Chapter 100: Remakings

Chapter 100: Remakings

She was not the first. It was an odd realization, one that came with unfamiliarity and unease to her young mind—but as she swam through the murky water of her home, she saw evidence surrounding her.

Breaks in the stone from a familiar tail, scores with the same width as her claws, scattered fangs grown old and discarded. Even her den, with gold-white light spilling over the stone and warming it for her convenience, was littered in remnants of someone else.

Someone who had been like her—reptilian, enormous, fanged, furious. Another sarco crocodile.

But not her.

The one who had come before her had been large and feared—lesser beings fled from her shadow with the speed that spoke of familiarity, and she had to hunt rather than be challenged for the den she laid vicious dominance over at the back of the lake. It was her territory, but–

She hadn't been the one to claim it.

There was something upsetting in the thought. It should have been a good thing; less work, instant respect, a beautiful den with ample sunning opportunities and glorious space.

But it wasn't hers.

There had been no blood spent to earn it; she had not grown stronger in the fight, hadn't learned more of her enemies. And with the sea serpent descending below, she was once more the most dangerous thing on this floor; the crude brute with his enormous jaws were no match for her speed in the water, and as long as she didn't let him fall on her from above, she had nothing to fear from him.

Not that she would ever fear him, nor the serpent, nor the Named beast. She was above, older than all, even though she was the youngest. There sung an old and ancient song beneath her scales, one few else resonated with—well, perhaps the jaw-beast. But he was undeserving of the title. She had been born into it, rather than being given it through change.

Something whispered through her bones, something Old. She treasured that, clutched to it, tried to learn from the memories that weren't just how to move and hunt. Something else was more powerful, more Old, and she wanted that.

But there was no time to learn from it, not when she swam through her territory and saw those that didn't see her.

They looked at her, and they saw the one who had come before.

She snarled. Bubbles exploded past her fangs, precious air lost—her tail lashed and pushed her back to the surface, claws dragging her out of the water onto her sunning spot with the screech of rending stone.

It was an insult. She was not him, whoever he had been; she was her, and comparisons were a deadly threat. She knew he had been larger, had been more advanced; if she measured less than their memories of him, would they think to challenge her? Claim her as weak?

Her tail cracked into the stone hard enough to tremble through her den. She bellowed, a low, guttural sound, and her eyes burned.

That song, ancient, enormous, Old, crooned beneath her scales. The promise that while she was bound to this world, she hadn't always been, and all she had to do was reawaken that lost origin.

The one who had come before her hadn't done that, she knew. He had stayed here, ignored the Song, kept to fruitless brute strength and meaningless things that were already found here, that were already discovered. She knew that because the other creatures of this lake only watched her with wariness, with the lingering worry of being merely eaten. Not of being destroyed. Of being rewritten.

Slow, gentle, the Song kept humming away in the back of her mind.

They wanted something to fear?

She'd give it to them.

-

When the mana-call came, he didn't obey, because he certainly wasn't the type to just listen to the mysterious voice, but for no reason other than his own desire, he did find his way down the tunnels suggested. Offered.

He traveled down tunnels that he discovered by himself and were not at all given to him. His own way, thank you very much.

The tunnels spiraled down as he swam through them, sharpened rocks held in his mouth in case he encountered someone else on the path, fins braced. Triggerfish he was, and very proud of it; stone-shooter, clever-eyes, undefeated. All titles he claimed.

And when he darted past the last area and emerged into a new paradise, he knew those titles would take him very, very far here.

It was a world apart from worlds; all he had ever known before was a twisted, sheltered place of murky water and amber-gold kelp, tucked away in shadowed water and the spiral of a hidden whirlpool. This was not that.

He could see all the way to the far wall, everything blooming in crystal-blue and unblemished sand, twisting cream-white shapes spiraling through the water. It was difficult to pause while swimming but he managed it, and even his enormous brain needed a second to take in all the sights before him.

A paradise, in all senses of the world.

And it was all his.

He swam forward with renewed determination.

Multiple rooms, each more beautiful than the last; as he swam around, more cream-white things—coral, his subconscious crooned—bloomed, brought to life by that mysterious voice, seeming to almost follow him as he swam through. He didn't respect that voice, considering it had tried to instruct him to do something and he was not so lesser as to merely listen to it, but he did preen, regardless. Of course it would try to make things around him beautiful. He was beautiful.

At least it could recognize that.

