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Nocturnal 1.1
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Once upon a time, there was a princess.
Unlike the princess of the docks, this one had wealth and was heir to a mighty title. Her family was an old and mighty house, one blessed by the vagaries of strength and history-and more than that, were born of an ancient house with all claims to divine right by blood. Their ancestor was, in all ways that mattered, a sea god.
Sadly, they inherited the infamous arrogance of the gods as well. They were princes and queens, dukes and countesses in the truest sense possible-it was their right to be the masters, and the illness forged in the crucible of mortal flesh and deific gene was taken as a blandishment to simply rule well. So, to those who showed a reluctance to take the throne, or be willing pawns in taking the throne, their traditions showed only contempt. And some, like the crown prince, simply could not live as either predator or chess piece.
In her grief, the true princess turned to stranger magics than her birth-she wanted no part of this terrible clan that viewed its own son as a mere sword to be mourned for its loss of utility. In time, she found her means of escape-and within it, her true calling. And so she became known as the Shapeless Sciomancer
But arrogance is not simply found in hunger for power. Flush with faith, the Sciomancer strode boldly into heathen lands to bring her gospel of sacrifice and harmony-but in her youthful pride, ran afoul of a Grasping Diviner. Now a vassal to a tyrant, the Sciomancer sadly gathered for him new knights, none knowing of the hidden noose around her neck-but she did not escape to be a slave somewhere else.
----------------
Drip..
"
Quiyahuitl."
Drip.
"
Tlamictizque."
Drip.
"
Ihqui tlacoti."
With every drop of red, another couple words of the susurrus, airy and almost breathy in its pronunciation, almost as if the echo of the blood drops was the one speaking, a voice of dark times thousands of years past.
The chamber was kept dark, to not offend the night-dwelling deity upon which the increasingly red idol was based upon. While the owners of the shrine could not actually construct a stone room for the shrine, the wallpaper was decorated well enough to simulate the temples of the culture that had once called upon the ancient one for protection and fertility-and to placate their often vicious lady of the spaces between stars.
In the exact center of the room, kept on a raised dais, was a jewelled, jade image of the awful goddess herself, wings outstretched in a swooping pose. Those familiar with lore of relatively recent phenomenon would recognize her as a terrible angel of despair, one witnessed before disaster of a very human type occurred, but…altered. Her face, rather than being a stoic, painfully beautiful woman's, was a skull with painted pearl eyes, still stoic, still beautiful despite her exposed bone. Two of her upper wings were those of bats, and extending from just above her pelvis was a rattlesnake of black obsidian, eternally flicking a tongue of stone. One that was growing steadily redder.
As the chant neared its end, the blood animated, flowing out of the serpent's tongue in a smooth red stream towards a small fur shawl of black and silver. Slowly, the shawl started to twitch and tense as the blood drew closer. As the chant finished, the blood touched the shawl-and it drank greedily, a slurping sound echoing as the rest of the red was rapidly absorbed. As it did so, the sacrificial wound closed, leaving barely a scar, and the fur turned as shiny and thick as any living animal.
----------------
There were many things in my life I'd thought would never happen.
This wasn't one of them, but that was a result of failure of imagination on my part.
The heavyset woman looked about as comfortable as I did, if not less so. The sheer amount of
awkward in the air probably caused an increase in air weight could show up on scientific instruments, if you considered "scientific" as "somewhat more fine-tuned than 'guy with rock in one hand and weighed item in the other'."
Really, who even
considers the possibility that the
local leader of the government-sponsored monster hunters ringing you up and now talking out the terms of a contract? Let alone said leader in question. Well, okay that wasn't quite true; for all the "humanity is the best, rah-rah-rah" cheer of hunters in general, they knew full well of the power disparity between them and we humble shadow folk. Here in the real world, a hunter who hoped to do anything worthwhile was a hypocrite or they were dead. Or complete psychos, but most of
those didn't want to save the world.
Major Emily Piggot, for her part, did not look well. I got the sense her generous weight wasn't due to any overindulgence, but because she was medically prohibited from exercise and couldn't have the benefit of a healthy diet on the job. Unhealthy foods were usually the cheap, easily consumed kind that didn't require you to relax. One scant second of eye contact later, I confirmed why this didn't translate into 'retirement plan'-I suspected trying to mentally influence her would result in the source of said influence promptly developing a concussion. Pure steel in that glare.
