles or not, she couldn't just let this Miraxa woman get away with that.

That said, responding with open hostility would just make future cooperation strained at best, and they still weren't off the ice yet. Ashild grinned, instead. The reputation of the Vlka Fenryka could be a handy thing, sometimes.

"Ah, yes, a great honor for us indeed!" Ashild exclaimed, voice full of false enthusiasm. She elbowed her pack-sister as Runa turned to stare at her, silently willing her to play along. "In fact, I think your great deed is worthy of being honored with a deed name, which is a very great honor among our people!"

Runa grinned next to her, instantly onboard as Ashild had thought she'd be. "Oh yes, nothing less could possibly suffice for our most honorable savior," she practically cooed, voice sickly-sweet like syrup on the verge of going bad.

"Indeed, indeed," Ashild nodded solemnly. "From henceforth, let our fungus-vanquishing savior be known as… Shroomslayer!"

Miraxa's one visible eye widened noticeably. "Oh no. I mean… really, that's not necessary. Please, think nothing of it. Really. Please."

Runa laughed heartily, blithely ignoring Miraxa's almost pleading tone and clapping her on the shoulder. "Nonsense, we insist! You're too modest, Shroomslayer!"

Ashild nodded sagely. "That's right, too modest by far. If anything, I think you're worthy of being immortalized in verse! The Saga of Shroomslayer, what do you think?"

"No, no, please don't. I mean, you really don't have to," Miraxa said hastily.

Ashild grinned back, baring the full length of her fangs in a gesture only another one of the Vlka would recognize as smug. "Not to worry, it'll be our pleasure! Really, it's no trouble at all. Runa, why don't you get us started with the first verse?"

As Runa began composing aloud, "oblivious" to Miraxa's only partially successful efforts to hide her cringing, Ashild couldn't help but feel things were looking up. They'd finally managed to link back up with an ally, and a quite capable one at that. They'd cut a swathe through the sporespawn and defeated the best they'd shown. Best of all, they had a cute new coggie friend to tease! This purging exercise might not turn out to be a complete shitshow, after all.

~3900 words counting the notes, if it matters.