DRAFT.

-too much faffing about? Cut first two sections with Goll and Allison, start at inside shop with Walter
-Goll's measurements inaccurate or has freakish proportions?
-Allison's knowledge justified? Conflicts with first chapter? (She declares having a history major in this chapter, but the temple where Goll came from is largely unknown to her [plus she knows off-hand about the sea bishops' history])
-Change plans from attempts at writing Slice of life to five stages of grief? But the drinking party!
-Too verbose?


There’s the shop, got a guest, have to make her presentable! Have to see if Walter still wants a model to advertise around the city! Last four ran away but two posed for some photos. Kristie looked sooo good in that halterneck one piece (teal, neck to crotch, but SOOO much sideboob). The posters I got made are still in the shop too, guys come a lot to look at 'em. Walter doesn't wanna print copies, doesn't tell me why. I think it's to keep them coming back to the shop and buying stuff there, can totally see that. Marketing is enticing people. Maybe not with boobs, but with ass, or abs, or fluffy, whatever. I'm helping!

Ooh, lookie! Showers that'll get her nice and clean and not salty. Hooray! If she dries, the salt will make her hair super gross. Blech.

Why is salt so gross on everybody but me, and Eudora, and Mitzy, and Janice, and Jenny, and those sea bishops that say they’re lost? Yeah, they call themselves lost, but they have a refurbished 2,500 year old temple, centuries of preserved oral and written traditions, and holy artifacts from their moms, grandmas, great-grandmas, great-great grandmas, great-great-great-grandmas, and are totally not completely lost.

Okay! Water's flowin' so now I gotta squirm under here and there. Don't need these metal knee pads or these leggy things or breastplate (breast plates? 'Cause there's two boobs, not one) or shoulder pads or helmet. Pile ‘em next to the shop now, get 'em back later. Now the armour won’t catch her hair, so now I undo this enormous braid.

Now the silks! Waaaaahhhhh, the sillllllk... so much salt. So much waste! This stuff looks pretty tough though for silk. I'm being suuuper careful and suuuper fast, but still thought I'd tear them taking 'em off her. Maybe it isn't silk and I can just wash it all into being okay? 'Cause this embroidery is GORRRRgeous (there's gold in it, I think it's real).

If I can, I'll clean it all! Even save some time by cleaning her wing props with her! She'll be the prettiest super nerd at whatever nerd thingy she's going to. But first, clean, clean, scrub, scrub, gotta get eeeevery curve (Bust B86), eeeevery cranny (Waist 71) eeeevery- (Hips 9-) oh"WOWTHESEWINGSAREREAL!"

===

Amidst the whirling of those gangly appendages attached to a suddenly chattering mockery of a woman, I can barely see a thing. Between gaps in the kraken's grip, a torrent of rain falls upon me from a steel flower with a broken stem. An interesting bit of metalwork but one I cannot contemplate at this moment. Not while any dregs of dignity I have left are zealously scrubbed away with the sand and salt by queer looking blobs smelling vaguely of honey. Words trying to be just as sweet follow, again at that nigh incomprehensible speed. What I manage to snatch with my ears brings me the lone relief that language has changed little during my sleep. Otherwise, there is only a dread feeling of having become swine being fattened up for slaughter, a corpse being beautified for a funeral.

The constant echo of Her, my God and master, becomes something to seek solace in and draw strength from. However, it's words and meanings are lost to me amidst all this chaos. What comfort I gain from Her is merely habitual rather than conscious. I bite my tongue behind sealed lips, using the pain to ignore the less than mild sensations my captor's cleaning is causing. Never will the monster have the satisfaction of hearing my voice in any way other than in protest or screaming for her blood.

I think of smashing the heel of my palm into her nose.

The squeak of metal signals the disappearance of rain. Slippery hooks are replaced by soft dry cloths, thoroughly intruding on my body again. Gentle but vigorous tugs on my hair and wings inform me of the many cloths or rags soaking great amounts of water, as did the sound of them splattering on the ground just below me. It suddenly occurs to me that cloth tends to be much more durable when wet.

I think of punching her ribs, making her bow before breaking her neck.

Every monster has warrior potential, thus I treat them as such to a point. Death by choking or suffocation, is no honourable or clean death. Dueling the kraken is suicidal. However, since a wet rag may be my only tool, could I throw it over her eyes and escape? The thought becomes more appealing as the tentacles binding my wrists and ankles slacken. Such relief I have not known since flying far, far away from the largest catacombs in the eastern continent. It was a week well spent mapping it out, but no less disquieting.

Crouching on all fours as I land brings my first weapon since awakening into reach. My captor backs away, a bright smile on her freckled countenance and arms crossed under her chest. The tentacles are wide apart and not guarding a thing. Splendid.

