Kin of Jörmungandr

The spatial hole neither led me beyond the border nor along it, but brought me back to densely woven space. It was hardly unexpected, but it is annoying to have to search for another path.

By the very nature of the areas with less spatial distortions, there are fewer paths into them. Within my sight, there are tens of thousands of bends, holes and rends. Amongst them, only a few lead anywhere close to what I would consider a low-density zone.

Of course, the vast majority are simple spatial bends which simply alter direction and link to within striking distance from itself, but periodically, there are those that expand further.

For now, I resign myself to the long search I have before me. If I ever want to reach beyond the borders of these tunnels, I must follow each hole and rift into those low density areas. The likelihood I’ll find a spatial path that leads where I want is low. So unbelievably low that it is difficult to picture myself finding anything within the next thousand sleeps, but giving up before I even begin is more foolish than trying to threaten a Titan.

… Something that now assaults me with more unwelcome emotions. Shame and regret. Just thinking about the event makes me want to shove my head into the earth and hide away. Like all other invasive sentiments, these make little sense. What would hiding accomplish? It has already happened and nothing will change that.

It is becoming increasingly concerning the hold they have. The more time passes, the more they seem to slither their way into my mind.

Not a dozen hunts ago, I couldn’t have imagined such horrific parasites latching onto my growing awareness. I’d been nothing but a naïve fool; excited at the prospect of thinking more, knowing more, and being more.

If there were a way to remove them, or stop them from growing, the Beyond refuses to say. Knowing the course of recent events, the answer won’t be what I want. I fear the day I consider them a part of myself. That serpent will not be me.

My tiny form slithers forward through a dozen distortions. Best not waste time; this will take long enough as is.

I don’t even bother sliding into the first few low-density areas I find; a single glance is enough to tell they lead nowhere. The first area to attract my interest isn’t open to the shredding winds. It is difficult to determine if those vertical wind columns are even nearby; the very lack of distortions makes it difficult to tell which border I’m nearest. I can’t see enough of the cavern through the spatial hole to discard it as a path, despite the low chance.

I slither through the hole and work my way down the narrow side of the cave where it curves out of sight. Without bending space to look through, what hides that way is invisible even to true-sight. Not being able to see an area so physically close is unsettling, but it’s not like there is anything to fear.

Those able to threaten me rarely bother hiding themselves.

Which makes the Titan’s actions all the more confusing. It hid itself within the very fabric of space. Why? The being is so mighty that nothing could possibly pose a danger to it. I’m sure it would even consider the Other Side hardly a challenge, so why did it try so hard to hide from the eyes of those without true-sight?

This might be too much thought being applied to an incomprehensible creature. That voided space was deep, and I’m sure I never felt its full depths, so is it possible that it was holding itself back? Out of all unreasonable explanations, the thought that there was more to that monster than what obliterated my territory is… well, it’s horrifying, but it also is the most likely.

What would happen if it unleashed its full might? Would this world remain?

The sound of panicked, high pitch screeching alerts me to the life ahead of me. I’ll recognise the sound of a bat anywhere. Their loud screeches are usually an unavoidable pain through the head. Bat colonies have tried to roost in my territory too many times to count, but each time they try, I scare them off. They are a damn pain.

Thankfully, the squeals of this one aren’t nearly loud enough to be painful, regardless of the hysteria it carries.

A loud squelch cuts off the bat’s screams just as my body slithers around the cramped cave wall. There’s the bat, crushed within the forcipules of a thousand legged centipede. At my current, miniaturised size, the bug is only slightly larger than myself. Not the smallest of their type, but certainly not large. They are nothing but lesser creatures, and yet… the sight twinges at the fury I had already buried.

What is it about a creature with so many of those damned unnecessary limbs playing with Prey that couldn’t possibly fight back that enrages me so?

The centipede must have some good senses, as it twists my way, but it’s already too late. My jaw snaps down on its back. The chitinous exoskeleton provides no protection from the fury fuelling my strike. The bug is bisected with nothing but paste remaining in my mouth.

Despite cleanly cutting the centipede into two halves, it still wriggles around, alive. Bugs. The things are always so hardy even as the lesser of lessers. It tries to crawl away, leaving its lower half as a writhing distraction.

The bat lay discarded to the side, prone and unmoving. It is smaller than I expected, obviously of a species I’ve not discovered before. The thing has wings, so how could it let the centipede catch it?

Ignoring the pitiful creature that found its death with its own failure, I slither after the centipede as it attempts to flee through a crack in the wall. Does it not realise I’m smaller than it? No, it’s a bug; it doesn’t think at all.

My body coils, ready to strike, but I hesitate.

Do I really need to kill this creature? It isn’t like I’m hungry, nor will it give me any satisfaction; it is too weak for that. Still, watching it crawl away with those many hundred legs, a twisted satisfaction passes through me.

I snap forward and bite through its head.

