Father of Monstrosity

“Purpose?” the Haven Bridge-Guard demanded, threateningly.

Jakob lifted his provisional badge and unfurled the parchment scroll, which had already started tearing in the sides, flimsy as it was.

“Another one?” a nearby guard commented in dismay.

“What do you mean?” Jakob asked.

The guard in front of him sighed, before explaining, “You’re the sixth person given this task in just the last two weeks. Now, listen, because I’ll only say this once: If you get lost, you’re on your own. If you die, we won’t retrieve your body for your family. After the first two times we had to deal with your kind, we came to an agreement with your Guild that you were on your own.”

Jakob just nodded, unperturbed by the warning. After all, the sewers had been his hunting grounds for over half his life, and he had personally seen to the creation of many of the horrors that now roamed its stone halls.

“What do I do once I’ve found it?”

“IF…” the Guard started, annoyed, “IF you find the necklace and/or the remains of Carlotta, bring them to the building with the domed ceiling, one of the priests there will return them to the family so they can finally find peace, and they’ll probably give you something to bring back to your Guild as proof.”

Jakob nodded, then crossed the bridge with Heskel in tow. He could feel the guards staring at him as he left the checkpoint and headed into the district proper.

It took a while to find a place where they could enter the sewers below the pale-yellow limestone paving of the district, mostly due to the remoteness of the access-points, but eventually Heskel found a manhole. It had a lock on it, but the Wight simply grabbed hold of the cover, his strength allowing him to onehandedly snap the locking-bolt and lift it open in a single pull.

As moonlight was starting to light up their surroundings and guards lazily patrolled the nearby plaza with torches in hand, Jakob and Heskel descended into the bowels of the district.

He had made it halfway-down the iron rungs when the Wight dragged the manhole cover back over the hole, shutting off the slender beam of moonlight that had been shining down into the murky depths below. To a normal person, the sudden absence of light would have been alarming, but Jakob and his Lifeward were born in the darkness and fared better in the dark below than in the overbearing light above.

When Heskel let go of the rungs and landed on the tunnel floor with a splash of filthy water, Jakob took out the parchment again, as he looked around. Though the quest description indicated that the child had simply fallen into the sewers and died, it seemed that something more serious must have occurred, given that six adventurers before him had failed to locate the missing necklace and the girl’s remains.

The Wight started sniffing the air curiously, and Jakob took off his scent-mask and imitated him.

“Peculiar,” he commented, his companion grunting in agreement. The sewer smelled off. Again, this was perhaps only something they, as dwellers in the deep, would notice, but the sewers had a different scent based on how deep you were.

Normally, the top layers would smell mostly of effluvia and stagnant must. The upper-middle was like an earthy and acrid cocktail thanks to its flourishing growth of moss and toadstools; the lower-middle was a pungent and heady stench, given that most things that died within the sewers would end up there after a couple weeks; and the deep was a mix of sweet decay, coppery tang, and the warm-and-debilitating odour of a special genus of Skin Beetles that Grandfather nicknamed Bone Beetles, which thrived amongst the mountains of bones scattered all about where the tunnels all culminated.

Without a scent-mask in the deep, most people would become delirious or unconscious from the smell, and even Jakob needed his mask in the sections where the Bone Beetles colonies were, despite having lived there for years.

“It smells more like the lower-middle,” he observed. Hardly any feculent odours were present, despite the slurry underfoot, or, more precisely, it was overshadowed by the powerful stench of death. He put his mask back on, taking a lungful of the Misty Reminiscence and puffed out the spent vapour afterwards.

Heskel sniffed the air some more, his olfactory sense many times more evolved than Jakob’s. Within a couple minutes, the Wight picked up a scent that made him growl like a bear smelling someone intruding on its territory.

“Ratmen…”

“That’s not possible. We wiped them out years ago.”

The Wight looked him straight in the eyes, the darkness in the eyes of his mask gazing deeply into Jakob’s own.

“I believe you, but you know they should all be dead. You were with me after all.”

The Ratmen was one of Grandfather’s earliest self-sufficient chimera, but they had quickly proved more disaster than success, when their asexual reproduction and tendency for large litters led to a colossal tribe of them infesting the lower-middle of the sewers. Jakob, Heskel, and Raleigh had been tasked by Grandfather to wipe out their nests, ensuring not a single Ratman survived. That was more than two years ago, and had been one of the most formative experiences of Jakob’s life, teaching him much of what he knew, as well as providing him extensive experience in the use of his creations and numbing the last remnant of his emotions, leaving only cold-hearted efficiency behind.

“Let’s find their nest and wipe them out. The trial is secondary. All our plans will be for naught if the Ratmen repopulate and overrun the city.”

