“I see you’ve made good use of the saw.” Ta’Malis lifted Nyxala’s chainsaw before she could strip it from her tail, pulling the long, feathered appendage along with it. The Technocultist ran her metallic finger across a few of the blades. “Dull. Impressive to accomplish in only a few days.”
Nyxala stepped in close. Even to her edge sight, it didn’t appear any less sharp then when she’d first used the chainsaw.
Ta’Malis manipulated the mechanism with a well-practiced ease. Without bothering to unstrap it from Nyxala, she pulled the blade-chain free. Dropping Nyxala’s tail, she set the chain on a nearby workbench which — with the pull of a switch — opened up to reveal a grinder already spinning at dangerous speeds.
The eighth evolution Technocultist made the process of sharpening look casual. Each individual blade spent less than a second screaming against the shiny spinning tape as a clear fluid sprayed down where it touched. In no time, the woman was back besides Nyxala and manhandling her tail again.
Surprisingly, Nyxala found the difference blatant. Each link almost shone to her upper eyes.
“So,” Ta’Malis locked eyes with Nyxala. “Where’s my report?”
Nyxala froze. “Uh…” She’d completely forgotten about that request.
The older Technocultist sighed and shook her head. “Do you at least have a wound sample? Progress is difficult without field results.”
That too, she did not have. Any flesh she might have butchered with her chainsaw was now resting in her stomach. And unlike her sceptre, flesh that landed inside her chest was very hard not to consume. Even Lysyra… Nyxala’s hunger had stirred when she’d dragged the girl into Pink.
“I still have plenty more… tests to run.” Nyxala tried to fabricate a reason for the lack of any tangible results. She didn’t want to appear as if she’d forgotten her part of the deal for the given weapons… even if that’s exactly what happened. “As you said, it’s only been a few days. I intend to put it through its paces in the coming weeks.”
“Alright. But don’t keep me waiting long.” Ta’Malis nodded, accepting Nyxala’s excuse. Then, she gestured to a wall, where an array of storage drawers were built into the metal. “Box B-five I’ve set aside as yours. Those replacement drill-bolts you asked for? I had a few dozen of them made. Enough for you to restock whenever you need. Also, those flamethrowers I was working on are now done. Take them, but once you exhaust the fuel, do throw them away. The resultant waste chemicals can be rather volatile.”
With that, Ta’Malis left her chapel workshop to Nyxala. The woman hurried away to attend some other important task. The fact that she’d gone out of her way to fix up her equipment made Nyxala feel even more guilty for forgetting the small task she’d been given.
Opening the cabinet, Nyxala let her tentacles grab a drill-bolt each to slide into the leather pouches around her waist. The flamethrowers were a little larger, but not by much. As she picked up the cylindrical tube designed to latch around the soft flesh of her tentacles, she had the sudden urge to test it. Only when she was pointing it over Ta’Malis’s workshop did she pause. Nyxala had already gained Ta’Stralanov’r’s ire for testing their tech out in the open. She didn’t want to accidentally do the same with Ta’Malis if the flamethrower happened to be even the slightest bit stronger than she imagined.
Carefully, she tucked the cylinder into one of the four proper slots of her harness. Cuddly, Pushy, and Shy did the other three. Nyxala made sure Curious wasn’t allowed near, despite its protests.
The drawer was still stacked with drill-bolts, flamethrowers, and even spare blade-chains. More than just a few dozen. Having it all here was helpful if she ever want to come back and restock — made even easier by her new ability to teleport — but Nyxala felt that was such a waste.
Why cut my cultist hunts short if I can keep it all with me?
With that thought in mind, Nyxala scooped up half the cabinets contents — forty drill-bolts alongside fifteen flamethrowers — and swallowed it all.
Nyxala spread her jaw wider until half the workshop folded in on itself below her teeth, and she stepped into Pink. She’d expected Ta’Stralanov’r to question her sudden ability to just… show up in the midst of the cathedral, but she’d been silent. A fortune for Nyxala. She was going to need to speak to the Technocult leader once the cultists that saw her mutations came back to report what they’d seen, but if possible, she wanted to delay that particular conversation.
She had an evolution to get through, after all.
Her arrival into her… stomach? Did this Pink realm count as her stomach or her mind? It acted as both. Despite that, it could never be described simply as one or the other.
Regardless, Nyxala’s arrival was welcomed with the relieving sight that none of her swallowed goods had been consumed. They floated aimlessly beside her sceptre. Pink only seemed to crawl over their forms slightly, an incorporeal shimmer at the edges of each physical object where it looked like the realm wanted to either consume or incorporate, but held back because she willed it.
