Chapter Text
Grab, stretch, wrap.
His paws moved mindlessly, turning the handful of webs into a fist sized bundle. He shoved the soon-to-be silk into his pocket, already reaching for another handful. His pawsteps were the only sound as he made his way through the familiar darkness. In some places, where the stone had been covered by soft moss and the soil it eventually turned to, even they were muffled, leaving him in eerie silence. It was always quiet, this far down in the tunnels. That was generally a bad thing, what with how many predators lurked in the dark, but the domain of war could be surprisingly peaceful if you knew the right paths.
Silk Cradle had grown on him after all this time. He liked the dim light of the glowing fungi and magicked candles, illuminating the crumbling remains of past eras. He loved how far away from everything it seemed, how quiet it was.
Then he reached the entrance to Spinneret, and light and noise proceeded to hit him like a stone wall.
The caves opened up, the ceiling arching out of sight to make room for a sprawling, densely packed disaster of a town. Lanterns hung from every surface imaginable, chasing away the comforting dark and illuminating the rainbow of booth awnings and signs. Whatever space was left between the buildings and booths was crammed with people. Merchants praised their goods and customers haggled over prices, the inattentive or unlucky screamed at long gone thieves and con artists as friends chatted over street food and acolytes stood on crates and steps to preach to whoever was listening. He was barely a couple steps into the swarm when he nearly tripped over a raccoon kit racing along the path, barely recovering in time to avoid falling on a badger who looked just as annoyed as he felt.
Spinneret’s market was perhaps the largest in the region, and it was an absolute mess. The crowding was so bad being trampled felt like a serious danger, and seeing where you were going just wasn’t an option. Not that you knew where you were going anyways. Salespeople claimed spots wherever they could, and it was never the same salespeople either. Some of the merchants were locals, but a lot of them were nomads who’d show up every other market day or every other year, or switch between the two without warning. So every fortnight, everything was in an entirely different spot, and he was stuck walking in circles trying to figure out the day’s layout.
At the very least, the merchants tended to group themselves with their respective peers. He wandered aimlessly until he stumbled into where the weavers had set up, then tightened the circles he was walking in until he found the spinners and then the dyers and then finally located Merar’s cart.
The whole adventure took far too long, and Merar’s cart wasn’t exactly discreet either.
Anywhere else, the white wood and awning, intentionally splattered with every color imaginable, would have stood out like a beacon. The explosion of color became both more organized and more vibrant behind the counter, where a gradient of thread and cloth covered the entire wall. Merar fit right in, with her deep blue shell and her indigo pincers and her hands that were always stained. Today they were splattered with berry juice magenta, which had also made its way onto her clothes. A warm smile spread across her face when he elbowed his way out of the crowd. “Good afternoon, Narin”
“Afternoon” He dumped a dozen spools of undyed silk thread onto the counter. They shimmered faintly in the lantern light, the same bright, pure white as the undyed portions on the canopy and the embroidery on his own clothes. The dyer piled coins in stacks of five as he dug through his disaster of a bag in search of the coin pouch. Neither of them bothered with small talk. It was something he appreciated about Merar, the way she was friendly and quiet simultaneously.
His bag was always a mess. With their lack of storage space at home, his stuff tended to just stay in the backpack. He dug up a spare jacket, his notebook, the shopping list, a crushed camellia flower, and the pen he’d been looking for yesterday before he began to get the sinking feeling that the coin pouch hadn’t made it into his bag that morning. Scowling, he sat the bag on the counter and kept digging. He was on the verge of just dumping the thing out when Merar stiffened.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she responded, her eyes locked on something behind him. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost. “Don’t look”
Obviously, he looked immediately.
He really shouldn’t have.
There were followers, and then there were cultists . It was the latter that was striding down the street, daggers at their sides. A path cleared for them as they walked like it was their divine right to have people get out of their way. Ever-so-slightly ratty robes obscured everything about their appearance, reducing them to specters that had descended on the town. Even guessing at their species wasn’t possible. At least, not in the heartbeat before Narin turned back, yanking his hood down as low as he could get it. Deep gray silk covered his eyes as he stared down at the counter, forcing his breathing steady.
He was just one more face in the crowd. One lone black cat running errands. There was no reason they would notice him.
After what felt like far too long, Merar relaxed. He allowed himself to relax with them, as much as he could.
“They’re just passing through,” she said nervously “At worst they’re shopping”
He wasn’t sure which one of them the reassurance was meant for.
