Chapter Text
As Gavel and his family reached the peak of the rolling hill, he looked down over the edge, scanning the lands before him. Faint specks of silk congregated atop his hat and the roof of his carriage, and he felt the wind carry with it a faint fragrance of lavender that stood out amongst the petrichor.
He pulled on the reins of his carriage, driving it to an abrupt halt, eliciting a yelp from his hopper.
“Easy, Shana, easy!” He stroked the beast, though his eyes lay glued upon the sight in the distance.
Before him stood the town of bells, set deep upon the cavern walls that bordered the shellwoods to the west. In times long past, it was a hotspot for commerce and administration within the moorlands, where pilgrims would take their final, yet brief bout of respite before their ascent up the steps. He had many a time travelled within its districts to trade, often buying brasswork and carting silk into its once bustling stalls. He had watched it wane slowly but surely, the lights within the bells dimming one by one.
The town looked nothing like it did then.
“Father, why’d we stop?” His eldest called from the back of the carriage.
“Nothing much, Havel. Something felt wrong with the wheels, is all.” he replied.
He couldn't remember the last time that the wall of bells had shone so brightly; every hole etched upon the brass being lit up with the light of one’s residence. Nor could he properly process the sheer scale of the tent city that now surrounded the town’s outskirts. Gilded and white, with banners of silk standing proud above the canopies, as if a grand army depicted in tales of old had seen fit to throw their full muster against Bellhart’s walls.
Gavel felt an uneasiness building in his stomach. Somehow, the sight made him feel more worried than awed. While he was no noble bug, he was an enthusiast in the more clerical disciplines, with all due respect to the histories, of course. While the length of his knowledge could certainly be called amateurish by citadel standards, he was certainly no lackwit.
It didn’t take a well learned scholar to wonder where all these bugs were getting their food from. By the looks of things, it appeared that the citadel above was failing to provide adequate supply, at least failing to provide enough.
The spooler looked back at his scythe, watching how the etchings warped the reflection of the metal edge. Just like that, an epiphany hit him, and he suddenly realised the true reason for his summons.
Gavel gripped the reins all the more tightly. “Onward, Shana! Let’s not tarry here any longer than we need ta!”
The carriage proceeded down the cobbled road, being wary of the hordes of potholes that now lay littered along its length. As they rounded a bend, the spooler soon spotted a small camp in the distance, erected along the sides of the road. It looked to be a processing site of sorts, from what he could tell. A line of carriages seemed to be lined up ahead of them, with choristers and scribes taking note of any travellers that went through.
One of them raised a claw at him as they approached, urging him closer.
“Oi! You there!” The scribe said. He wore long robes etched with the citadel's patterns, inlaid with brass and bronze along the waist and shoulders. While he spoke casually, Gavel could tell that he was someone of high importance.
“I see that sickle you hold there, spooler. It's certainly well made for a moorbug. I’ve seen very few like it.” He inspected, pointing his quill at him. “Have you received the summons?”
“Aye, that I did, my lord. As for my humble implement here, it was an heirloom passed down in my family for generations. Is it… at all necessary for me to give proof of ownership?”
“No, not at all. As long as you know how to use it, that is.” The scribe was jotting down something into his scroll. “Disciple of the reaper saint… total of four individuals… one working, one apprentice, two non-essential.” He muttered before gazing back up to the spooler.
“Please step down for a visual inspection,” he lazily said.
“Er, of course.”
Gavel nervously stepped down from his carriage, watching as he took out a strange implement from within his garbs.
The scribe inspected his arms and legs, testing his strength, then his reaction time, then his face and mouth. He did little to hide his contempt for the spooler’s relative lack of hygiene, yet didn’t openly comment on it. He asked him about his eldest too, and whether or not he was fit to work, but didn't bother with giving another inspection.
“Last test, I would like to hear your singing voice, please.”
Gavel looked at him, confused. “My voice? I— it's…”
“Any song will do, this is just to test your vocal range. By Monarch above, try not to stall any longer than needed, please. I have far too much on my plate as is.”
Gavel sang his best, though his voice was old and croaky, like an ill-tuned harp, if it sounded like a drum, that is. The scribe cringed hard as he listened.