Heskel nodded firmly. “Hunt.”

Jakob took off his flesh-stitched gloves and pulled out the two slender, long-clawed bone gauntlets he had made. After only a couple lessons in Hemolatry, he had designed the demonic ritual patterns on these gauntlets, allowing him to manipulate the blood inside anyone he focused on, with only a few limitations.

“Remind me to get rid of the Flayed Lady’s pawn when we return.”

Heskel grunted in confirmation.

It was clear that Sig had served her purpose and there was nothing more to learn from her. Truly, her knowledge in Hemolatry and Demonology was as shallow as her worship of the Great Ones Above. Unless Veks protested of course, after all, he would probably have his fun with her if he found out that Jakob withdrew his protection of her. Somehow, Jakob instinctively knew that the former Thief would make her last moments worse than he himself could ever imagine, after all, Jakob was not sadistic, but rather just efficient. Sadism required a mind like that of a Demon and Veks had surely become that, though Jakob was unaware of what served as the catalyst for his ongoing transformation.

“Remind me to also ask Veks about his transformation.”

Heskel grunted again, an underlying tone of impatience catching Jakob’s attention.

“Eager, are you? I suppose it has been a while since you could let loose. Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

The Wight must have grinned fiendishly beneath his mask, because he took off in a stomping burst of speed, a growl steadily growing in his throat, echoing off the sewer tunnels, making even the air tremble.

Jakob flexed his fingers within the bone gauntlets a few times, warming up the muscles in his hands, then followed behind the raging giant at a brisk trot.

When Jakob caught up to Heskel, the Wight was already busy squashing the diminutive figures of terrified humanoid rats, while they ineffectively tried to strike him with primitive weapons or their claws.

They’re evolving… Jakob realised in dismay. When he had wiped out the Ratmen, they had not exhibited any form of ingenuity other than their ability to hide, but if they were making tools then that did not bode well.

Before he could give the prospect any further thought, a band of five Ratmen descended on him. The tail stitched into his flesh robes acted on its own and crushed the ribcage of two in a single swipe, and Jakob grabbed hold of the air with his right gauntlet, turning one of the rats in front of him into a folded-up corpse, then he swung the gauntlet towards the two remaining Ratmen and blood flew from the corpse like crimson icicles, tearing them to shreds under an onslaught of blood-formed javelins.

Jakob walked further into the large area they were in, the filth underfoot becoming red as the Ratmen were pulverised and shattered by the blood-crazed Wight. It was a massive cistern with thick pillars running in four parallel lines and holding up a vaulted ceiling, and, below the raised section they were standing on near the tunnel opening, a lake of filthy water spanned into the distance. A horde of Ratmen were fleeing along raised gantries that lined the walls, scurrying into smaller tunnels designed to feed rainwater and effluvia from the streets above into the cistern lake below. Strangely, a large number of rats were also swimming towards them, coming out of a halfway-submerged tunnel in the far end of the cistern.

They’re exhibiting group behaviour… sending warriors towards us, while their weaker members escape…

Jakob raised both his gauntlets towards one of the fleeing rats on the rightmost gantry, and wrenched his hands apart. In the distance, the Ratman exploded in a cloud of mist, the concussive force powerful enough to damage the metal walkway and send a dozen of his kin tumbling into the lake below, three of them dead before they hit the water.

Already over three dozen had made good on their escape, but, fortunately, there was a ritual Jakob knew, which was second only to the Chthonic Stone Plague in terms of causing a mass extinction to living beings in a wide area. Given that the Stone Plague had similar limitations as many of the Chthonic Hymns and the fact that he had copious amounts of tissue, flesh, and blood available to him, the Demonic Covetous Vessel ritual was the optimal spell for him to hunt down every last member of the Ratmen tribe and hopefully wipe them out for good.

It struck Jakob as odd that Grandfather had not made use of such spells, as surely his knowledge on the matter was not lesser than his apprentice’s, but, then again, Grandfather was a miserly keeper of secrets, and perhaps this tribe was a result of his misguided belief that his failed chimera could flourish as he had once intended. There was no doubt that Grandfather had the ability to reduce the entire metropolis to ashes, if he so wished, but that was not his way. Jakob was himself a recipient of Grandfather’s peculiar benevolence. If he had wanted, he would have the tomes now, so perhaps the Old Spider was trying to teach him another lesson. Or maybe he was losing his touch? It was hard to say at this point.

“Heskel, keep them clear of me.”