Still didn't mean I couldn't play a bit of the power game myself. I gave one of my trademarked smiles. "So, ma'am," I began, faux-cheerfully, "What brings one of the high and mighty down here to the motley collection of rejects?" Informal, falsely-polite; emphasizing the only reason she's here is that she needs us, and I know it.
She got the implication. Her eyes narrowed a bit. "Cut with theatrics, Tattletale. You're being hired because of convenience, nothing more-having to deal with yet more oh-so-whimsical witches does nothing but remind me of people who I know to be reliable."
Swing and a hit. "And yet you're asking the Warehouse of Misfit Toys rather than the Arsenal of Freedom to help you. Somehow I suspect that 'convenience' doesn't cover the whole thing. But I digress." I fell back into a serious face. "Before we get started, can I agree on some terms here? I don't feel like sticking out my friends' necks for someone I normally find on the other end of kissing shotguns without
some assurance. You know the typical deal?"
"We
made the typical deal, witch." Crap, bad call. Intimidation is not offending people. Note to self, Piggot is a bit twitchy when forced into a negotiation she hates. "I would not push my luck with new aspects."
I waved my hands, placatingly. "No offense! I'm fine with no names, no avoidable deaths, no altering the deal. It's just that, well..." I glanced meaningfully at the busted couch.
"Money is not the issue, miss. It's your competence." She glanced just as meaningfully at a patch of mildew.
"That's actually a feature," I said, in complete honesty. "We're
technically a Forsaken pack-"
"Funny, so are my actual reliable assets." She narrowed her eyes even further. 'Why you have a fungus spirit as a totem-"
"Spirit of outcasts," I corrected. "Rolls-In-The-Ash is a conceptual spirit of scavengers. She likes fungi, as they are an entire domain of scavengers."
"Oh. My apologies." She sounded genuine there. I sensed something of a kindred spirit when it came to knowledge about the Shadow. "But
technically doesn't cut it with me. There are five of you, and I know for a fact only two are actually werewolves. So to be blunt, the actual service that comes to mind when people think 'pack of werewolves' is something you are not good at."
In another world, this would be intimidating.
In this world, I tried to avoid cracking a grin as I my next question. "And yet, you're still hiring us." Hook.
"I am
considering hiring you." Line… "I am considering not, if all I get is some know-it-all teenager with a god complex sniping at me and the honor of Task Force VALKYRIE." Sinker.
I did my best to look offended. "Miss, even if you didn't have one of the best goetists in the city or a goblin trainer here, let alone both at once, this 'know-it-all teenager' is competent enough to act smug."
Piggot had very nearly closed her eyes. "Prove it."
And now for the sales pitch. "Your full name and title is Major Emily Schofield Piggot," I began. "You tie for the youngest of three siblings, as you are a fraternal twin. Your parents met in the Navy. Dad was a tech engineer, mom was a professional musician who played at his favorite bar on shore leave. None of the three of you had any interest in the support side of the armed forces; big sis was always too fond of her guns to consider not signing up; your brother is an avowed pacifist, albeit one with limits. You followed your sister into the military, but while she became a pilot, you joined the army."
"You've proven you can use the internet," Piggot replied, eyebrow raised. "My brother is also an avid blogger, and I'll wager he puts his life story on there."
I smirked. "You were disciplined once for breaking a fellow cadet's hand, but your peers covered for you and made it a 'training accident', as he was playing grab-ass and actual sexual harassment would have ruined your career under Don't Ask Don't Tell, as your superiors wouldn't realize you aren't attracted to anyone, same gender or no."
Piggot's jaw clenched even as her eyes widened.
"When you were promoted to First Lieutenant, you had an encounter with an extra-normal entity, to use the official term, that the Cambodians in the village you were assigned to protect called the Son of Garuda, a giant hawk that regularly attacked you and the natives with powerful storms. You figured out it was protecting a shrine to Vishnu that a local had accidentally damaged and drew it out by drawing easily removable graffiti on it; after knocking it out, you used the time it spent unconscious to repair the shrine without its misguided interference, which meant that, when Task Force: VALKYRIE followed typical procedure and transferred you over to them, you were promoted for your actions resulting in minimal loss of life and opening a quote, friendly line of dialogue with a non-malicious ENE, unquote. From there, you were on the shortlist for the Paranormal Relations Team, despite your professed dislike of dealing with them and loudly protesting being put on what you colloquially described as the 'nice-nice squad' to a friend." I left out
why she disliked being on the PRT, as I didn't want to sour my sales pitch by triggering possible PTSD
at best.
My little spiel had the desired effect. The look on her face was a national treasure.