“In times past, your poor voice would have seen you struck down upon the blasted steps. Be grateful that our monarch has seen it right to rescind its sinful status.” The bug casually said, though with no discernible malice. “Head onward past the creek down the road to your left. Many others like you will have gathered there. Be on your best behaviour, as the minister will be there to brief you on your task.”
Minister? From the high halls? Here in these lowly moors? The situation must have been more serious than he anticipated.
It took a moment for the scribe to finish writing on his scroll, but he eventually gave the spooler a slip of silk, stamped with the citadel's crest. The text was fanciful, filled with far too much flowery language for him to make out.
“Show this to the guards when you arrive. Don’t lose it. Now, be on your way.”
Gavel made his way back to his carriage, slightly bewildered, but content, clutching the document he was given like a glass necklace.
“What wus tha’ about, pa?” His daughter asked as he sat down at the front.
“Official business, dear. Adult things.”
“Adult things? Sounds boring.”
“You wouldn't be wrong about that.” Gavel sighed. He gripped the reins, commanding his hopper onwards.
Passing over a rickety bridge over a creek, they soon arrived at the outskirts of the tent city. The air was cooler here owing to the lower elevation, and the wind gently blew down the hill from behind angled towards his back, disrupting the nearby foliage, while also causing nearby banners to flutter in the breeze.
The tents were dyed a polished white that stood out brightly amongst the grey of the surrounding landscape, their edges embroidered with golden threads that spoke to their high status— a commodity amongst the citadel, it seemed. The citizens themselves carried themselves far differently from those of the Moors. They held their heads high, and walked in a strange, controlled manner that looked far out of place among the simpler moorlands.
Gavel found himself subconsciously keeping his head down, tipping his hat to better conceal his face. These bugs are of a far higher caste, he remembered. It would be best not to draw any undue attention to himself.
The family soon arrived at a clearing, where other bugs of a similar manner to him had been gathering. As soon as they arrived, they spared no effort in setting up a modest camp, gathering a bundle of sticks for a fireplace. A wandering chorister had summoned the spooler soon after, to which he had left watch of the campsite to his eldest.
He joined up with dozens of other moorbugs, with many of them carrying farming implements of various sorts. Most of them heirlooms, he reckoned. They eventually converged with a few other groups near a wide clearing, standing before a raised platform upon which the citadel bugs stood. (though in truth, he would later notice, it was more a pile of crates than a proper platform)
“To the devout of the moors! You stand before Minister Hirus, of the House of the 11th Symphony!” The envoy announced, ringing the bell at the end of his staff. The minister emerged from the left with a pair of reeds as escort, hovering slightly above the platform as he looked over the crowd. A melody followed him as he entered, a short chorus of strings and bells that served to further bolster his presence before them.
The spooler watched as the horde of moorbugs then began kneeling one after the other, bowing their heads in fealty. He quickly did the same.
Gavel felt a knot tightening in his stomach, his head shrinking down on his own shell. He would’ve been lying if he said that he didn’t feel completely out of his depth at the moment, for before him flew the sort of bugs that most of his lowly caste would only ever hear of in books or through official scrolls. To see them now standing here to address them personally was almost too surreal for him to grasp.
“Oh devout bugs of the moors, humble yourselves before the glory of the Citadel above, and our Monarch pale, for a commandment shall now be issued amongst you blessed few.” The Minister said slowly, deliberately, the silver threads on his garbs glistening with his every minute movement. Gavel never thought he’d ever seen such a vast display of riches in his life until now. The gold, the silver, the polished gemstones lining his carcanet— the minister was practically covered in the citadel’s sheer wealth.
“As you many of you may already know, either by hushed rumour or passing word, the citadel is in great need of able claws, claws that can till the earth with skill and finesse, both for the intention of reaping the harvest, and imparting knowledge upon those who lack the same wisdom.”
“I shall not lace my words with silver. The citadel is on the cusp of starvation. Our orchards have been ravaged with decay— our gardeners decimated by time or haunting. What few remain have been put to work, though they alone cannot support what remains of our people. We need you, the bugs of the moors, the scattered followers of the reaper, to act as this citadel’s lifeline, its salvation! With your mortal claws, till the earth of these bleak dark lands, these grey aching moors, that its former glory might soon be reclaimed.”
“This gathering— this summit that we have set up here— is all for the purpose of briefing you on your new tasks. Of course, with great toil comes even greater rewards, and our monarch has resolved to bestow upon you many of these. In addition to lands and honorary titles, all eight thousand one hundred and eighty-one of you have been chosen to receive a blessing most holy.”