At least these inanimate objects didn’t incite her hunger. No, that was relegated to people alone. Well, it was probably any flesh, but she couldn’t say that for sure as… she’d eaten nothing but human meat in the past few days.
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That was a rather concerning fact, wasn’t it?
For probably the hundredth time in the past couple of days, Nyxala brushed aside the implications of her growing hunger for human flesh. It was just cultists she was eating. The benefit of consuming them and their souls was simply too great; already, the names she’d only just evolved were ready to do so again.
Most of that was due to the sheer quality of the souls she’d been eating. Six and seventh evos? If Nyxala had the time to sit down and evolve between fights, she was almost certain she would be at her sixth evolution by now. Assuming minimal familiarity requirement. The effectiveness of her chest mouth could not be underestimated.
And now that she could slip away — to a space only she could access, no less — that might actually be feasible now. Nyxala could fight until she was ready to evolve, do so without leaving her body vulnerable, and immediately get back into the fight. She salivated at the potential the next few months would provide.
Her goal of cutting down the cult leaders was starting to feel almost tangible.
Nyxala sat down, ready for her evolution. Well, there was no ground, so she floated. No, even floating was wrong. More like she was clutched within the ever-present Pink.
Shaking her head, she focused on her soul. The specifics of how she sat in this strange place was mere pedantry.
Nyxala searched for her name. In this space, she didn’t need a naming ritual to find it, but to her surprise, she discovered it permeated all of Pink just as much as it did her body. So Pink really was entirely a part of herself. It was her mind and stomach and maybe an extension of her soul. Not a separate realm she connected to, as had been one of her thoughts.
After evolving in Pink last time, she expected it to be simple. She didn’t think it would be this easy though.
Calling upon her name, it manifested before her. Its metaphoric orbiting network materialised in the same plane both her physical body and physical items hung. Was this a clash of perspective? Or did such concepts cease to hold such vast divergences in this void?
Whatever the answer, it wouldn’t help her evolve any faster, but she set the question aside for later. It was simply another oddity to Pink that she would need to consider if she were ever to truly unravel what it was. Everything she learnt about it only made the mutation all that much more mysterious.
Nyxala skimmed past the three unimportant additives she’d gained in the past days and found what she was looking for. A Feat. She’d noticed a significant new arrival in Lysyra’s name. And upon inspecting her own, of course she found one even more impressive. Even without checking, she knew they would both be related to The Soulchasm. An entity that terrified even Euphoria was bound to strike waves across Coral just by its mere presence.
Vaikna — Marked by X̸̢̢̪͇͕̦̤͔̥͔̘̜̪̪̪̩͍̻͓̞̜͚͙͎̳̠́̓̈́̋̈́̊̇̓̚͜͝y̶̢̡̡̛̫̫͚̞͖̥̖̙̤̳̲͔̙͇͚̠̯̮͔̟͕̟͖̭̙̣̲̼͈̪̦̞̙͇̻͈͕̺͋̍̃̽̔̂̅̈̑̆̔͐͆͂͊̒͑̈́̾̉̆̊͋́̉̇̂̋̆̏̊̃̈́̎̏̅͆̅͘͝͝͠ͅr̶̢̛̛̛̘̪̦̘̻̤͍̮̫̤͉͔͈͇̹͎̝͉̱̖͍̙͕̅̓̈́̓̇̔̊̔͐̈́͑̌̇̇̇̉̐̊̈́̂͐̓̌̆̐̾̊̾̕͝͝ͅŗ̴̤͔̲̠͇̪̯͔̪̬͓͉̮̲̦̺̥͓̫͚̳͚̠̭̖̱̲̗̗̮̞̟̺͖̫͈͓̲͈̺͛́̀͑͊̎̏̏̽̈́͛̉̂͐̉̅̿̏͛̂̏͐̍́͑͊̒̅̅̈́͊̀͛̐͆̉̕̕͜͝͠ͅḩ̶̨̙̭͚̲̹͓̞͔̜̭̩̣̠̳͍̠͖͓́͌̓̈́̑̂̓̍̽̈́̔̑́͗͜͝ͅú̷̡̨̢̨̢̯͍̬̙̞̺̫̳̪̹̺̩̫̻̝̩̗̖̠͍̝̞̫̦̬̹̼͕̞̳̦͕͇̘͖̝̠̳̜͔͚̟̩̒̏̂̈̂͋̎̏̓͐͋̈́̌̔͋͑̌̎̓̅̇͑̌̂̄̓̐̓̈́̀̓̕͘͝͝͝ͅṿ̴̨̧͉̭̠̳̙̳̖̣̰̩̖́͆̿̍̌͌̎͋̆̓̎̑̏̚̚͜͝͝a̶̢̨̡̡̖̯̺̦̺͈͎̠̠͎̟͚̯̦̪͓̮͉̬͍͎̥͍͔͔͖̮̭̺̙͆́͛̒̇̌̆̈́́͛̍̿̑͗̆̑͊͑͂̔̏͛̀̚̕͜͝͝i̴̢̦͙̠̤͒̄̿̈̽͂͑̋̌͊̋̍̆̀̓̃̏͋̌̐̄̆̌́̒̊̒̄́̆̂̄̄̔͑͐̈̓̏̓͒͘̚͝͝͠k̸̛̤͖̠̓̀͗͋̏̿̏͌͌̂̒̑̅̾͐̂̎̐̈͐̈͑̈̍́̒͋͜͝͠ͅñ̷̲̟̹̀͒̃͗͌̃͒̾͛̄̀̅̎͝ȃ̸̧̨̧̧̨̨̰͉̼͕͔̳͉̪̻̘̼̼̥̰̝̱̻͙̰̈́̀̔̑̓̀̃́̿̿̇́̄̀́̆̀̒̊̉͌̂̒̚̕̚͠͝ͅͅ. One swallowed by the Elder God of True Ends and Devouring cannot escape the eternal chasm or its realm-shredding teeth. It is impossible.
