No Drumming Version-Gaiden 1

Somewhen else.

The strangest things survived the end of the world. Chocolate. Bathroom slippers.

Halloween.

Of course, it wasn't called Halloween any more, or Hallow's Eve. The name was Reqinhist, which was Hemel and roughly translated to 'Relinguished Growth', a celebration of final thanks for the harvest and an appeal that the winter not be too cruel, a celebration for those who had died and would yet die. The sweets came from that celebration, the costumes from the concept that those left unmourned could walk the earth, vengeful and cruel and eager to drag others away into the abyss of death. But such spirits were fools and cowards, or so the stories went, and hence could be confused or scared away if those they sought to prey on wore masks of disguise and/or fear. So, in the end, not much had changed save the name and memories.

Oh, and one other thing. Monsters really did exist here.

Especially here, in the Glove. So named because of an odd tint in the soil made it look somewhat like a hand from above, the area was divided into several cities, towns, and territories, but its nickname came both from the shape, and from the fact that outside of the safe areas, it was more dangerous than the average place where fell beasts lurked. This, of course, attracted more than its fair share of thrillseekers and namemakers...and of course, the beasts that preyed on those whose reach exceeded their grasp.

Of course, there were ways of avoiding danger, even in a place like this, some extranormal, and some common sense. If, for example, more people than normal had vanished going along a certain path, and no one had gotten out there to investigate yet, then it seemed smart to just take the long route, and only take the other route in case of emergencies.

She didn't have an emergency.

She took it anyway.

It's official name was the Sopwith Glades, a few dozen square miles of misty forest. Its more official name was the 'Sopping Wet' Glades, because the trees and swamps of the forest were constantly awash in chill humidity, water beading on anything in seconds and soaking most anything in minutes. It was a rotten place if you didn't have the equipment for it, killing people through exposure if they didn't bring the right equipment to retain body heat, and constantly inflicting people with colds, coughs, and other lung maladies. Between that, and the fact that it was virtually impossible to start a fire, no one came to the Glades for a vacation. They came to hunt, or to take a swift path.

Her hood wasn't red; it was actually a sallow yellow. And she wasn't confronted by wolves. Wolves of several stripes might have been better, as the spear rammed into the ground right in front of her.

She stopped. She glanced up from beneath her hood, shadows hiding most of her features. On her waist were several figures of clay and straw, and as the spear was yanked back on a crude rope, she plucked one off and lifted it to her mouth.

"Smelled me out. Hold back."

The figures were twice her height, scarecrow-like forms that wore rotten furs, if anything. There were six of them, spindly bones and twisting muscles, their skins as pale as a dead fish, their triangular faces crammed with sharp teeth and dark blue eyes lacking pupils, the gaze of menacing turquoise. From long bony fingers extended talons that could tear metal and fillet flesh, greenish tongues flicking over barely there lips.

"Lithefiends."

There was no answer. Not like there would be. It was just a small clay figurine, crafted with care, but being just that.

"I smell...the blood of a womb." One of the lithefiends said. One of the nastier monsters of the land, lithefiends were among the twenty percent of sapient creatures that roamed the land, and would be fully capable of most human traits, if they didn't all seem to just want to hunt and feed on living meat. Even Ihmensel’jk could settle down and live quietly without hurting anyone: lithefiends seemed much more determined to wear a singular hat.

"Rude ones." The girl said, and put her doll back on her waist. That prompted some high-pitched growls, though the spear thrower quieted them with a louder snarl.

"M'kin and I were content to cut quickly, manchild, but for throwing us insult, we be making sure this forest swallows your screams."

So they wanted to eat her. And it seemed like they wanted to now carve her up first. Six of them. The average warrior on this world would have trouble with one. Against six, even random members of the 44 would be in danger. And in this forest...

Sopping Wet. What clever boys. Lithefiends had one last highly annoying trick. They had unnatural regenerative ability, unless subjected to the touch of fire. If you didn't burn the beasts, they could shrug off many wounds that would be mortal, even surviving intense dismemberment, and according to some rumors, decapitation. And here in this dark forest's misty, murky grip, you'd be hard pressed to summon up Stream-summoned flame, let alone anything traditional.

"You the ones making people disappear?"

"There be many fat fools wandering these trees lately, yes!" Spear said, sounding pleased. "I'm afraid though, if you wish to offer some up, m'kin are hungry NOW. You will fill our bellies while we seek them out ourselves."

"Fry'cair!" One of the others said. He was addressing Spear. He was smaller than the rest of the lithefiends, and unlike them, was not advancing.

"What?"

"She shows no fear!"

"Then she is a fool or mad! Or arrogant." Fry'cair said.

"She does not threaten us, or boast! She draws no weapon! She just stands there." Small Fry said.

"Less work for us!"