“Today, there will be no need for morning mass, for you, the lowly, yet faithful, have been chosen to join our choir in song! Lend us your voices, your hearts, your faith! That the divine may see you worthy of basking in her presence!”
Gavel felt his chest tighten at the minister's words. It was moving too fast for him to process.
The monarch, their goddess, was coming here? To bless them? After all their multitudes of sin and follies? All around him, dozens of the more emotional moorbugs fell to their knees, muttering prayers as they wept in gratitude. He felt the tightness in his chest constricting him further.
He too muttered a prayer, albeit far more discreetly. He was unworthy, truly unworthy.
The minister ushered them out, leading them to the sight of a dozen envoys and yet even more moorbugs crowded behind them. Just how many were being gathered?
The procession, or rather, the great crowd to more accurately describe it, made their way down the dirt trail, led on by the envoys at the front, muttering hymns, and ringing their bells and incense as they continued on. They soon arrived at the site of a field, more a miniature valley, slowly leading downwards onto a small stream.
Gavel’s breath suddenly hitched, his mind grinding to a halt with awe at the sight that was now set before him. There, on the other side of that small body of water, stood ranks upon ranks of citadel bugs, thousands, maybe tens of thousands of them all bowing their heads in reverence. In front of them stood a massive orchestra, with what must’ve been hundreds more bugs holding up a great array of instruments, ranging from tiny flutes at the front, all the way to Enormous bass strings at the very back, held up by the grand reeds themselves. The entire assembly was led by none other than a Conductor, one of the few he remembered that still drew breath, flanked by his maestros who mirrored his movements.
All that gold, all that glistening lustre was now humming a low tune in perfect synchronicity, which, while quiet when sung on the lonesome, was amplified many times by the shape of the surrounding landscape.
But even the sight of all these bugs paled in comparison to what now stood upon a large outcrop that cut through the surrounding stream. She was brilliant. She was holy. She was beautiful. She was Divine. Gavel felt sinful for even setting his eyes upon her, feeling the glare of her silk stinging his eyes for his arrogance— though strangely enough, he found himself lacking the will to pull them away, more the opposite, in truth. His gaze remained locked even as he took his position along the side of the valley.
The strangest feeling came over him the more he stared. He felt a sensation upon his face, a distinct moisture forming around his eyes. His claw reached to wipe it off. They were tears, it seemed. How peculiar.
A horde of memories, foreign, not his own, bombarded his mind. A deep sorrow overcame him. He remembered seeing these visions before, somewhere, somehow. But they were hazy, constantly on the verge of slipping from his grasp, no matter how hard he reached out to them.
The Silk. The Holy Silk. It was everywhere. In the caverns the valleys the hills the seas—
Stare till thine eyes wither
The order to begin rang out, a collection of bells chiming in the wind to accompany the earlier humming.
What was he thinking about again? The spooler shook his head.
The song. Of course. He had to give it his all. He had to show himself worthy of her blessings, impossible as it might have been. He began to hum in line with the rest of his fellows, getting a good feel for the melody before finally giving his voice.
It was often said in tales of old, that in the beginning, the great caverns of the world were once bathed in perpetual darkness. There was nothing that grew from the cavern soils, nothing that scoured the sightless lands— nothing cried out their presence, or sang out their tune, cept for the chittering of the fell beasts and the drilling of the great Wyrms.
It was said that in those days, the pale gods set their gaze upon those darkened lands, and brought with them their light, their brilliance, bestowing their gifts upon the empty caverns, and more relevantly, upon the skies above.
But Gavel was never one to believe in such tales. To suggest a world bereft of their light to guide and enlighten was a terrible thought to behold.
But now, seeing what could only be described as a divine miracle, Gavel could not help but wonder if those stories had held some substance to them all along.
The monarch’s silk, the very material he had spent a lifetime collecting and spooling, began to glow brilliantly, hovering up in the air as a cloth does on a bowl of water. The crowd's voices only grew bolder in response, reaching a crescendo as the tune entered a serene chorus.
The Monarch raised up her arms, a pale glow surrounding them as they became four, then eight, the silk of her hair flowing onto each of her palms in a smooth, fluid motion, like a host of rivers converging down into the sea.