Giving up on the pouch, he swept the coins directly into his bag, where he’d no doubt have to dig for them for every purchase he made today. “Have a nice day, Merar”
“You as well,” she responded, just before the crowd swallowed him whole. “May They of Might watch over you,”
The rest of the errands were completed in even more of a rush than usual. The coin from Merar ran out after getting the essentials, leaving him with only half the list crossed off. Maybe it was in his head, but the bodies around him seemed to be getting denser and louder with every passing moment, suffocating him as he shoved his way forwards. One hand was practically strangling the embroidered straps of his bag. The other was keeping his hood pulled down as low as it could get without blinding him. By his final stop, he wasn’t sure how he was resisting the urge to claw his way out of this hellscape.
But then he reached a set of ancient wooden doors. Doors that towered above him, carved with spiderwebs and ancient symbols and thrown wide open, welcoming whoever passed them. Suddenly, he could breathe again.
He released his death grip on the bag and reached out for the centuries old wood, his fingertips tracing the carvings as he entered the library.
To followers of the bishop of war and wisdom, a library was as holy as any shrine, so the place got a lot of traffic. But despite the bustle of patrons coming in and out, the students and acolytes coming to study and the parents coming for picture books, it was almost as quiet as the tunnels. Just as quiet, but a different breed of it. The labyrinth outside was a battleground after the war had passed, a dead land, save for whatever beasts were left hiding in the dark. This wasn’t emptiness, wasn’t a fear of being too loud. There just wasn’t a need for noise. The mum of this place was something holy, something beautiful. You didn’t disrespect it.
“Pajul,” He approached what was unfortunately the only open station, lowering his voice automatically. The pangolin wasn’t fond of him. She was a stickler for order, with a tendency to take every late book as a personal offense. He couldn’t help the twinge of pride when she finished checking everything back in and then double-checked his record. Nothing was missing, he’d even remembered the one he’d forgotten last time. Her mood visibly worsened at the realization that she couldn’t suspend his card today.
He responded to this by smiling as innocently as he could and thanking her politely, then retreating before she could lob something at his head.
The Spinneret Town Library had been built directly into one of the caverns, following its curves and edges. A long central corridor ran through the tunnel, scattered with desks and comfy chairs, sandwiched between twin rows of shelves packed to near bursting. Above them, silk threads so fine they were nearly invisible hung suspended between stalactites, supporting lanterns that filled the space with a soft blue glow. Tapestries identified the contents of each shelf, age fading the colors but failing to obscure their detail or their beauty. History was an hourglass, the last pinch of sand eternally moments from falling, swirling ghosts of the infamous trapped in the bottom bulb. There was probably a metaphor in that, but he didn’t stop to ponder it.
Before long, the straps of his bag were digging into his shoulders, a warning that it may not be able to hold much more. Ignoring this, he pulled down an absolutely ancient theology book and flipped through the yellowed pages.
Nothing. Nothing useful anyways, nothing he hadn’t read a hundred times over. Sighing, he slid the book back onto the shelf-
-just as a massive crash reverberated through the cave.
Startled curses broke the final fragments of quiet as he stepped out from the shelves to see what had happened. He wasn’t the only one, pretty much every patron in the library was sticking their heads around shelves and looking up from books. And, judging by the fact that someone across the aisle screamed and a fox kit started sobbing, he wasn’t the only one whose heart nearly stopped.
She was on her knees over someone's fallen form, helping them back to their feet. One of the librarians, the wolf with the long scar across one eye. They were trembling so badly it was a surprise he could stand, but she kept a warm smile and a firm grip on his hands as she steadied him. Her mouth was moving, but it’s hard to hear someone halfway across a massive library, especially when your heart is pounding in your ears. He stumbled back into the shadows, letting them swallow his dark clothes and darker fur as he forced himself to breathe.
No strange black and crimson fire. No screams and corpses littering the floor. Not yet, at least.
“Be not afraid” The melodic voice filled the space, echoing off the walls and burying itself in his mind. The clop of hooves on stone soon joined it. “I mean no harm.
I’m only looking for something”
He scrambled backwards until he hit the wall. He whirled around to see stone rising up behind him, pulse spiking. The shelves that had been so comforting moments ago boxed him in, leaving nowhere to run except forward. Forward, where the sound of a bell had started coming closer.
Neither the librarians nor the cleaners appreciated people climbing on the shelves, something he knew for… reasons. But in this particular situation, he didn’t think they could really blame him.
He threw himself down on the top of the shelves, dust gathering on his fur and clothes. He was only halfway to the ceiling, but that was still quite a height.
