Morphling

It was the dawn of a new day before the expedition continued its march once again. At the lead, Jortus spoke with Loen confirming the aftermath of their recent battle.

“How are the others? Considering the fight, we shouldn’t have suffered too much,” he asked as he lit a small pipe.

“Not surprisingly, we did well,” replied Loen as he fiddled through some tools on his belt. “I handpicked most of the ones we’ve brought along, so we’ve suffered no losses, but at least five need proper treatment from Nul poisoning. The rest are barely worth mentioning having only suffered minor injuries, but that rotten blood has whittled away at our arms.”

The old wizard shook his head as he let out a sigh, “Not much we can do about that. The corrosion of the Red King doesn’t care whether it’s steel or magic – its aspect of decay affects all it touches. That is what makes them so difficult to fight.”

Giving Loen a faux shocked expression as if he forgot something, he then turned to look at the rest of the party, “Surely, they’ve all come prepared against it, I hope?”

Loen could only shake his head in exasperation. It’s a wonder how the old mage can still poke fun in this situation.

“Yes, Jortus, they’re all well prepared. No one here’s naïve enough to forget about bringing extra weapons when fighting the Niskari.” Grimacing at a thought, he added, “It’s also the main reason why it takes so long to prepare a force to deal with them. I imagine that having the requirement to double or triple the number of arms for each soldier must be quite the logistical nightmare. You magic folk have all the luck in the world.”

“Ha! If only it were that easy. Like I said, mana gets corroded all the same. Once we’re out, we’re basically dead weight. Don’t even get me started on the backlash. You folk at least have the option of running when you’re out of things to hit them with.”

Loen could only shrug. Their banter may seem inappropriate given the topic and their situation, but he knows that it’s simply Jortus’ way of keeping everyone constantly informed of what’s important while maintaining some semblance of humor.

The light in his eyes disappeared soon, however, as he signaled for Loen to speak low and in private.

“When we reach the clearing ahead of the two boulders, I want you to take some of your men and take cover. Ready some silere¹Latin root of silent, it means "be quiet or still." Sure, I could just use the word 'silent' itself or something, but where's the fun of fantasy in that? powder and act once I give you the signal.”

Despite not knowing why the old mage is making such a request, Loen simply nodded without hesitation then proceeded to whistle. Slowly, five people from the group approached Loen from behind. He then went ahead of the party while his group followed him until they were out of sight. From the others’ standpoint, it looked as though he and his group went on to scout ahead.

As soon as the rest of the expedition team arrived into a clearing, Jortus who was at the lead, suddenly stopped. In a swift graceful motion, he twirled his staff like a spinning wheel weaving the air into a spiraling flow.

Confused with his actions, the members continued to watch speechlessly until some started to notice the air becoming turbulent and focused around the vicinity of a certain person.

Before the three members of this person’s party could act, they were suddenly blown aside by the turbulent wind into the hands of the five who followed Loen earlier.

“Old man, wot ya’ think yur doin’!?” yelled the large man who was part of their group now being held down by two of Loen’s men.

The other two members of their party, a human woman and a halfling male, were too shocked by the events that they didn’t have words to say as they in turn were being held in place by the rest of Loen’s group.

“Now, now you three, settle down. My beef is with your friend over here,” coldly replied Jortus as he gave the tall lanky man of their group a sharp look.

“What is the meaning of this, Magister?” angrily voiced the robed half-elven man, his eyes glowing blue as he tried to undo the ensorcelled air surrounding him.

“Don’t bother, young mage. Silere powder has been spread in the air encasing you. I don’t have to tell you what that means now that you’ve breathed it.”

It didn’t seem that he heard the old mage, however, as he continued to chant. No sooner than the magic seemed to flare up and glow at his staff, the light had died down just as quickly, to which Jortus simply shook his head.

“Why are you doing this!?” the anger in his voice dying down to be replaced by anxiety.

“You should know the answer to that yourself… heretic.”