She began to weave a pattern. A great rune that grew and grew as she added successive layers to it, the symbolism of which he couldn’t possibly begin to fathom. The silk flowed like water in between her silver claws, rising and falling with a precision that not even the weavers themselves could have possibly emulated.
When the rune had finally finished, the artifice began to ascend into the wind, growing ever more radiant as it rose. With a brilliant flash, the light exploded across the skies, bringing once more its long-lost blessing upon the caverns of the moors.
The grasses turned a shade of viridian green, invigorated with life, while the soil beneath them became a rich brown, soft, and filled with vitality. Though the rains continued pouring down same as ever, Gavel spotted an archway high above the valley, stretching out from side to side. It was a rainbow, he knew, a product of divine will, the sheer splendor of which could never be fully contained by the texts that described it.
And just like that, the spooler, now turned farmer, fell to his knees in prayer— for the skies of the moors brightened with a warmth it had not seen in a long, long age.
Hornet’s arms disappeared beneath her cloak, the last vestiges of the well-spent soul flickering out into thin air all around her. She stood upon the outcropping, her expression blank, yet her gaze remaining fixed upon the skies, watching the drifting strings of silk that now once more brightened up the caverns.
She felt absolutely enraptured. The melody of their song, the very essence of their worship, gave her a bliss like nothing else in the world could provide. She could feel the awe of her worshippers, their adoration, radiating off of them and rushing over to her, nourishing her soul as rain might nourish a withered sapling.
It was a simple, yet clever cycle of worship and belief. With her citizens' worship serving to empower her, the stores of silk she had spent for the spell had already been fully replenished, and with a large surplus to boot. It was a system that she, and likely many of the other neighbouring pale gods had long exploited since the beginning.
It was much better this way, was it not? A tiny voice chirped in her mind. Whereas her first daughter’s songs carried with them the barest hints of a far deeper sort of disdain, the song she had been so kindly serenaded with was utterly pure, filled with nothing but the love of only the most loyal of followers. (despite the somewhat amateurish execution.)
To be loved, to be venerated, rather than feared or begrudgingly respected. Is it even comparable?
Perhaps. She wasn’t completely sure. It had its merits, yes, but kindness alone did not save kingdoms. It was only when brought with the strength of one’s will could her desires be achieved.
What of your will, then? How will it fare when tested to its limits? Will it bend? Or…
The monarch shook her head. Too many jumbled thoughts. Too many half-formed voices. Now was scarcely the time for useless contemplation.
The soft flapping of wings caught her attention. A minister carrying a stack of scrolls landed next to her discreetly, though his expression carried a feeling of grim worry.
“Your highness,” he whispered. “I bring word from the central quarters. It is urgent.”
“Has there been a development?”
“There’s been an attack.” He uttered. “Our food stores lie decimated.”
The queen narrowed her eyes. A setback then. And one that couldn’t have come at a worse time.
She turned to one of the nearby maestros. “Ready the Choir with haste.”
It didn’t take long for them to return to Bellhart, entering the outskirts with a full chamber behind them. With little Rite to announce her presence, Hornet burst into the complex, doing little to hide the strength behind her steps as she made her way to the food stores, or rather, what remained of it.
Dozens of citadel soldiers lay dead or injured, many of them cut to bits or crushed via blunt force trauma. None of their fallen adversaries remained at the scene, likely having been removed after the skirmish, though many tools or helmets fashioned with bone or chitin lay littered throughout the room.
“It was the skar.” A reed said, cradling his severed appendage. “We were going about our day, when the ground suddenly swallowed up our stockpiles whole. The damned ants came out soon after to take what was left.”
Hornet watched the scene with dismay. This was what she gained for her neglect.
It was enraging. It was humiliating. A God like her? Disrespected in such a manner by mere mortal bugs? She could have so easily prevented this had she been monitoring her people via her strings. She should’ve been more caring— more watchful. What was their privacy worth when they were under threat of starvation?
“There must have been a large number of them, to be able to overwhelm our choir. Much less to make off with a whole depot’s worth of goods. This was no small raiding force.” The Conductor said plainly, though Hornet was in no way surprised. She could intimately smell the sheer volume of pheremones lying in the air. It was a simultaneously acrid, yet flowery smell that was reminiscent of the warriors of the hive, yet tinged with the barest hint of bone.