If the library had a back exit, he didn’t know about it, and there was no way he was going down that aisle. So that left lying here until they found him or-
He landed on all fours on the next shelf, wincing as the bag slammed against his back. Biting back a curse, he waited for the footsteps to stop, for a shout of “who’s there?”, a blast of dark fire to incinerate him. Nothing. He tightened the straps so the next jump wouldn’t fracture his spine, pulled his hood back to see better, steadied himself, and leaped.
In his head, he started keeping track of what section he was on top of. He was back in the history section. Now he was above the magical texts. Now the sciences. Which sciences? He couldn’t remember, he’d never spent much time there. He passed by her somewhere above the medical texts. His heart had just about stopped, but she’d kept walking, not looking up. The rest of the sciences. Construction and architecture. At some point, he’d jumped right over the head of some trembling butterfly. He was the only one moving, he realized. The only mortal, at least.
Art. Literature and classics, those were in the front. Three more shelves. Two. One-
He perched on top of the final shelf, trying not to hyperventilate and processing just how much mostly empty space was between him and the doors.
Taking a deep breath, he climbed back down and pressed himself in the corner between the shelves and the wall. The librarians didn’t even notice him slinking towards the doorway. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the center aisle. Pajul had her arm around the still shaking wolf, practically holding him upright. Nagre , he suddenly remembered. Weren't they seeing each other? He seemed to remember overhearing someone gossiping about them.
He really hoped they survived this.
She’d closed the doors, the source of the crash. He wasn’t sure how someone shorter than he was had managed to slam a set of doors at least six times his height. There was no way he could have done the same without at least two or three people helping him, but he didn’t need them open all the way.
Casting a last look over his shoulder, he braced himself and shoved the massive door as hard as he could.
It didn’t occur to him until after an earsplitting screech had drawn every pair of eyes in the room that doors that towered above houses and were likely centuries old might not be oiled very regularly.
A wave of sudden cold slammed into his back. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, but it was as if time had stopped for him and only him. He looked down to see frost coating his fur, encasing him in a layer that wouldn’t even let him shiver.
“There’s truly no need for that” The frost was already beginning to melt, but it was still a struggle to even turn his head to look at them. “I mean no harm to any of you. I’m merely…”
The Lamb trailed off as she came face to face with him. She stopped a few feet away, so still you’d think her own magic was affecting her too.
A pair of endless black eyes locked on his three red ones. He was suddenly very aware that his face was uncovered.
The goddesses mouth opened, closed, opened again. Finally, she choked out a hoarse whisper. “Narinder?”
The freezing layer broke, leaving him standing before a wide-eyed, stone still goddess.
So, logically, his first course of action was to throw his backpack at her face.
She stumbled back, suddenly much less intimidating as her hands came up to cradle a bloody (hopefully broken) nose. He threw his full weight against the door, the hinges shrieking once more. The sound was still reverberating off the cavern walls as he took off down the street, not daring to look back.
There is a rhythm to running for your life. You don’t think much, you just go. The back streets blurred by, until the light tapered out and released him back into the caverns. Inky black fur and deep gray clothes melted into the darkness as he wove through the dim tunnels, past the spiderwebs and remnants of statues. He didn’t look back and didn’t slow down, not until he reached a mess of collapsed columns.
It looked like any other ruin in these caves, the kind most would just walk by. Narin bounded onto the first one, then dropped himself into a mostly hidden gap between them.
He nearly landed on top of the bishop of pestilence.
Kallamar shrieked. His hand connected with the cut glass inkwell at his side, as he scrambled out of the way, reeling off swear words under his breath. Deep blue ink spilled over the golden moons painted on the floor tiles.
“Watch it!” He snapped, scooping up the inkwell with one hand and his fallen sketchbook with the other.
“Why were you sitting below the entrance?!”
“Why are you here!” he responded. “Shouldn’t you be burying yourself in old books right now?”
Long ago, this had been someone's armory. The weapons had still been on the walls when they found it, gathering dust like the old bones on the floor. They'd gone through the blades, claiming the ones they liked, selling the ones they didn’t, and tossing those that were simply in bad shape. They’d planted camellias in the old urns, stuffed the chests with their belongings. It was surprisingly cozy, with candles flickering in nooks in the walls and their stuff eternally all over the floor. It was also, other than the two of them, abandoned.
“Where is everyone?”