A curt grunt came in reply, amid the brutal slaughter the Wight was undertaking. Jakob pulled out a piece of dense charcoal he often kept in one of the pouches of his flesh apron, then he knelt on the hard stone floor near where the large tunnel met the cistern entryway-platform. With practiced ease, he drew out a circle and a septagram within it, ensuring it was wide enough to fit a stack of the dwarven Ratmen corpses. In the letters of the demonic alphabet, he wrote out the particular instructions of the ritual, like a novice reciting a poem written by his forebears, upon whose shoulders he stood tall.

The preparations complete, he yelled at Heskel to bring corpses to him, which, to his credit, the Wight obeyed while continuing to decimate any Ratman who yet remained in fighting fervour and strong-willed in its defiance. He was a superior being in almost every aspect, with his disinterest in vocal communication seeming more like a quirk than a result of diminished capacity. Heskel’s strength rivalled that of Grandfather’s monstrous chimera and his endurance was quite literally limitless, though prolonged strain, as in hours of nonstop fighting, would lead to his body consuming muscle-mass to keep him from burning out, but even this was only a temporary thing, as his metabolism and regenerative abilities ensured he was fighting fit again before the following dawn.

His quiet intelligence was also a feat of Grandfather’s ingenuity, as the Wight was essentially an eidetic memory bank who could recall in perfect clarity anything he had seen previously, as well as smells and sounds; even Grandfather had perhaps underestimated just how perfect of a laboratorium assistant that made him.

When no more contenders came at them for a moment, though it would no doubt be a short respite, the Wight looked at the ritual septagram and the pile of Ratmen corpses stacked in its centre, recognition of its purpose making him grow tense with anticipation.

“Let me.”

“No. I can do it.”

Heskel nodded seriously. “Say it clear.”

“I know. I remember the words, do not fret.”

Of course Jakob knew that he had to make sure his voice did not waver and his inflection did not stray. A mistake now could have apocalyptic side-effects, or well, only if performed within Helmsgarten proper. He was slightly insulated from that kind of failure by their enclosed confines of the sewers, but he had also ensured to place very strict limitations on the ritual beforehand, so there was no chance of backlash or mishap. Or well, not too much of a chance. It was never zero, even in the very best conditions.

Instead of offering up his own blood as Toll, he grabbed one of the mostly-intact Ratmen heads that had departed from its body and lifted it before the charcoal septagram and its mound of death.

“O Coveting Saint, give thy blessing upon this creation and lend thine envious spirit to its exhumation.”

“With thy blessing, animate the dead so they may seek their kin and take from them the life they lost.”

“Come forth, Covetous Vessel and seek the kin to whom your flesh and blood binds you.”

As he finished his lilting recital, the pile of dead half-rat half-human dwarves melted into an amorphous blob of bones, flesh, tendons, muscles, and blood, with the blood strangely serving as the outer layer. The abominable slime then rose up to a height of five metres, before exploding into a shower of globules each no bigger than a human skull. As they hit the stone floor, the blobs immediately took a multitude of shapes, some like strange balls on stilt-like legs, others like comically-fat bats or strange tangles of thin appendages, and one in particular just growing half a leg and using it to launch itself in a set direction haphazardly.

Just like the dozens-upon-dozens of Ratmen, the globules of the Covetous Vessel split down every tunnel, some splitting into even smaller parts the deeper they ventured. It would perhaps take a day or two, but, sooner-or-later, each of the blobs would find a Ratman and bond to it, the reaction causing both the blob and the rat to melt into nothingness.

“That was quite something,” Jakob remarked, surprised despite having read about its effect when he first learnt of the ritual.

“Seventh Saint… spiteful and destructive,” Heskel commented.

“But in the right hands, Her vindictiveness can be quite effective.”

The Wight just grunted in response.

“What should we do while we wait?”

“Guild; necklace lost.”

“Right. How could I forget…” he replied, suddenly void of enthusiasm.

Jakob took off his bone gauntlets and put his flesh-stitched gloves back on, as well as his scent-mask. After an indulgent puff of vapour exited the vents in the bottom of the mask, he pointed towards the large, halfway-submerged tunnel at the opposite end of the great cistern.

“I suppose we should check the most obvious place first.”

Jakob was not a confident swimmer, so, while Heskel swam across the lake, he took the gantry walkway to the other side and followed the wall as he treaded water from where the gantry ended to the tunnel. Splotches of a pitch-black tar-like substance on the gantry and in the water were the only remnants of the Ratmen that had been hunted down by the Covetous Vessel within the massive cistern, and, soon, those who had fled into the smaller passages would experience a similar fate. Once unleashed, the spell would not end until its purpose was fulfilled.

After they swam into the mouth of the tunnel, they found solid footing as only half the tunnel was submerged. The long curving walls snaked through the sewers in a ponderous path, but never changed elevation, which was unusual. At its egress, a smaller cistern resided, a long tube-like room that seemed to reach up to the surface above and down to the deepest levels of the sewer itself. Where exactly the shaft of this secondary cistern exited above was not hard to guess, as a grate in the ceiling far above constantly sent a waterfall of filth down one side of the room.