More coral, in thousands of shapes, surrounded him as he ducked and swerved through his new home. The first room, with its sharp drop-off and flat reefs; the second, with its shallow, island-surrounded area and wildly variant areas; the third, with its open waters and coral-ladened towers. He pondered for a long while which to claim as his own; the first was pleasing, but too small; the third was large, but too empty.

Thus the second.

Would it be difficult to claim the entire room for himself? No doubt. But he was a miracle-shot, a coral-wielder, a magic-worker. So it was his.

The other fish swimming through didn't seem to understand.

He spat rocks at them by the mouthful, chasing them back with flared gills and cresting lunges; but for every one he scared away, more came pouring through the same tunnels he had discovered, and they just kept coming.

And inevitably, whenever he had to retreat to gather more stones to fire, more came through, and they were stupid enough not to flee when they saw him. Which meant he had to spend time to scare them off, which meant he had to gather more rocks, which meant more came.

This was the absolute worst.

He darted back, bumping into a twisting strand of coral to bump some off and pick up their scattered pieces—then paused, staring at it. At the coral, growing endlessly, covered in little ridges.

They were spikes, much like he was used to; or like his memories told him he was used to. Sharp little things, the perfect size to fit into his mouth and fire at anything that so much as glanced at him the wrong way, or merely swam in his general direction. He wasn't too picky. This chapter is updated by nov(e)(l)biin.com

But.

It was such work to find things to launch at his enemies; to pick them up in his mouth and hold them there, unable to eat, until a target presented itself. Such terrible, annoying work. He was a beast made for the hunt, for the kill—it was below him to have to scavenge pieces of rock or scale to strike his enemies.

Monster he was—he was only the second smallest creature in his new territory, there were small, darting things in many different colours that were smaller than him, he had checked—and the enemies he had were many. Who wouldn't want to be him, with glorious yellow-black-grey stripes and flawless aim? They were painfully jealous of his strength.

As they well should be.

But here, in this new territory, he saw things grow that came with spikes; stationary and dully coloured, yes, but with spikes. If he needed to, he could bite his own scales off and launch those as weapons, but they were flat, not built to pierce. Lesser weapons.

If he came with his own spikes, would he not be more dangerous?

He was already dangerous, to be clear. Incredibly, beautifully, wondrously dangerous.

But perhaps he could be more.

-

There were differences in this world.

She had experienced them; from the airy world filled with sand and plants where she had been born, to the watery, tugging world she lived in now. From the kindness she had found in her siblings, pushing each other forward as they spilled from their nest into the water, to the viciousness of monsters trying to tear her apart when her shell was still soft. From the gentle taste of algae and moss, to the warmth of blood spilling between her beak.

As a turtle, born between two worlds, she had discovered their differences, and she knew them well.

But now a new difference had come to her, and she didn't know what to do.

The voice had been there when she'd grown old enough to harden her beak and shell, instructing her in gentle, sibilant words to climb on one of the towers that had been shaped for her. To perch on the river's edge and wait for those that would try to step over her, to set foot on her shell that poked above the canal's surface, disguised and covered in moss and algae, to serve as a living trap for those foolish enough to fall for it. That had been her mission, and she had taken it; had snapped feet off, had dragged those that had been tricked beneath the water and feasted on their mana and bodies alike.

But the voice said different things, now. It told her to move. To go below.

The thought was odd.

Below. She knew there was something below, because she had been here for long enough to feel as the mana curling around her had lessened, time after time, as something pulled it further down. So in a theoretical sense, she understood that there was something below. Multiple things, perhaps. More canals, maybe, or more sand; or something else entirely. She didn't know.

Just as she hadn't known there would be a difference in the voice's commands.

Why had it switched?

But it had switched, and when it had told her what to do before, that had granted her a home and food. So on legs long since atrophied, under a shell that sat heavy and weighing, she slipped off the tower that had been her life for so long.

The water welcomed her, for all she fumbled through moving; she sank to the bottom, a chestful of air tucked away, and plodded along the sandy bottom. She saw others move with her, egg-mates and others coming off their own towers to move through the water. There was a map in the back of her mind, something soft and guiding, showing her where to go. Eels surrounded by silver-tipped fish watched her with wary eyes, but they weren't large enough to challenge her, and they both understood this. She had fed a day ago, something large and wriggling, and wasn't hungry now. The difference in the voice's command was more important.

So she moved on.

Eventually, the canals faded away as she fell down, down, down, emerging into a... a lake, she knew, though didn't know how. More creatures, more questions, more mana, humming through her currents in renewed vigour. Was this what life was like, below? Then why had the voice commanded her to stay where she had?

But still the voice instructed her, so she walked.