“Now let’s take a good look at y-”

SWAK!

“OW!”

===

"Listeners! KYUM is back from commercials at the right time. 7:30 AM time! Breakfast time! Meaning- say it with me now- It's letter time! It's letter tim-" *Click*

Damn. This means Cali’s extra late again.

Sort of. Whatever. Still early enough that no one’s comin’, ‘specially with them all gathering by the Old Rumour. ... What's left of it anyway. I can get why it's being demolished this early in the morning, but shit, were the birds even awake yet?

Half an hour ago, I'd just started hauling out the racks onto the floor (which Cali was supposed to do) when the sound of… sound of… eight giant wet rubber balls rolling on sand and concrete suddenly went by? Damnit, I know I had something better for this. Eh. 'Member it later maybe.

Anyway, that sound meant Cali caught a new doll to play with- not literally this time though. What was her name, Milly with the ball joints that didn’t get jammed full of wetsuit when she bent her arms and legs? S’nothing new anyway. This is like, the fifth- sixth- girl? I can't stop her, so I just let her. No harm, no biggie. 'Cept that one mom who threatened to sue, her body's a husband's zone only and all that jazz. Glad we got that sorted out quick enough.

… Welp. The walls are lined with Jenny's latest surfboards, racks of suits and gear have been pulled onto the floor, and counter's clean as a whistle (I have no hope for the dressing rooms after tentacle rape and tentacle rapee get in here). The Seaside Garage is open and this month's issue of 'Brave Dudes' got here before me, so no rush. Maybe we can get another poster model too. Funny though. I haven't heard any whining or moaning. Cali’s never gentle with them. Guess this one's putting up a better fight?

Shit, whatever. Time to put my feet up and get some reading done before the first customer comes in.

"Hey! Hey, where'd ya go? Come back!"

Spoke too soon. Don't even need to look or listen to know what’s happenin’ next. Checklist!

Cali's latest doll bursts in.

"You there! What arms do you stoc- tower shields?"

Cali’ll come up from behind and latch onto her again.

“There you are!”

“no, No, NO, AWAY! Away with you!”

Then all sorts of swimsuits get ripped off the racks with, like, four swimsuits to each free tentacle.

“Gotta try this, and this, and this, andthisandthisandthis-”

“Tentacled bitch! Traitorous hound! You will both rue your choices this day!”

Man, I’m going to have give a talking to Cali when after she’s done. Get her to put everything away and fucking clean up before she busts out the camera. She probably used all the towels again too. Oh right, and the last thing on the list is that right before Cali’s doll gets pulled through to the changing rooms-

ThwapThwap!

She’ll make a list ditch effort and grab onto the doorframe, straining until the last finger or claw finally gives.

“Traitor! TRAITOR TO THE HUMAN RACE!”

Glad the place is solid as a rock, but the frame’s gonna get a new set of claw marks or dents or whatever when Cali overpowers ‘em. I like those though. S'like decorating and not having to pay for it. Even says something about how big our clientele is.

“Whose squalid bed do you lay in each night to forget your inaction?”

Aaaaaany second now.

“To forget that you allow your life to STAGNATE, your dreams to WITHER, and your memories to DIE?!”

Damn, girl. You’re gonna tear the frame off at this rate, I can hear it bending. “Cali! Did you remember to eat this morning? Shouldn’t take you this long to doll someone up.”

===

My Master's last words ring true! A new age must rise in a world that has forgotten Her sting. Though I shout and struggle with all the fury I can muster, a bit of curiosity and rationality seeps out, finding the sight I have narrowed in on very strange.

The thin and lean man wears sandals dyed red, and muscular tanned legs are partially covered by haphazardly patterned blue and pink short pants. They look as if the designer simply slashed them with colour, never refreshing his brush until the paint finally faded from the tips then doing it over and over again. The man wears nothing on top to accompany it, not even hair, but numerous bracelets and cloth wrappings of many colours and patterns adorn both his arms from wrist to shoulder. No signs of nobility, but the style doesn't seem to be a freeman's or peasant's either.

Stranger still is the counter he has propped his feet upon. It appears to be entirely made of glass set in a thin brass framework. Numerous items that I cannot identify line the inside, sorted by shape on two levels. Looking at the vast difference in appearance between the shop and it's possible proprietor, I can’t imagine at all what class of people it serves. And what he said, ‘doll someone up,’ what could that mean? What other changes or evolutions in language have I missed? How much TIME has passed?

“Oh! NoIdidn’tbutGoldieneedsclothesfirst! Ifoundheronthebeachandshewassoakedtotheboneand-”

Gold? Did she mention gold? Call me such? I am indeed fair of hair and and feathers, but I’m certainly not a passing piece of currency or any representative of greed.