“an unprecedented attack, especially considering the logistics of it.”
“Barring the obvious, have you any idea as to why they would do this?” She asked, hoping the conductor's knowledge would shine some light on the matter.
“Well, I do have some Idea. You see, a pact used to exist between both us and the ants long ago. In times past, the savages would often raid caravans along the roads, and devour many of our pilgrims who strayed too far from the streets. It was certainly a nuisance, but one that the weavers quickly put a stop to. “
“Both of our parties held an interest in maintaining the status quo, as it were. It wasn’t long until a treaty of non-aggression was signed, ensuring that no harm would be brought over either of us. As far as I know, It had remained in effect even as the haunting began ravaging the lands. It would be quite likely that they consider the treaty to be null and void, considering the… changing circumstances in leadership of our kingdom…”
"Indeed..."A memory came to the forefront of her mind. She remembered their kind well. Proud and tenacious, yet very easily subdued. It was only under that Queen of theirs that they’d resisted her influence. And from the looks of things, that strong, yet utterly mortal bug was already on the verge of eternal rest.
As they were now, they would be all too easy to crush beneath her heel. She would hunt down those thieves like the prey that they were.
“Your highness, I bring more news, this time from the east.”
Her internal monologue was given an abrupt halt by another call from one of the ministers.
“What is it now?” She almost growled.
“I-I meant not to intrude, your highness.” The minister croaked.
“There are more concerning reports. A large number of our imports have failed to arrive in the past few days. We’ve received word of attacks along the sides of certain roads. Worse still, word has arrived that the perpetrators have been burning the nearby towns.”
Vyre sat on a stone by the side of the road, his demeanor relaxed, though his eyes remained watchful as he scanned his surroundings periodically. He whispered a sombre tune as he rested. One of purity– one of loss. A song of burning pyres and swaying reeds.
He wore a thick, blood-red cloak. It was covered in a thin layer of grime, and was moist to the touch— a result of his travels all throughout the pale moors. On his claws lay a long staff, and on the staff hung a lantern fashioned of crude, blackened iron.
A subtle chittering grazed his ears. Vyre stared into the light’s depths, an activity he would usually do at his leisure.
Flames danced within the shell of his lamp. It enjoyed the sound of his voice. It whispered in his ear, commending him for a job well done.
He looked to his left, where a number of his fellows had gathered. The smell of ash was thick in the air. Had he done well?
Yes. The flames answered. You have done well.
Kindling. It demanded. MORE kindling.
Yes. He complied. There was more kindling yet to come. Just as soon as the rest of them were freed.
His fellows gathered the remaining travellers: 12 bugs, the same old moorlanders, 3 of exceptional purity.
Their carriage train lay scattered to the side, picked clean of any valuables. Right next to them lay the remains of their beasts of burden, all of them immolated and charred, offered up as sacrifice.
The burning bugs stood upon a pile of wood. One by one they hung the travellers upon hastily assembled stakes. Many of them pleaded, many of them cried, though all their words fell on deaf ears.
He could hear the sound of shells cracking every time a bolt was nailed in. One for the arms which were tied behind the posts, and two for each pair of legs to prevent further struggle.
The travellers were screaming now. They were rejoicing.
Vyre smiled at the sight. To see these lowly bugs… so ignorant, yet so eager to join their father in eternal rest— it almost made him jealous. He himself would have gladly offered himself up if given the opportunity, but the father had different plans for the likes of him. He would only join him when the day of judgement had finally arrived.
“Oh Father of the Flames…” The Fire Keeper muttered out in prayer. He was their representative, the greatest of their father’s tools. The one tasked with ferrying the souls of the myriad damned heathens, who knew not the salvation of the father, up into his arms— his warm embrace.
“We offer these souls to you… Let their shells serve as kindling! Let their ashes bestow nourishment!” He cried out. A burning alone would not be enough to deliver the ignorant souls. The Firekeeper served as their guide, ensuring that none of them would remain in the mortal world to suffer eternal torture, or worse still, to inflict pain on those that still lived.
Vyre was forever grateful to be under his tutelage. With the silk of the conqueror freed from their minds, the lord Firekeeper was ever quick to capitalise. He only hoped he could emulate but a fraction of his qualities.