With this declaration, the other members of the expedition became shocked and started to make a commotion. Being branded a heretic was a heavy sin as it meant one had given themselves to the forces that aim to desecrate their world.

The large man of their party, Gern, seemed to boil over with rage as he roared, “Godsdammit old man, don’ be daft! Oi’ve been wiv these upstarts for months! There’s no way me o’ all people wou’ let one of em’ bastards get all buddy!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you Gern,” calmly said Jortus as he raised his hand in a motion that seemed like he was holding something up with his palm. “The problem lies with the type of foe we’re dealing with.”

With a movement of his hand as though he crushed something in his palm, the robes on the mage’s upper body were torn by the wind, exposing his chest.

There, situated vertically in the middle of his chest was an oval purple wrinkled mass with pulsing veins growing out of his pale flesh. Even the half-elf mage himself appeared to have a shocked expression upon seeing it.

Jortus furrowed his brows in revulsion as soon as he witnessed the mass. “A transplanted sarcoma. I expected this, but unfortunately it has grown too far along.”

The half-elven mage’s party soon stopped struggling as they could only stare in shock at their friend. With a trembling voice, the halfling couldn’t help but call out to the mage.

“H-Hox? B-But how?”

As if in response to it no longer being to hide, Hox suddenly lost consciousness with his head dangling while his body began to float up and violently convulse.

With the sounds of crunching bone and crushed flesh, his abdomen swelled up and tore open with a splash of blood revealing rotten entrails. At the top of the opening, the bottom part of the exposed ribs broke apart and began to form sharper ends like teeth. The intestines started to twist into the form of a spade as though it were a misshapen tongue. And lastly, the purple tumor grew as a vertical slit formed and opened to reveal a red eye with two small green pupils.

The grotesque being’s eye turned to look towards the others. Having looked at them, it left most of the members of the expedition with a feeling of something crawling in their skin.

The eye finally stopped turning as it focused on Jortus. With a violent gurgle, the opening of the abdomen began to move with the upper torso flailing about to its movements that seemed to mimic a moving mouth. To the shock of nearly everyone, it started to speak in a voice that sounded between grating gravel and the crunching of flesh.

“Slaves. To. A. Dying. World. Know. That. My. Master. Comes. From. Beyond. The. Veil. Beyond. Your. Knowledge. Beyond. What. Your. Pitiful. Minds. Can. Fathom. Dare. You. Look. Upon. Him? Dare. You. Bare. Your. Flesh. Before. Him?”

In a string of words that could only be described as a broken-down sentence, almost everyone felt shivers while feeling nauseated when they heard the creature speak.

In defiance to the creature’s nauseating air, Jortus slammed his staff on the ground releasing a pulsing wave that seemed to bring relief to everyone.

“Vile creature of the nether, know that our people will not bow to you, nor Bolragmal. The Children of Nilmaria will stand against you and your so-called master.”

Making a grating sound as though it were laughing in mockery, the grotesque being then continued.

“Child. Of. A. Broken. Order. Wallow. In. Your. Ignorance. Bolragmal. Will. Pave. The. Path. When. My. Master. Comes. He. Will. Relish. In. Your. Despair.”

As though the being had no more to say, the energies that made up the wind barrier surrounding it was suddenly dispersed. Panic struck the members of the expedition as terrible nausea seemed to hit them all at once; all except Jortus.

The beast slowly approached Jortus, but the old mage seemed not to care as he slowly lowered his hat to hide his face while he lit a pipe. Seeing the old man’s nonchalant action, the grotesque being quickly lunged as though it wanted to swallow him whole.

It was at this moment that a loud “bang” was suddenly heard.

Unseen to the naked eye, something penetrated the grotesque’s sarcoma with enough force to knock its body to the ground. After a small explosion of flesh that was its eye, the ragged body of the half-elf suddenly began to churn once more until it shriveled up. After the squelching sounds stopped, what was left was merely a dry and desiccated corpse.