“Not gold, but Göll! You damned-”

WHUCK!

That was a mistake! Turning my head to scream at the kraken is a mistake. Fingers slip, the rock-like grey floor rushes upwards, and my jaw slams hard against it. I fling my arms forward, drive all my nails into the stone to avoid being dragged further in. Useless struggle, but a struggle nonetheless.

 A prolonged obscenity warps into a furious scream. Ten long grooves marr the floor. And still the human refuses to look up from whatever he is reading.

I keep struggling and cursing. Wings twitch, arms and legs strain, voice bellows, all declaring no surrender! Not to a monstrous god and certainly not to any monster! Especially one wishing to dress me for the fatal conclusion I draw from glimpsing the skimpy clothes she carries.

Ritual sacrifice.

===

Makeover!

Weeeeeeeeee!!!

===

So a half hour passes. A long, long, long half hour staring at my phone sitting on the counter and the metal armour next to it. Both make me think of how Cali’s probably managed to wrangle in some fucking paladin cultist nut. Shit.

When I put down my magazine in the first five minutes and started noticing exactly what Cali’s doll was and still is yelling, I wasn’t worried. There’s that convention up north and we get a lot of people passing through the city on their way up every year. More of them than I’d think are kinda schizo and try way too hard to act like who they’re dressed up as (or tried to dress up as at least). It’s actually kind of bad given the fucked up paladin cult that runs around here, but it’s usually pretty easy to tell which nutjob is which nutjob.

But, uh… It’s that costume of her’s that’s worrying me. Sure, blacksmiths get hired by con-goers all the time to make metal armour, but what I’ve got here probably isn’t really a costume. Even though it's all nowhere near clean as a whistle, I picked up the stuff from the showers and stowed it all behind the counter after seeing what was hanging between the boob plates.There's this pendant or brooch with a shape that’s practically a gang sign in this city, or rather a cult.

The symbol of the fucking Church, a diamond that's been hole-punched too close four times at the edges, fastened or welded or something- I dunno how smithing works- sticking out like a sore thumb for everyone to see. Piece of shit symbol's so taboo in Bastford that there are laws against it. For one, costume nerds are required to hide, or deface if they can’t move it, that thing while in the city. Only the stupid cultists wear it so openly.

Cali should have realized who this bitch is, right? She undressed her.

"Walllterrr! Weee'rrre dooone nowww!"

"And yet I am STILL NOT RELEASED!"

Hoo boy.

I stay quiet and glare as my only employee cheerfully slips out of the changing rooms with a growling human bitch trapped and trailing behind her, held in the air by wrists and legs. First time Cali's brought in a human actually. She must have been drawn to those looks, that unnatural perfection in monsters but on a human. Thought I was used to that by now, but she seems… Different. Can’t tell how. Long and straight blonde hair with a golden hue, small green eyes, thin brows that look permanently arched in anger, a button nose, and not too large lips on a heart shaped head sitting on top of an athlete's toned body. ... Goddamn, she is a real treat.

Cali's picked out something kinda modest for once. Blue, azure, looks like one of those leotards that ballet dancers wear but with the back and two ovals big enough to show off the stomach and some cleavage. Kind of surprised a two piece didn't make the cut but I guess it’s because of those six - "Holy shit. Are those real?"

===

“YES! THEY ARE!”

All three pairs of my wings, tucked close against my back until now, snap outwards and upwards, full and proud. I feel the kraken’s tentacles shift and contort in shock at my sudden movement, making way for my golden feathers.

"Now release me and give me answers or would you prefer I give you both death?!” If I could just reach SOMETHING sharp.

I scowl at the shop's proprietor, whom I presume is named Walter, watching his mouth and eyes widen in surprise... Then in anger.

The kraken turns on her waist and brings me closer, pleading in panic, “What- no. Nononono, we just-”

“Allison.” Every syllable from his mouth carries weight, said painfully slow.

“meep.” Her attention shifts instantly. Chastised and fearful, she slowly turns away from me to face him. These are not the looks of what passes for lovers between monsters and humans. What is their relationship?

“Keep her still while I call the cops.” The bald man holds a small tablet made of polished stone in one hand, tapping at it with only his thumb. Odd clicks that sound otherworldly or are perhaps muffled accompany the focused and angry expression on his face. How exactly does he expect to summon ‘cops,’ whomever they are, with a stone? Magic?

The kraken named Allison hesitates for a second before releasing one of my legs and silently flinging that tentacle plus three more at Walter. Wrist, forearm, upper arm, shoulder, each bound tight enough to make him suddenly drop the stone. My eyes follow it, seeing my breastplate resting on the counter as I hear the stone’s clatter.

"Allison. I don’t care about any pictures. I don’t care that you WANT pictures.” His face never loses its grim and dour look.