Flames sprouted from the Firekeeper’s lamp, forming wings that hovered in the air above him. They orbited his head for but a few moments, before casting themselves down upon the weathered wood of the pyre.
The platform burst into flame, licks of blazing orange feasting on wood and chitin alike, and so did the screams increase tenfold.
“Sear us! Scold us!” The burning bugs said in unison. “All is fire! Fire is all!”
Kindling. His lamp whispered. Delicious kindling.
You’re welcome. Vyre whispered back, watching as the flames consumed the offering. It took a full minute for the screams to quiet down.
This was good. The father was appeased.
The Firekeeper raised his arms, walking into the flames. They licked at his garments, though did not consume them, instead parting where he walked, and yet growing in intensity until the rest of the bugs could no longer see his visage. The father would now grant him audience, it seemed.
It was a long moment before he finally emerged, his garbs dry and his expression grim. He began conversing with the gathered bugs in a hushed tone, one that came with an underlying franticness that unnerved everyone present.
The bugs' gazes grew ever more terror-stricken as he continued, and it wasn’t long before they had scurried off back to camp to spread the word.
One of the Servires approached, holding his own lantern behind his shoulder. “Brightbrother Vyre. How goes the watch?”
“Peaceful, as of now, brightbrother. My wisps sense no danger in the vicinity. What was the commotion back there?”
The Servire looked around, wary of any unwanted ears. “The father has given us a revelation most dire.”
Vyre’s eyes widened. “A revelation?”
“The end times are upon us,” he said plainly.
Vyre echoed the words with a whisper. The flames in his lamp flickered with rising tension as he studied his brother’s expression.
This was not good. Not good at all. But then again, was this not a joyous occasion? The climax of their efforts over the long ages was finally coming to an end.
“The Conqueror has awoken from her slumber on high. Just as the prophecies had foretold. Do you remember your time spent under her influence?”
“Not much, regrettably. It was… Never mind that. But yes, I do remember some of it.”
“As it has been revealed, the conqueror’s haunting was but a prelude to the coming storm. A great and terrible curse with which to tear apart her jailors, and herald her true awakening. The Citadel and all lands adjacent are now lost. And now she has unleashed her armies down into these barren moors, making war upon heathen and faithful alike.”
Vyre remembered the texts clearly. Contemporary events were unfolding just as the scriptures had predicted. He felt fear beginning to gnaw at his mind. He needed to pray soon, to cleanse himself of these burdensome thoughts.
“The father has shown us the monarch’s next motive. She no longer seeks to enthral us liberated few. She seeks to deliver upon us a far more terrible fate, worse than servitude. Worse than death. A fate so horrific that the mortal mind fails utterly to comprehend the depths of its evil. Our order has fought long and hard against the false light, though even our holy flames cannot burn away her silk, and now her threads constrict our haven ever tighter with each passing day.” The Servire said grimly, his own fear clear on his face.
He put a claw on his shoulder. “The final war looms near, brother Vyre, and our father cannot hold the gates open forever.”
“What are we to do?”
“Our goal now is to save as many bugs as possible from the monarch’s clutches. We are to head to the nearby towns, the hamlets, the mills, and gather up all the ignorant, heathen worshipers of the citadel, delivering upon them salvation with holy flame.”
“But what about the rest of them? What of those of whom our light cannot reach?”
“That… only damnation remains for them.” He uttered with pity. “They will all fall beneath the conqueror's light. Our flames cannot reach every bug, brother, no matter how enthusiastically spread. That is why we must multiply our efforts tenfold to rescue as many as we can. Only then may we finally join our father in fiery bliss.”
The burning bugs proceeded down the road, dimming their flames to mask their presence. The rain was heavier here, a steady flow of water compared to the mere drizzle they had previously experienced.
The silken mills in the distance drew closer and closer, and soon they were upon a drab village, a few dozen houses built around a small hill.
They entered without much fanfare, though it was clear even from the very start that the residents did not take kindly to their presence, as many went and hid in their homes, or gathered together with makeshift weapons in hand.
“Why, hello, good sir!” The village elder approached, a frail, old bug who had seen too many cycles. He greeted them with enthusiasm, trying his best to diffuse the situation, though his tone was tinged with an underlying current of apprehension. “What brings you and… your procession here to our humble village?”