After a couple seconds, she quickly resumed her normal glare. "You're still a smartass."
"Ah, but the first syllable in that is
smart, isn't it? So, let's just skip to the end and just tell me what it is you came to the Undersiders for, without informing your superiors of precisely the context for that authorization?"
----------------
"Unexplained disappearances? That's it?" Brian Laborn, one of two actual werewolves in our werewolf pack and formal leader (I
refused to use the term "alpha"), looked about as skeptical as could be expected that the local leader of VALKYRIE had come down on high to get us to do what any private detective worth his salt could.
"Yeah. I would be skeptical too, if I didn't know the in-house team already tried." I smirked. "As it is, your prophetess has looked into the depths of the ether, and beheld the truth; she's out of ideas."
"Seriously?" Alec, our security expert and the one deserving the title of "witch" more than me, looked at me in disbelief. This was one of three actual emotive expressions he seemed to be capable of (the others being concentration and 'trollface'), though to be fair he tried his best with the others. "The leader of the literal MIB in the area, part of the team that was
made to find the proper ass to kiss for all your paranormal needs, can't find anything else?"
"She would, if she had the resources," I said, my trademark smile still in place. "As it is, VALKYRIE hasn't made friends of esohumanity, beyond the Protectorate. Everyone who matters in the Directional Courts hates them, the Ivory Claws aren't happy with the E88 remaining thoroughly stuck on the FBI's hate group's list, the Merchants are...the Merchants, and-"
I nearly shrieked when I felt the tap on my shoulder, before my emotions resolved into annoyance. "Hello, Aisha."
Aisha Laborn, the other actual werewolf, span me around. "Er, aren't the Merchants vampires? I know the Directionals are the local changelings, and the Ivory Claws are part of the asshole werewolves, but what's the political deal with the bloodsuckers?"
"They're leftovers," I stated, bluntly. "Skidmark and his brood are the only known vampires in Brockton Bay left, because to the Protectorate, they're not worth the effort. All he has left are his team and his ghouls, and he didn't have much to begin with."
The newly-Changed werewolf tilted her head. "'Ghoul?' I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that's not a corpse-eating corpse."
"Nope, though a desperate one might eat the ashes of a dead vamp." I leaned back, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice at the barrage of questions. "Vampire blood contains, er, the essence of their immortality, and a mortal fed it becomes eternally frozen at the age they started taking it, until the feed cuts out. It's also hyper-addictive, so the vampire gets a superpowered servant out of the deal that can walk around in the day and most true esohumans won't notice."
I suddenly had a horrific realization of what adjective I used.
"True esohuman? What, there's such a thing as a pretend werewolf?"
Oi. I smiled a little too brightly and continued. "Yes, but they're generally other esohumans. Generally, 'Esohuman' is a specific term for a supernatural creature who has its own culture with others of their kind, and can imitate mortals for a long period of time,
while being substantially different from the normal psychology of
Homo sapiens. Since ghouls are incapable of existing on their own without vampires, as otherwise they'll detox and turn into normal humans, they don't count. It's also why hunters with my caliber of magic avoid the term, as we aren't that changed mentally."
I glanced at Alec. "Even if Regent over there wasn't...a little muted, emotionally, he'd still be the person who can look into your brain with a glance, and whose sanity pivots on the fact that he's obsessed with gaining more magical knowledge, and thus can shut off his sixth through ninth senses by focusing on one stream of data at a time." Which wasn't technically true, but if I tried to explain the Abyss we'd be here all day and Aisha would need migrane medication. "And mages are the
least changed, mentally, by going strange."
Comprehension dawned. "You're talking about Uratha instincts."
"Urum Da Takus and all, right? Werewolves can't avoid being predators lest their spirit sides wither and die, leaving only Rage." I winced. "Remember your First Change? If you weren't hunting, that would be a monthly occurrence, except worse."
"'The Wolf Must Hunt'," Aisha repeated, nodding. "I see where you're going with this."
Then befuddlement. "Wait, isn't that First Tongue? I thought you said spirits don't like it if a human speaks their language, comes off as imperialistic and rude."
"I'm not a mage, Aisha. I'm just related to them, and given my 'special abilities', the spirits don't mind a human knowing a bit of First Tongue, if I use the proper dialect."
"'Proper dialect'? Is there like, a funny accent you have to do, like some kind of Southern drawl except more 'monkey' and less-"
Thankfully, Brian stepped in. "Sis, can we hear about the job, first? "
"Right. Sorry, newbie asking stupid questions…" Aisha retreated back into her patch of shadows.