Crabs, those larger than the ones she was used to, swarmed around her, but their claws couldn't penetrate her shell and her beak scared them off before long. Enormous, lazy predators overhead swam by, their shadows cast over her path, but they didn't bother her; perhaps their new instructions were different, too, for they traveled to the same tunnels as her. The same tunnels that brought her even further down, where mana crooned and sung and redoubled in power.

Until finally, finally, she emerged into a new world.

He knew he could control blood-frenzies, could summon or dispel them—but he hadn't thought there was more.

But now, watching the silvertooth swim haltingly forward, blood coagulating over its side but thrumming with life, he wondered what else he could do.

-

In the tangled world of thorned roots and murky canals, she swam.

She was an old thing, older than those around her. That gave her leave to claim the largest territory of the canals, her serpentine body casting a shadow that others had learned to fear. She appreciated that, in the same way she appreciated the loyalty of her swarming fish or how she appreciated the beauty of her electricity forking out from her sides. It made for a world where she ruled.

But it wasn't the only world, for all it was hers.

There was a world above this one, she knew, because things would come from it; would appear from nowhere, sinking through her territory when she knew damn well they hadn't come from either entrance. No, there was something in the Above, hidden beyond the impassable barrier.

At first, it had been nothing more than a moderate curiosity. A vague, lingering thought about what could be in that world, if there was better prey up there, or perhaps predators. There were precious few things that could resist her electricity in the water, not as her army grew and her range with them. It was a comfortable life in these canals, able to eat all that fit into her mouth and thrive as the monster she was.

But the days passed, and the time wiled, and still she looked up.

She wanted, in the part of her that knew how to want. Wanted to know what was up there and whether it was better or worse than what she had now.

Whether or not she would survive the Above.

Her electricity worked in the water like a dream, crackling from her sides over the heads of her loyal followers, spearing their target through. It was her greatest weapon and she loved it, now that she had figured out how to love, and she wouldn't give that up.

In the water, she was a predator, sleek and elegant; she had watched those that came from the Above and they were fumbling, uncoordinated, weak. They had no true understanding of how to move through the water. If she went to the Above, would she be as terrible? That could not be allowed; her brethren, siblings from eggs lost past, had died for lesser grievances. This world was not forgiving to those who could not adapt.

And still she looked up.

The Creator hummed to her, a soft, buzzing thought of going deeper—but the focus was on water. Every call was on some spiraling blue world not trapped in canals but wild and free, filled with colourless things and other creatures. The same as where she was now, in the ways that mattered. The same life that she had already won at.

She was a swimming creature, one of water, one of lightning. This world was already hers, claimed and staked. Her powers were made for this sort of living, where already the answers were laid bare and she did not have to consider them.

But perhaps she could swim, in the Above. Perhaps she did not have to give up her lethality.

Perhaps there was a new world to be hers.

-

In the midst of waters—water, blue, liquid, ocean, sea—it was made. Created. Awoken.

Newly born—to be born, had been born, was born—and unknowing. It was one of hundreds, of thousands; clustered together, cream-white, surrounding in the pressing depths of water. Light, from above. It had no senses to see or taste or feel but it knew that there was light, because it knew it needed light, and it needed warmth, and there were both of those things. Thus it was alive.

But that wasn't the only thing it needed.

It was empty. It was not wholly aware of the concept, but it knew this nonetheless; it was supposed to capture, and since it had not captured, it was empty.

What did it mean to capture? To seize, to obtain, to take? It didn't know—it barely understood the idea of knowing—but it was a truth of the world that it was supposed to capture, and it had not, and it needed to.

So, fumbling, unsure, no senses available, it reached out; learned movement, learned resistance, learned change. Moving was a slow, unsteady process, pushed and pulled by some outside force, but it wanted to move, so it did its best. There had to be something out there that it was looking to capture, that it was looking to contain, and thus it needed to be out there as well if it was going to find that.

Around it, hundreds of others moved; they were the same, young and wary, but there was something out there to be obtained and thus they tried. Bound by something unforgiving, their base—their roots, their stability, their core—stuck in place with only small, delicate tendrils reaching out, but reach out they did.

And in return came life.

On one reaching pass, its tendrils brushed against something; just a brief flash, a taste, nothing more. But it was a taste of something deep and pressing, the life and absence of it; something had been living, like it, but then had died, and its death had brought something.

And it had taken that something.

That something settled within it, tasting of water and scales and brilliance; the cream-white that it knew it was changed, darkening to something it couldn't see but knew was different.