Again, that heaviness to saying what must be her name. And again the kraken responds with a meek, “meep,” but doesn't let go. Would it be too much to hope that these two begin to argue so intensely that I can escape from here? My duty to the Chief God and my sisters has been put off long enough.

“What do you think she is?” He asks in a low voice, as if afraid of the answer.

“Easy! History was my major in university. Goldie here is a valkyrie! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!” Far too easily does the kraken’s demeanour change from fear to cheerful eagerness. It's infuriating to see her instantly forgetting that she is being scolded. And once more she corrupts my na- Wait. She is educated? In history she says?

"Kraken." My simple utterance draws the attention of both Walter and Allison. "You are a scholar?"

With a smile and a nod, the red squid woman claps her hands once before saying, "Yep! I specialize in post Leaderless War society but I know a lot of stuff off-hand 'cause of my thesis. It was on why the gods and their servants disappearing 700 years ago led to more rapid demilitarization here in the modern era. My professor loved it! I'm super proud of that!"

… Wh- … D- Di- … Disappearing? Disappearing?! "DISAPPEARING?!?! What do you mean by that? Answer me!” Writhing. Straining! RAGING! And I finally succeed at making these living bindings budge, even if only by a miniscule amount. Both man and monster flinch, nearly tumbling backwards at my outburst, as they should! She loosens her grip and I finally break free, nearly hitting the floor before flapping my wings furiously. Rage turns to strength as I tower over my paralyzed audience, head crashing into and cracking the ceiling.  “My Master can’t have left this world, HUMANITY, alone with the monsters! She CAN’T have! Her great endeavour is timeless, devoid of surrender or compromise! She! Her servants! My sisters! All of them can’t have just… left…”

It is suddenly very quiet as I choke on my last word. Aside from Her echo in myself, only the sound of wingbeats, steadily slowing down until I hover just above the ground, fills the silence. Anger fades, replaced by a great tightness in my chest. What the monster said, it’s much too mad a thing for me to believe. But she says it with such confidence. Am I alone? Completely and truly?

No.

Why would that be the case? This has to be a trick. Some devil or wizard is hiding in the shadows casting foul magics on my mind. And even if such a trickster does not exist, I am hearing the claim from the mouth of a monster. Or… Or perhaps it is all true but the Chief God will make a glorious return once enough heathen blood has been spilled. Yes. Yes! Her echo calls for me to sound a new battle cry! I will bring her about again in a new crusade! The shopkeep and kraken are only the start, but- Heaven! Surely if not on the ground, it is in Heaven where I will find my answers! Perhaps the ability to communicate has been cut off or something else has occurred.

Yet, if She did not contact me before the great exodus that the kraken claims to have occurred seven centuries ago… and remains only as an echo inside me… … What’s the point in any of these ideas?

My Master's echo... It hurts to hear Her because it isn’t Her. I don't care that such a thought is blasphemy. She chose me to remember the gospel. Did my Master anticipate this vanishing of the gods? Am I to create an order where not one prayer can be answered because no one is listening? Force others to take action for nothing? Usurp the Chief God's place and play pretender until Her unlikely return? Unthinkable! Yet it is the only recourse offered to me by those last words. I must obey. Should I not?

Valkyries spend all their lives connected to the Chief God. Her presence shines in the body, mind, and soul. It is not only for receiving orders, but for giving us faith that She will always be there. The tangibility of the Chief God is a core reason for being a member of the faith. So what church can I build with no foundation?

The clear path is gone. There is no one to believe in. Just an ember. It smolders and may never attain its former glory again.

I am beyond caring that my stricken heart must be showing on my face. The man is frozen, showing no emotion yet his complete lack of movement says that he is afraid. The kraken is staring, not in wonder, but uncertainty... or perhaps pity.

“... Kraken.” my voice is firm, but wavering. My former captor flinches. “Explain all that has happened in the past 700 years. Leave nothing out.”

If I must decide on my own what judgment to pass on this new world, the circumstances must be made clear.

“I- I- I- uhh… Uh, I can’t. My thesis is, err uh, dunno-” She can’t find the words. It should be amusing to see this. Should be.

“Please. I need to know."

“... … Okay. That uh, that spot of history is my specialty. Kind of. I can go home for my old textbooks and junk. Maybe-”

“Get on with it. Whatever you know, right now." I beg.

The shopkeep drags us both upstairs, ushering us past two doors and a hall into a white room with a slanted wall that opens up into a balcony. He was made to promise to not call the cops, local peacekeepers I'm told, for the time being.

In that large and empty chamber lit only by sunlight, I sit and listen to the kraken outside my mind. I sit and try to ignore my Master's remnant ceaseless repetition inside.

I sit.

And listen.