"Brother, all men seek defense, in fear or not! Maybe we should..."

"Should WHAT?"

The girl opened a small pack, pulling out some kind of baked bun.

"...She EATS! Brothers, chills run through me! She is more than she appears! She is more trouble than she is worth! Let us be wise, and turn away."

"You are a coward, B'utur! You deserve none of her meat!"

"Oh, I'm not that ungenerous." The girl said, taking a bite out of the bun, cheese and potatoes mixed with onions and peppers inside. "Bite?"

The first lithefiend leapt.

Here come the drums.

She tossed the bun into the air, even as she unhooked her cloak, casting it on the ground as she pressed something, a jewel set into the leathers of her outfit. Her hair was black as pitch, cut in a short bob. She had sharp, thin features, ones that could have been much improved with a little makeup that she didn't care to wear. She couldn't have been any older than fourteen.

Her pale skin rippled, and then RIPPED.

Night metal ripped up from beneath the flesh, the sound of grinding teeth and snapping bones echoing through the forest as it locked over the skin, her knees, shoulders, back, and face all sprouting the same ebony sharpness. In less than a second, she had nastier claws than the lithefiends. And a lot more.

Lithefiends could shrug off many wounds.

They could NOT shrug off, or endure, being deboned like a fish, metal erupting from its roots and passing through wirey muscle and bone like it was akin to the mists of the Sopwith Glades, manipulated lengths in the vein of chains and whips crossed with razors rending the monster apart in the space of two seconds.

The mess splattered around her. Her eyes were a lovely blue with gold flecks. And far colder than the forest could ever be.

B'utur had been very, VERY right.

Whether Fry'cair would have pressed the attack or retreated was a question that would never be answered. The girl was as inhuman in speed as in butchery, blurring forward.

There was an allegory for grappling someone successfully: tying them up in knots.

The literal reality of it was far more unpleasant.

To add insult to fatal injury, the girl kicked the mess she had made, sending it flying forward and crashing through several trees, a little more blunt force trauma to drive the point home.

The third lithefiend got to take a step back.  Then she was behind him.

The impaling blades pinned him in place. The leaping elbow to the head send force rippling down through the beast's body, not so much breaking as pulverizing every single bone it passed through.

When it fell, she stomped on its neck, popping its head off like a cork.

She could sense them, the fear spiking through them. Too bad. They'd made their intentions clear, and their location took conventional methods off the table. They probably thought it made them next to invincible. What it really did in this case was force the crossing of lines.

She wouldn't lie: she still kind of liked it.

The fourth one got a chance to run, and did, taking to the trees like a monkey. The girl snapped fingers clad in rage and death, black sparks manifesting into a crackling ball of power. She hurled it after him.

She then put her hand to her mouth, folding it into a circle as she inhaled, like she was about to blow a dart.

It was a dart, of the same black power, that flew into the ball and sent it shooting across the forest like lightning. The fourth arguably got mercy. He was blown into a thousand fine chunks before he really knew what had happened.

And then there were two. B'utur and the other one.

"Wait, girl, wait! WE SURRENDER! WE WILL NOT FIGHT!" B'utur said, almost prostrating himself. He had had a bad feeling about the girl, but even in his worst fears could he have assumed she would be THIS strong, this merciless. It was like winning the lottery, except in a negative way. She hadn't even been LOOKING for them; she'd just been heading through the forest and they'd smelled meat.

Lithefiends never surrendered, but it was clear they could never run. It seemed like his last lone companion had the same idea, as he was also making gestures of surrender.

"We...merely wanted food! We...did not mean...harm!" B'utur said, trying to find words that indicated that yeah, they wanted to eat her, but it was nothing PERSONAL. That might not have seemed like much...but the gifts of enlightment the girl had been granted by birth had given it a certain weight. There were a lot worse things than killing because you were hungry, even if you were killing something that would beg you not to.

Right?

"...Neither do I." The girl said.

Then she cut the non-named lithefiend in half at the waist, before seizing B'utur by all four limbs and skipping the hanging and drawing.

And there she left them.

The midnight metal shifted back beneath the skin. She retrieved her cloak and bun, removing a cleaning charm and walking past the carnage. Despite his deep pain, and the pain to come as he tried to get his limbs lined back up and re-attached, B'utur watched her go.

---

The tavern Mourning Light, in the town of Cinsmoth, on the other side of the Sopwith Glades. Enough travel for now. She still had a few days to spare before she got to the school.

"Hey Julie!"

The Fortunefavored still hadn't quite mastered assuming the fully human shape, leaving it with very squinty eyes, little hair, and alarmingly long canines and incisors. Not that she cared. Those were just details.

It was what was inside that counted.

"You're later than I thought. Run into trouble?"

"...nope." She said, "None at all."

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Slang Terms <---- Explained here