“Which part of the river do you think we’re below?”

Heskel looked up, then sniffed the air a few times, before answering, “Royal district and Armoury.”

That's quite far north, Jakob pondered. He had been this far north before, but not at this layer of the sewers, rather in the lower-middle, during one of Grandfather’s many trials. After all, the underbelly of Helmsgarten was bigger than what was seen above, as it dug deep into the mountainside it was built against. Only the first couple layers of the sewers mimicked the districts above in size, but as it dug deeper it was wider at the base, like a pyramid.

Atop the water in the centre of the large shaft floated a makeshift island of buoyant trash and driftwood, and upon this structure stood a T-shaped crucifix from which hung a partially-devoured woman, her legs and abdomen torn to shreds and her bones exposed to the air.

With Heskel’s aid, Jakob swam to the island, and it shuddered and bobbed when they ascended.

“Did they build this? This is akin to religious worship.”

“Even the littlest bugs worship.”

Suddenly, the woman gasped, as if waking from a nightmare.

“She’s still alive? Marvellous,” Jakob muttered, recognising her wounds as ones that should have been fatal, particularly due to the necrosis, not to mention the destruction of her lower intestines and kidneys.

“Sorcerer,” Heskel grumbled.

Jakob leant close and grasped the woman’s jaw with his gloved hand, lifting her head so he could see her face. Her eyes were milky-white and most of her hair had fallen out, leaving only wispy remnants behind. She was missing the cartilage of her nose, leaving just two holes where the septum would have been, and she had bitten through her lower-lip at some point. Perhaps, once, she had been beautiful.

“Kill… me…”

“That would certainly be a waste,” Jakob replied, and moved even closer, before whispering into her ear, “I shall make you whole. Make you more than whole. You will become perfect.”

The air started popping with tiny sparks in response and he felt a wind of charged potential energy, static electricity lifting the hairs on his face and making his skin tingle. Then a loud bang exploded against his hand where he still held her jaw and smoke rose from the fingers of his glove, where the outer layer of flesh had burnt to a sizzling crisp and become brownish-black.

“Lightning sorcery.” He was awed and exhilarated in equal measure.

Masters of lightning were feared for good reason, as there was little that could stand in their way. Fortunately, his flesh-stitched robes were more than just stain-resistant work-attire, but also served to protect him from flames, corrosion, frost and snow, most forms of concussive force, and, importantly in this case, it distributed the current of electricity and redirected it to only the outermost layers of skin. When Grandfather had taught him flesh-stitching, he had been excruciatingly thorough. Still, a direct lightning attack to his face would probably be lethal or at the very least lead to significant scarring and nerve-damage.

Before the half-alive woman could charge up another strike, Jakob swiftly drew a small cylindrical flask from within his robe and, after ensuring the seal on his scent-mask was airtight, pulled the stopper free. It only took seconds from when the woman breathed in the Ratstool-and-Stingberry concoction before she fell unconscious, her head slipping from his hand as he released his grip.

Only after she was incapacitated, did Jakob appreciate the barbaric nature of the crucifix she was pinned to:

Firstly, her hands were the only part of her body that was physically attached to the T-shaped wooden structure, and it had been done with shortswords that were meticulously hammered through her palms and into the crossbeam.

Secondly, though her clothes were gone, she still had a chain around neck from which hung a pendant that sparked immediate recognition. It was an Adventurer’s Badge, and it was bronze. Putting two-and-two together, this meant that she was decently-high-rank inside the Adventurers’ Guild, although nothing had been mentioned about a missing bronze-ranker.

Thirdly, at the foot of the crucifix lay a pile of ‘offerings’, mostly in the form of salvaged trinkets and provisional Guild badges like the one Jakob himself owned, not to mention a handful of iron ones. In total, more than twenty-seven Guild aspirants or members had been killed by the Ratmen, and, now that he got a better look at it, their bones had no doubt been used to construct the artificial island upon which they now stood.

Lastly, neither the necklace nor little girl were anywhere to be found.

“What should we do? Continue looking for clues?”

Heskel grunted.

“That was a pointless question, I know. Of course we’re going to remake this excellent specimen. A Wrought Servant with a mastery of lightning sorcery would be worth twenty times whatever knowledge we could gain from the Guild. An organisation that fails to notice this significant a number of lost members seems a wasted place for us.”

Jakob scratched his cheek as he contemplated what to remake the sorceress into, but, in truth, he had a particular design that had been floating around his imagination for a long, long time.

“Good thing I still have enough Demon’s Blood left.”