This is the satisfaction of the weak. I couldn’t beat the Titan, couldn’t even hope to face it, but I can be the same as it to those lesser to myself.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to go. The satisfaction of crushing the centipede doesn’t last more than an instant. It was a bug, after all; what could it do? What challenge could it possibly provide?

I hover over the limp chitin of the centipede for a while, simply staring at the corpse. A storm of unfamiliar emotion whirls within me. This creature would have died easily the next time it showed its face to a predator or fell through the wrong spatial hole. The life of a single centipede is worth nothing, so why does it feel wrong?

I didn’t need to kill it, is that it?

No. The Titan; I have taken its place. It is me playing with the lives of those too weak to do anything about it. I’ve always treated lesser beings as they are: lesser, so why do these emotions make me want to think it’s wrong now that I’ve experienced it from the other side?

It’s all so complicated. I would be fine… no, I would be happy if it were a logical complexity, but these feelings seem to be nothing but contradiction and absurdity. How could I possibly listen to them when I can’t even understand them?

A quiet, high-pitched chirp snaps me from my difficult thoughts.

Oh! You’re still alive?

Sure enough, the tiny bat is up and moving. Caught in a centipede’s jaws as it had been, it is fortunate not to have died immediately.

The little thing crawls along the ground, unable to place any weight on one wing. With a clearly broken wing, and blood pooling down its side, the bat struggles to clamber away from the bug’s still twitching lower body.

Actually… the creature is unlucky to have survived.

No doubt it cannot fly. Even if its wounds don’t kill it, the next hungry creature to taste its lingering blood will. Prey as small and weak as this one has no chance without its wings. Its only means of survival are crippled; this bat will be an easy meal for whatever finds it first.

I turn away from both bat and bug, slithering toward the sole spatial hole hidden in this secluded cave. My eyes stay ahead of me, refusing to turn back to the corpse of the centipede before I take the leap. It is just a bug. Its death means nothing.

A quiet squeak halts me right before I pass through the distortion. I turn to the tiny rodent. It has stopped its pointless crawl away from the dead centipede and stares my way. The surprisingly large eyes of the small bat watch me without recoiling.

Such a reaction is quite rare for the creatures sitting at the absolute bottom of the food chain. Usually, sight of me is enough to send them scurrying away, even at this small size.

I hiss slightly. The creature twitches, but doesn’t snap its eyes away from me. That explains it: the creature is petrified. It knows I could kill it with the barest effort, so it instinctively freezes in an effort to save itself. If not for its crippled wing, I’m sure it would have flown to the furthest cavern corner to hide away.

Still odd to see something so much weaker than myself hold my gaze.

Regardless, I have no desire to play with any more creatures unable to fight back. The thoughts churned up with the death of the centipede were unsettling, and I’ll do my utmost to prevent them resurfacing. There must be prey somewhere worthy of a proper hunt.

My body slithers through the hole, already forgetting the crippled little rodent left behind.

The cavern I find myself in is flush with life despite its relatively small size. Vines weave through networks of spatial bends and hold bundles of berries every so often. The plants are thicker along the walls — broken up by space as they are — and hold many a nest. I’m sure If I look close, I’ll find plenty of creatures that live here despite how attractive it would make them to predators.

But I don’t stay for longer than a couple seconds. Another hole takes me to my next low-density cavern. This time, the area is massive. At the far other side, the cave opens to the razor wind funnels, but it is distant enough that only a light breeze flows over my scales.

I breathe out a hiss as I dedicate myself to the search. None of the spatial distortions here lead anywhere interesting either. It will take a long time to make any progress, I knew that, so letting myself be shaken this early won’t help.

Some vines crawl through the very hole I passed through, but unlike the last, this cavern is dead. As hard as the plant appears to have tried to latch itself into the ground here, it simply cannot spread. It is strange: why does life blossom in some tunnels, while in others it appears simply impossible?

In dangerous areas such as the magma pools and near the amber barrier, it is understandable why they don’t grow, but this cavern is calm enough that there should be no issue.

All life requires energy. Fauna and flora both subsume unique sources to sustain themselves and mature.

Oh? One of the rare explanations from the Beyond! I want to question it further, but it continues, interrupting my thoughts.

Energy is not infinite.

I’m assuming the energy creatures take in comes from food. I don’t know what else it could be referring to… well, the feeling I had in my former favourite resting spot might count, but it’s doubtful that’s what the beyond is talking about.

Why do plants and animals take from different sources?

…

And… the Beyond is back to its silence. One day, I’ll figure out how to get the voice to speak more. No idea comes to mind how, but I will.

But it’s interesting. If the energy in the world isn’t endless, then what happens when it runs out? Wouldn’t the energy each creature ate be cycled back into the world upon its death?

…

No answer. A hiss escapes me at the lack of information. Annoying.

A high pitch chirp echoes in response.

I twist my head. There, clinging to the scales along my lower back, is the little bat. Broken wing and all. It sits undaunted by the gaze of the predator it rides.

What are you doing here?

Little bat squeaks, wide eyes staring into mine.