"Okay," I turned back. "As I was saying, Merchants are right out, and the mages like Armsmaster about as much as we do. It was us or Faultline, and she's more expensive than what the military budget offers for PMCs."
"So...we're discount mercs." Alec raised an eyebrow. "Do we have a hire one team, get one freelancer free deal going on? Because I'd really like someone who can actually wield a gun."
"Nope. An entire team
is the wholesale value." Aisha said from her corner. "At least we aren't
used cheap muscle."
"Anyway," I continued. "We're basically being asked to be changeling hunters. Some big shot in the Eastern Court vanished, and seeing as how Lung is always looking to add a bit to the North from his erstwhile peers, we've been asked to find him, or at least what caused him to vanish-ideally something that turns Lung off expanding his territory." I brought out my cell phone and flipped to a picture of a certain bus and attendant trucks. "Unfortunately, and this is really why VALKYRIE or the Protectorate can't do sweeps themselves, Benediah Clover's back in town and holding a sermon nearby. If our trusty televangelist mage found out, he'd be all too happy to provoke a publicity-generating scandal about them big bad government menacing his here free speech; the former publicly, the latter with the mages. Either way, he becomes even more of a thorn in VALKYRIE's side."
"And we're the deniable asset," Brian finished, nodding. "So, what's the payment?"
"Money, obviously. Three thousand, half of which is paid up front. Should finally be able to fix that roof and television, now." Alec opened his mouth to object, but I rose a finger. "Again, discount mercs. But then Piggot threw in something else." I flipped the image to a new one. "Recognize this?"
Brian's eyes shot open, and Alec leaned in. "Is that…?"
"Yep. It's a Musul Akade egg. Piggot realized we desperately needed a guard other than the voices in Alec's head, and she knows we live right on top of an entrance to Mentis so it should be right at home. We get a new, and subtle, guard dog that we can use as a spy as well, and we can finally repair our home. Seems like a good deal to me."
"If we can ever figure out how to train it," Aisha piped up. "Rachel's good, but I don't think a sentient swarm of bugs from before time is her thing."
Doesn't know what a ghoul is but can describe a spirit that is normally only found in pocket dimensions. Should have seen that one coming. "Immaterial mind that possesses a bunch of insects at once, actually. And most of her hobgoblins aren't capable of speaking," I replied, more confident than I felt. "A Musul Akade isn't that different from a guard dog, and they're usually just as loyal to people who treat them right."
"And if we pull this off, VALKYRIE will be eager to pay us in the future," Brian finished. "I think we've already accepted so I'll pry Rachel out of her den. Also; Lisa? I think you had a rite of gratitude to attend to?"
I winced as I rubbed my chest, feeling the scar. "Right on top of it."
----------------
Once upon a time, I was scared of fire. Something about flames looked alive to me, writhing and dancing with no goal but to consume and reduce. Later I was told this was, of course, ridiculous; my family
controlled flame if you trained your blood right, we knew most of all how fundamentally mindless fire was; to us, it was more like a limb in search of a wielder than anything. The fact I was fire-adverse was one of the many reasons I was not the family scion.
These days, I think my younger self was onto something.
Fire itself was mindless, of course, and completely bound by its nature-but from the moment I came into my real self, I realized that "mind" and "will" were not the same thing. Just because, say, a tree did not think did not mean it did not fight to survive at all costs, every cell of its plant existence based around maximizing its chances of growth and reproduction. Plants strategize-they grow in ways that react to the all-important sun, and they conspire with symbiotic fungi and bacteria to make their roots ever more efficient. A particular species of mushroom,
Laccaria bicolor, even turns its patron tree into a predator-it colonizes the innards of unsuspecting insects that eat it and digests it from the inside out, releasing nitrogen that is useless to the fungus but what its tree devours greedily. In return, the mushroom shares in the tree's own nutrients and may grow within its roots.
Inanimate things did not have as apparent a will, of course, but I suspected that's because I didn't know where, or bother, to look. Fire not the least of it, with its capacity to make more of itself with simple heat, to hide in the ash for new sources of fuel, camouflaged among the black as tiny little embers of red just itching for something dry. And in a stroke of genius, it became useful to humans; the story of humanity was the story of fire's ultimate triumph, to find a way to become indispensable to an entire species that knew how to make more of it with nothing but twigs and friction.