It felt that tiny, imperceptible thing it had captured settle within it; small, quiet, minimal. Its colour had changed and something within it had changed as well, becoming more, becoming deeper. A soul, it thought; something captured and welcomed and stolen.

And it wondered, where it could not wonder, what it would be like to capture more; what would be needed to capture more; what would change if it captured more.

Life and death. A balance.

It wanted both.

-

He looked over the Forest that had been his home for so long. For his entire life, in truth.

There was a spear in his claws, a strip of leather holding smoked meat over his back, and a soul filled with curiosity in his chest.

It was time to leave.

For so long had he been a part of the scale-kin tribe—the kobold tribe, he knew, for that was what the Great Voice called them, and it was not to be disobeyed—but that time had come and passed. He wanted more than what it could provide.

And he wanted to leave behind what was there.

The other kobolds stared at him, wondering. There was reason behind it—he was the firstborn, the three of them; Rihsu, Chieftess, and him. But here he was, still a kobold, still unevolved, still unpowerful. Why had he not risen to their same heights?

They didn't know, and thus they stared, and he could only handle that for so long.

So when the evolved, the chosen, descended to the promises of blue waters and deeper mana, he would be leaving alongside them.

Not with them, for water was not where he would end up—fire burned in his chest, distant but yearning. He wanted that more than the placid blue the Great Voice urged him to pursue, because he was born for the fire, with his scarlet scales and smoke-grey horns. That was where he belonged.

And if the kobold tribe was destined for the water, then it was time for him to leave.

So he looked once more over the Forest, over his old home, and slipped into the tunnels.

With his unevolved height, he could slink down passages carved for lesser beasts; he slithered through on his stomach, horns catching on the rock above, claws scratching through soil to drag himself forward. Time passed, air growing heavy and pressing around him until he emerged into larger tunnels, into a world choked by darkness and the weight of uniformity. But this was still cold, not what he was looking for, and he knew there were greater prizes.

So on he went.

His food disappeared and he hunted for new prey, chittering, thin things that leapt at him with jagged claws and warbling cries—his spear was worn, carved over with shoddy designs of fire and volcanoes and distant draconic wings, but it held, and he defeated them. There was minimal meat beneath their chitinous shells, but he ate it, and felt the mana that poured through him. Fiercer than before.

He kept moving. The tunnels faded away into one enormous room, though smaller than the Forest he had come from, with odd, fake trees made only of stone and moss. There was a presence here, something singing in the back of his mind, but he kept his spear up and claws tensed and ran through without even pausing to stop. Whatever was hunting for him didn't have a chance to react until he was through.

But past the tunnels was something new.

A new world blossomed before him. It was impossibly large, the cavern so high overhead, and there was smoke in the air—plants that exhaled grey clouds, entwining with stalactites like fangs, filled with the clamorous dissonance of thousands of flying creatures. He had seen them before, had slain the shrieking thing when it first entered the Forest, but this was more. Was different. He hadn't seen these before.

And beneath that were islands, almost in the way that the canals made islands by surrounding them in water, but instead there was air. A long, long way to fall instead of water to catch.

No water. He liked it already.

But he was not alone in liking it, because beyond the flying creatures overhead, there was something else present, running over the islands and to the far wall he could only see as a vague, fuzzy outline—something that, however, saw him, and was coming closer.

He tensed.

A monster.

It came to nearly his height, crouched on four legs—auburn-red fur, so unlike scales, with bristling black-grey horns that could have mirrored his own. Smoke poured from its mouth with every exhale. Its eyes burned like sparks.

A beast.

A beast of fire.

It stalked closer, claws scratching on the stone, eyes narrowed and locked onto him. A hungry thing, it looked like, and it moved in a hunt for sustenance. He didn't know if its fangs could penetrate his scales or if he was even good food—he hoped not—but it was clearly willing to try.

He was new to this land, to these Islands, but that didn't matter as they stood there, watching each other.

"Hello," he warbled, low and soothing. The monster snarled back, black fur over its spine raising, tail lashing behind. More smoke dripped from its jaws.

And for the first time in a long, long while, since he had first thought of his plan with the rat to take down the invader, something sparked inside of him.

He had been searching for a creature to work with; not in the manner from before, where he had merely thrown the rodents into combat and used them as distraction for his own attacks. No, he wanted companionship, a partnership; something where they worked together.

And, as always, he wanted fire. The fire of his ancestry, of his hidden, distant past—flames that reflected on his scarlet scales, on his grey-black horns.

This was a beast of fire.

You, he decided. You and I will become a team.