Seeing what’s left, Jortus simply let out a puff of smoke as he commended his friend, “Good work, Loen. A good shot as always.”

Approaching him from behind with a rifle in his hands, Loen simply let out a sigh along with his response, “I swear, old mage. You need a shorter signal. Any later and you’d have been that thing’s lunch.”

“Ha! Then that thing clearly would have had the worst upset stomach in its life. Besides, I have faith in your and the dwarves’ handiwork,” he said while tapping the rifle with his staff.

While making sure the thing was dead, Loen then asked out of curiosity, "So tell me, how did you know?"

"It wasn't difficult to be honest. I simply thought it strange how the Niskari were able to make contact with our forces so quickly. Not to mention that the mage you introduced had lingering Nul traces even after the cleansing we did."

Loen nodded at the answer and looked towards the other members of the mage's group. From the way Gern was pounding his fists into the ground while the female archer and halfling were crying, he could tell that the mage was very dear to them.

Seeing the half-elf’s party mourning over their friend’s corpse, Loen couldn’t help but feel pity for them. Having a transplanted Niskari sarcoma was one of the worst things that can happen to a mage. Not only did it rob one of one’s mind as it grew, it would eventually grow and overtake the body while spreading more sarcomas to other hapless victims.

Grunting in frustration after seeing the scene, the old mage voiced his thoughts, “It’s unfortunate. For a sarcoma to have taken root this deeply would mean that he had somehow encountered a cult of the Niskari that transplanted it on him. I recall you mentioned something about how you recruited their party?”

Loen could only shake his head as he continued to watch them, “This one’s on me, Jortus. Their group was taken in on the grounds of having unknowingly escorted a heretic. Never would I have imagined that one of them had been transplanted.”

Jortus suddenly paused when he heard the second thing Loen mentioned. “Hold on, did you say a heretic? As in, one heretic?”

Not sure where Jortus was going with this, but realizing something might be off, he still replied honestly, “Yes, a single heretic. You mentioned a Niskari cult could transplant the sarcoma which exactly fits this situation.”

“Indeed, a cult. As in, an entire cult. The energy required to transplant a Niskari from the Outzone into an unknowing victim requires a lot of Nul energy and time. A single cultist wouldn’t have been able to transplant a sarcoma, not to mention one that embedded deeply.”

Finally understanding the implications, Loen could only look at Jortus questioningly.

“In this case, then what could it mean?”

Crossing his arms together in contemplation, he soon shook his head.

“To be honest, I’m not sure. The only clue we have to his exposure was his prior dealings with that heretic you mentioned. Unfortunately, we’ll need to look up his history another time as we’re faced with another dilemma.”

Loen could only sigh in response to the fact that there’s more unfortunate news.

“We’ve dealt with why the Niskari were able to determine our coming to aid the fae, but that also means they generally have an idea of the strength of our forces. Whether or not they will change their actions in response, it’s never a good thing when an enemy knows you’re coming while knowing your strength in general.”

Jortus then shifted the pipe in his mouth to the side as he narrowed his eyes in regards to what he’s about to say next.

“As for the less urgent but more concerning matter, I’ve thought back on what that creature said earlier and couldn’t help but give it a serious thought.”

“Should you really pay attention to the banter of those devils?”

The old mage shook his head as his tone sounded graver, “Normally, no, since it’s usually demoralizing drivel and a medium to their nauseating powers. The problem laid in the words it chose. The Niskarii and similar beings of the void within the Outrealm cannot speak lies involving their masters as it harms their existence. That entity spoke as if its master wasn’t Bolragmal.”

Loen’s spine suddenly felt cold as he listened to Jortus continue with his speculations. Not wanting to hear the rest, but knowing he needed to, he swallowed down a sigh and asked, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

With a solemn nod, Jortus answered grimly, “It may be as we fear. There’s a true ruler to these Niskari… and they may soon arrive at our world.”

***