Vyre did not respond, his gaze turning back to his compatriots. The mass of red cloaks parted, revealing the firekeeper, his lantern burning brightly among the dim greys of the town. A nervous silence took over as he made his way to the elder, stopping but inches away from where he stood.
“Good tidings, elder.” He leaned in close, too close. “You may call me Father Ardor. I hold the title of Firekeeper within my small congregation. As you may have already guessed, we have come here with a mission to fulfill. We wish to bring blessings of salvation upon all the bugs that live in this town.”
“Er… hehe… Might I ask what this Salvation entai—”
“Enough of this nonsense!” a bug behind the elder said. “Don't listen to him, Elder Moriss. He only seeks to spread his Pagan lies.”
The villager turned to Father Ardor, his mandibles chittering with anger. “I've seen your kind before. You're them burning bugs, aint cha? come ta take our kin as a sacrifice to your pagan god.” He gripped his threadcatcher on both claws, holding it at the ready against them.
“On the contrary, good spooler. We burning few do not sacrifice anyone. We only liberate. Only unshackle. We come here to deliver you all paradise, true, and without falsehood. To take you away from your dreary lives of endless toil to a Citadel that could not care less of your suffering, though you know it not.”
“gruzshit! We all know the truth. Our Monarch already descended upon our lands just a few days ago. Come here to smite you and your ilk no doubt.”
The Firekeeper’s smile disappeared. The flames in the burning bug’s lamps grew more agitated in response, causing tension to rise. The villagefolk began to stir in response, with many coming to the front wielding nothing but chair legs or broken bottles, while others began to cower or flee the scene.
“We offer you this one chance, elder, please, calm your people. Join us in immolation, that you may be freed from the unholy silk.”
“Sir Firekeeper, with all due respect, perhaps we should calm—
“We'd rather be crucified than join your heathen cult!” The bug beside him spat, a glob of spit landing on the firekeeper's cloak. He did not react.
“Well, we did try.” He finally said, the flames in his lamp erupting with renewed vigor.
The flames burst out of their iron cage, sprouting wings for a brief, shining moment before falling upon the hapless villagers in front of him.
Shells cracked, and cloth ignited as the wisp burned them alive, sacrificing its own brief moment of life in the process. Just like that, the whole scene erupted into chaos.
Fight or flight took over in an instant, with many of the villagers fleeing the carnage, attempting to get as far away from the ongoing massacre as possible. Others, mostly those brandishing makeshift weapons, chose to stay and fight, charging the mass of cultists.
Vyre, for his part, immediately took cover behind a nearby grain cart, summoning wisps to do his bidding. He heard their voices each time they were born, a flicker of thought that whispered in his mind each time they came to life, drowning out the surrounding clamour. Each thought would be directed towards him, a mention of gratitude, a tinge of happiness, sometimes nothing more than a faint nod of recognition, only to be just as quickly snuffed out as the wisps found their target.
The screams only grew in intensity as the moments passed. All around him the flames began to spread out through the town, engulfing building after building as his brothers spread out through the nearby alleyways. The one right next to him, a tavern of sorts, was quickly entered by a trio of his brothers, upon which smoke and flames soon began to rise from its windows. Vyre could hear sounds of a struggle coming from within, though he could not make out much more.
A few moments later, a moorbug stumbled out of the burning building, his clothing charred at the edges as he coughed violently on a nearby post, his dreg catcher tinged with blood instead of silk.
He looked in Vyre’s direction, his eyes locking onto the cultist with a mad rage. He gripped his staff in both hands, screaming out as he charged straight for him.
Vyre’s eyes widened with fear, attempting to dodge, but he found his legs moving too slow with his awkward position. One of his wisps struck the bug midway, causing him to momentarily stumble, his screams growing in intensity, though to his surprise did little to slow him, as he somehow maintained the momentum of his charge.
Vyre had just about stood up when he felt his shell cracking to the left of his stomach, a sharp pain reverberating across his body as the dreg catcher found its mark. The moorbug collapsed a second later, having succumbed to the intense heat.
RIIIPPP!
“AAGGH!”
Vyre looked down upon his shell, cradling the wound with one of his arms. The tool had lodged itself deep, though from what he was seeing, it was not enough to spear him through. Slowly, and with great care, he dragged himself onward, careful not to wander too close to any of the fighting, this time concealing himself behind a pile of empty spools.
“Healer!” He cried out. “I’ve been injured!”