“They went out hunting.” Kallamar responded, rescuing his art supplies and getting up off the ground. “They won’t be back for ages, I was rather looking forward to having some time to myself for once-”
“The Lamb is here”
The inkwell hit the ground and shattered, blue black ink pooling on the floor. Narin stepped over the puddle and threw open the old offerings chest. “Help me pack”
Of all the things the others could have done today, hunting was by far the worst. Silk Cradle was massive. It could take a month to travel from end to end. The tunnels twisted and looped back and ran over and under and through each other. It was a labyrinth, and they had no clue where to start looking.
They wandered through the mostly-darkness, carrying the weight of five people's belongings and their own weapons. He had on Heket’s bag over his own, his scythe in one hand and Leshy’s bag in the other. Kallamar just had his things and Shamura’s, but that was a fair amount of weight when Shamura’s stuff included most off the books. He kept shifting their bag from one hand to the other, though that might have just been nerves. His eyes darted back and forth between shadows, jumping at every noise. Narin would be lying if he said he wasn't doing the same.
They stumble on the remains of a poison spider after a while. The corpse dwarfed them, fresh enough that whatever scavengers could stomach the toxic flesh have yet to descend. Something noxious smelling still oozed from its wounds. Bloody footprints headed upwards, disappearing after a few steps.
They took this as a sign they were going the right way.
Narin laid out the short version of the day while they walked. By the time he was finished, Kallamar looked like he was either going to pass out or throttle him.
“You threw a backpack at the Lamb ” The words were barely more than a whisper.
“It worked!”
Kallamar groaned, covering his face with his free hand as he muttered something about “total lack of survival instincts,” which was totally unfair considering he had managed to avoid being incinerated.
Other than Kal muttering to himself, the heavy silence of the tunnels smothered them. He kept his ears open as they walked, listening for the quiet chittering and hissing of arachnids, or the rather louder sound of things being killed. He heard something else instead.
He stopped dead, causing Kallamar to nearly run into him. “What-”
“Quiet.”
Ding
Ding
Ding
Shit.
He turned back to Kallamar. “Run”
Any vague idea of where they were going was abandoned. They zigzagged through the caves, skidding around corners, pulling each other over ruins, ducking through passages they knew were hazardous. Anything to try and throw her off. He barely registered when his paws began to ache from slamming against the stone and his arms and back screamed from the weight he was carrying. Just go, just go, just go-
Kallamar grabbed the back of his jacket, nearly taking him off his paws. “Narin!”
He yanked the cloth out of their grasp and kept running.
“Nar-”
“Keep going,” He panted. All he could hear was that damned bell, echoing off walls and ricocheting through his mind.
They could handle this. They just had to find the others, and get out of here, maybe to the mountaintops or down to Anchordeep, they’d be starting all over but they’d done it before, they’d figure it out and where the fuck was Kallamar?
He skidded to a halt as he registered his brother's absence, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Kal?” He staggered in a circle, desperately searching for his brother's form in the shadows.
Ding
Ding
Ding
“Kallamar! Kal!-”
His scream was cut off as another blast smashed into him.
Whatever had so alarmed the Lamb earlier, she’d clearly gotten over.
The crown melted off her head, reforming itself into a gleaming sword. She rammed the hilt into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs before the blade pressed against his throat. The frost broke, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air.
“All right.” she said, eerily calm. “I’m guessing the others are around here somewhere?”
He hissed at her. She just stared at him, examining him with a gaze that was far too intense.
Those eyes could take a person apart and put them back together. They were solid black, with red slits for pupils, impossibly deep, with an endlessness no metaphor could capture. They cut through flesh to reach the soul, unraveled his being and inspected every inch of him. Something in them demanded him to look away, to bow, to pray.
He shoved the instinct away, forcing himself to meet that unholy gaze.
“All right” she muttered, finally breaking her stare. She waved a hand, and the ground beneath him began to glow.
Two circles appeared below him, drawn in red by some invisible hand. As he watched, symbols began to appear in the space between them. His immediate instinct was to get the hell away from it, but he was still struggling to breathe with a sword at his throat. Oh, and he was also now floating.
And that was when two things happened entirely too fast.
1) A spearhead appeared between the Lambs' eyes and was yanked out again. The goddess crumpled. He had half a heartbeat to register a panting Kallamar and a bloody Leshy and Heket and the fact that Shamura was standing over the corpse of a god with ichor dripping from there spearhead before-
2) What must have been the last symbol finished drawing itself. The circle beneath him filled with stars, the world flipped, and Narin plummeted into an endless night sky.