Yes, this was ridiculous. Me, ascribing motives to a chemical reaction? My tween self would laugh in my face, and quite rightly. But that was a long time ago-a long time before I actually called forth a spirit of the Shadow, born of the will-the
Essence-inherent in all things; plants, fire, rocks, machines, animals, even emotional states. I knew better now. And it was really amazing I felt safe enough to get out of bed in the morning.
At the most basic level, spirits were a lot like fire. Much as fire had no will except to feed itself, spirits had no true desires other than to feed on Essence that was like their own personal natures. The difference though, was that spirits also had minds. Auxiliary minds, it should be noted; all other things being equal, a spirit could let go of its sentience and be none the worse for its core purpose of eating, if the spirit didn't mind being a grazer. But all things weren't equal; in the Shadow, everything and anything was made of Essence, and all spirits can eat any Essence. It wasn't
safe to do that (some Essence is toxic to a particular species of spirit, or worse), but seeing as how any great store of Essence left to its own devices would pool into a spirit that immediately would set about competing for stores of the inanimate type of Essence, it was simply easier, and safer, to be a predator. Combine that with the fact that all spirits are also prey for the above reasons, and one had a recipe for an occult ecology where every living thing could strike up a conversation (however limited) with you. But a spirit's mind was more like a wolf's claw than a human's brain; it was an adaptation to make its life easier, not the capacity for choice. Spirits, from the lowliest beetle-spirit to the embodiments of national governments, all had two goals; to eat, and to not be eaten in return.
Anyone who thought that made them stupid was likely going to be third on the menu, with items one and two involving them being the unwilling waiter. Spirits were
focused, and that determination usually meant that they were damned smart, often outright brilliant. A long time ago, they realized humans, that weird ape that seemed to never have a spiritual representative of the species itself, had the ability to direct their own will at things-in effect, to generate all flavors and types of Essence with the proper beliefs, actions, and especially rituals. The more social spirits (because even in a world where everyone could eat everyone else, it makes more sense to pool resources), realized that working together with humans would lead to a more sustainable flow of Essence.
Hence shamans. Therefore, why I was sitting in a dark room, burning sweet herbs while I was chanting appeasements in a dead language.
Thankfully, my sentient idealized embodiment of carrion-eaters of a co-worker was never too far away. Rolls-In-The-Ash, like most Forsaken pack totems, didn't stray far from our home for her own safety; the sane werewolves instinctively served as what was effectively police for the spirit world, and nobody liked a snitch (even if neither of ours really cared about the Shadow itself all that much-we kept our eyes firmly on more human-ish enemies). Soon, the smoke started to collate into the impression of long black feathers, a canid snout, and interwoven mycelium filaments for limbs, with embers dancing in a specific place to give the impression of eyes.
"
Thal kal bu, Asgar-Lisa
." The impression of eyes bounced as Ash's simulacra nodded.
"
Duaf nu habalthu, kal nu habalthu, Ash," I replied. To any other spirit that would be an implied threat, but to a peaceful scavenger, it was an affirmation of friendliness ('I won't start any trouble you won't'). "Can I speak in English, though? As far as I know, my shawl's still revitalizing, and I really don't want to disrupt the ceremony with a First Tongue phrase book."
"If I speak brief-being," Ash replied, shrugging. "On human languages, learning-now I am."
Yes, First Tongue had a pretty weird grammatical structure. I heard it was literally impossible to learn without supernatural influence, more than once. I thought that was something of an exaggeration (the phrasebook I mentioned actually existed), but given the fractal amount of situational dialects (based on location, type of entity speaking, type of entity being spoken
to, relative level of own power, friendliness and/or hostility, whether you were in your territory, and so on and so forth), it wasn't much of one (hell, the only reason
I could speak in First Tongue was my shawl, and even then I usually needed to be wearing it in order to be at all fluent). "Okay then. Good."
I bowed, taking out my ritual knife. "Noble spirit, I come before thee as friend and servant. You have guided me well, and I offer thee and thy kindred the drink of gods, sacrifice for sacrifice."
With that, I spun the obsidian athame around, slicing open my scar in a single fluid motion and staining the knife red. Wincing as I held the cut shut, I held the blade into the flames, turning it black again with preternatural speed as Ash growled happily-just as the wound I made closed. It was like the scar had never opened at all-though given how I had abused it recently, I did feel a little woozy.
"The
umia pleased Essence-gift with," she replied after drinking of the blood. "Humble us-be at kin-drink of sun-tenders." The embers blinked. "Say right-that? Enough?"