A bug laid a claw on his shoulder from behind, causing him to jump, only to realize that they were already by his side. The bug’s face was cowled entirely by his hood, and was somewhat wet, though Vyre could not tell if it was due to the rain, or simply bloodsplatter.
“Your shell’s been cracked quite badly.” The Healer said, to which Vyre merely nodded. He dared a peek over the corner, watching one of his brothers charge, only to be skewered through the head by what looked to have been a massive rake of sorts. Vyre found himself wincing at the sight.
“Flee! Flee to the community hall!” The villager called out, urging his fellows to follow, a mass of them running uphill.
“After them!” The burning bugs were hot on their trail, setting alight the surrounding houses in pursuit.
“Try not to move too much while I work.” The healer pestered him, rubbing a balm upon his open wound. Vyre braced himself as the balm touched the exposed flesh, feeling a sharp pain upon contact, only for it to dissipate moments later, the wound already beginning to mend. The healer then stitched up the gash, applying another balm before wrapping his torso with rags.
“Be on your way.” The healer patted him on the back. “But try to avoid physical confrontations. Stay near the rear if possible.”
“Understood, brother.”
Vyre stood up, walking through the burning marketplace and uphill to where his brothers were gathering. To his side, he saw his compatriots summoning wisps behind cover, picking off any stragglers that hadn’t already made it uphill.
However, their safe spot wasn't safe for long, as a tall moorbug emerged from the ground right below them, their rake stabbing into the closest cultist. Vyre stopped dead in his tracks, deciding to head off somewhere else.
He eventually found a spot near the community hall, a small space between two burning houses. He spotted his compatriots arranging themselves along the side of the street, daring not to expose themselves. Vyre wondered why this was the case, only to find the street littered with his allies' corpses, each of them skewered with a rake or some other long implement.
From the looks of things, the last clump of defenders in front of the community hall were to blame for this, as despite being mere spoolers, they seemed highly adept at tossing their weapons, and with great strength to top it off, the accuracy of which was nothing to scoff at.
He could hear his brothers chanting beside him, their voices low at the start, though growing progressively louder as they continued.
“—And so, the bright courage of the maiden was not outshone by the threads, or the ghosts down low, and on the 12th hour of the 12th day of the 12th month of the ember year, a house opened within the shoots, which she entered with great reverence. Within that house was a box, and within that box was a lamp. And from that lamp poured out Flame!”
A great ball of fire manifested above them, sprouting wings before transforming into an enormous wisp, far larger than its compatriots. The villagers watched with terror as it soared out and upon them like a loosed arrow, causing a great explosion that shattered windows all throughout the settlement.
With the deed done, and the last pockets of resistance finally flickering out, the burning bugs closed in on the community hall, walking over the burnt remains of the villagers, already beginning to crumble down into fine ash.
The survivors were wrangled out shortly thereafter, most of them among the sick, the young, and the old.
The Firekeeper stepped forward, his gaze shifting to the burnt corpses with a curious look.
“Gather the bodies of our brothers and sisters. Have them burnt.” He said to some.
“At once, lord firekeeper.”
“As for you, well…” He addressed the survivors.
“Our efforts have come at a great cost to us, you see. Many of our kin unfortunately remain slain, and their positions in need of replacement.”
“We’ll never join you!” One of the braver bugs spat, though he paid them no heed.
“We offer you two choices. One, you may take the gate to paradise, burned away of sin and folly alike, or two, you may choose to stay, and join us in this most holy of wars.”
A scuffle followed. Many made it clear their hatred for the brotherhood, and were quickly put to the torch where they stood, which proved sufficient to silence the remainder into submission. They all bowed in surrender, though many muttered heathen prayers as they did so. Vyre was not at all concerned. Those would soon be burned out of them once they were properly initiated.
With their decision made, the Firekeeper nodded, signaling one of his sisters to bring over the branding Iron. She very quickly seared their shells, causing them to cry out in agony. It was only when their heads were covered with the order’s blood red shawls that their struggles ceased, their new identities as tools of the father taking hold within them.
The makings of a smile crept up Vyre’s face. These fresh recruits could do much good for the remains of the world, if given the time to grow. It was a shame they’d likely never live to see their full potential, with the destruction of the world looming above.
“Sear us! Scold us!” The burning bugs said in unison.
“All is fire! Fire is all!”