And yet you have.
Truth, fate, and reason have ceased their function.
She stared. What else could Nyxala do? There were simply so many perturbations to the description.
First, The Soulchasm was named in the description. Nyxala had never seen that. Never so much as heard of such happening. Descriptions could be metaphoric and convoluted, but even for Feats, they never named an entity. At best, they described a relation to some overcome creature as the achievement. The feat for a Feat. Coming out on top of an entity of so-and-so evolutions above the individual. Even from the first couple words, this Feat defied the norm.
Then there was the mention of it being an Elder God. Nyxala knew it was a powerful god… but she struggled to believe Zandisth would be foolish enough to go anywhere near one of those. He mustn’t have known. If The Soulchasm truly was an Elder God — and considering a name description itself revealed such, she wasn’t about to doubt it — then Coral was lucky. Extremely lucky. It would not have been difficult for such an entity to cast off the Island that contained it and swallowed them all.
Why hadn’t it?
Nyxala shivered just remembering that endless stomach.
Forget the rest of Coral… how had she survived? The description agreed with her. It couldn’t understand how she was still amongst the living, with soul and name intact. Truly, reason no longer exists.
Given the description, and the fact that it was an Elder God, even teleporting away shouldn’t have helped her. She should, at this very moment, still be in its very clutches. Even if its host platform had been torn apart by the black hole, she imagined she should still be pulled through the fabric of space itself to return to its stomach. By being marked, her True End was guaranteed.
Yet… she was still here.
Maybe, if the god had shown an attitude even marginally similar to Euphoria, then she would have thought it had dismissed her. Forgotten about her. But it had been adamant about her death. The Soulchasm called her a Seed; something it considered worth being eradicated. An Elder God wouldn’t make such a declaration only to not follow through.
Nyxala considered how she’d escaped. Her teleportation was likely far more than that. If it was Pink that saved her from the Mark of an Elder God— somehow — then manifesting it in the real world held far-reaching implications. Ones she doubted she could come close to comprehending. This was the realm of the Eidolons.
What exactly were the Eidolons’ Seeds? What was she?
A memory from her first two evolutions sprouted in her mind. She’d stopped testing the descriptions of her name combinations she wasn’t interested in taking after that point because of how obscenely numerous the possibilities were… and saw no point reading so many ultimately convoluted metaphors. But she remembered the first two combinations of every name. Both metaphors were very specific.
And now that she was in mid-evolution, and in the unique position where every one of her names were ready, she had the perfect chance to call upon a full-name evolution once more.
N̪ỷx̱̽ala-o̅s̫stho̲th-Ỷog¦eipi̬nỷ-Lýo̻tepͦ-Ts̟͂tll̞-tṡial̺air̡-au̲cme-qyr̚a-il-ocn-pth-Vaikna
Curse — A seedling grows within the rotting soil of fate. Sprouts cut into the environment of rot and parasitic weeds, growing in spite of all that smothers.