"Yeah, that works." If only because I knew enough First Tongue to get a rough idea of what she was trying to say. Still, that was miles better than most spirits, some of whom didn't realize the sounds the apes made was a form of communication as complex as their own. "Bet Nibbles-On-Bulwarks will like that."
"Yes. Dock-Essence bad-flow, spirits all. Hungry, running, starving not need."
Wait, hold on. "Spirits
all? Wait, are you trying to say that
all spirits are having trouble?"
"
Asgar-Lisa no idea has. Harvest bad-bad, loci living but dry. Hungry-all, dream-spirits except." She paused for a second, shaking her head. "Ed. Excepted."
Huh. I'd have to look into that. Or kick it up the chain to someone who had a vested interest in the Docks. "Ah. That's nice to know. Well, hope that blood feeds the brood well."
"Thought-recall," Ash replied, looking meaningfully in the direction of my shrine. "
Asgar-Lisa
gathra to great spirit. Normal-this. But hear I that spirit human-called…" She paused. I couldn't see her mouth, but it was clear she was trying to say it.
"Simurgh?" I helpfully offered.
"Yes-yes, what look for I. Simurgh-spirit Stray-Lost say human-hating. Human you. Why give
gathra?"
"Because one," I said, pulling out my bat-wing shawl, "She's the god I call on to charge this thing. For another, her true name is Itzpapaloptl. Aztec goddess of rebirth. You get that concept, don't you?"
She caught on. "Ah. Simurgh-spirit provide scavengers. Kill people, change fate she, leave food for life-new."
"Quite." I looked at the Mesoamerican lettering on my athame. "Three, her other shamans saved my life."
I didn't need to explain much more than that. Scavengers got what it meant to be pulled back from death-after all, accepting someone who was spiritually dead inside after...the incident....was a form of recycling dead matter. Such as a fallen scion of the Merovingian line of almost-wizards turned witch-priestess of ancient gods, all claim my extended family made to being Atlantean royalty spat upon and forgotten.
Of course, my mentor said that this made me even more blessed in the eyes of the Teotl, the Mexica (
not Aztec) gods. He said the fact that I (metaphorically) sacrificed my life as much as the other
ichpocatl nahualtin did made my devotion to the purity and recompense of the gods clear. It took me weeks to stop glancing at my sweetbread-in-a-snowstorm reflection and wonder if it had more to do with a divinely-mandated outreach program plus that whole "secret conspiracy" thing without being a frequently distrusted minority already. Years later, I realized I was probably special in an entirely different cynical way; as a Proximus, I filled a big, Awakened magic-shaped hole in the skinthief cabal's knowledge of the occult. Not fun, for people who literally called themselves rainmaker sorcerers. Still, Itzpapalotl seemed to like me enough...to the extent the goddess of destruction fated to end the world could like anything. She seemed fond enough of mothers and midwives, neither of which I had any intention of currying favor via
being, thank you.
And no, the
nahualtin did not directly worship any more cheerful gods. It's the kind of thing that occurred when the god whose actual job it was to bring about rain was called the Flayed Lord. At least we realized the "human sacrifice" thing was supposed to be a
metaphor, though I don't think people would like the new and improved version of sacrifice any better. We kinda-sorta-maybe were a shapeshifting witch-cult that had a divine duty to be secret police, after all.
But I digress. For her part, Ash probably didn't care if I had a sane reason for serving the Angel of Doom or not. It just didn't impact her all that much. But it seemed to satisfy her. She nodded, comprehending, before the smoke dissipated.
Which meant I had one last thing to check. I pulled the shawl around myself, gave it a tug and-
I was suddenly a lot smaller. A quick click of my tongue confirmed it-I got a second picture of the room in my brain just from hearing the echo.
A tiny little bat took off to rejoin her pack.
------------------
A/N: Yep, this is where we get into the major changes. Though really, as far as cults go, the Simurgh is the kind of entity that sprouts them like weed fertilizer (a beautiful alien angel who seems omniscient and enforces a divine plan simply by singing at somewhere? That's the kind of thing that spawns religions to explain, much less alters an existing one to account for her). Especially given how the Endbringers...aren't always, in this world. They're not public knowledge, largely because they're subtler-and they don't always destroy forever. Sometimes, they catalyze.
And by the way, she's not a spirit here. Ash is simply going off her own occult view of the world. Nobody said the Shadow was all-knowing.
(Also, forgive the pig Nagual; I don't speak it, and to be frank, neither do modern nahualtin; they're exactly as much as like as their Mexica forebears as the Day of the Dead is, for largely the same reasons.)
