Chapter Text
You stand there, unsure what to make of things. This human... you hope to never see him again. But your mind is a little on the edge, somebody like him, somebody who would literally sell his soul for power, will he just get out of the way for good? Hopefully yes...
A light tap at the window gets your attention. You turn to see the creature, beckoning at you with its claw to make haste and come to it. You do, looking around first just to make absolutely sure nobody is around. Ultra speaks as soon as you open the window a bit, enough for you to hear the rough raven voice.
"I shall go inform Tonrüka, the sooner they know the better. I will be back before lights-out. Be safe." You don't even get to respond half a word before the beast takes off with a mighty flap of the wings, disappearing in the snow haze above.
You close the window and step away. For a while you aren't sure what to do, but soon remember your original task. First you reapply a generous portion the gunk to your eyes, just to stay on the safe side. Just as you think about looking through more of Purpur's clothes, the door opens again.
Purpur stands there, the big four armed woman with a cruel stare, an entire group of soldiers behind her back. You recognize two of the guards as the same men who found you and Tzacl the other day, there's also Tzacl's nanny Martin, and Tzacl himself. There are also three other men, each looking more fierce and cruel than the other. These are probably the men Syflay told you about, the worst of the worst. The group the torturer you have killed belonged to.
In between them quickly passes the small grasslander, merely a child, carrying your sewing supplies. As he passes it's obvious he's scared out of his mind of the men, who look eager to at least trip him up if nothing else. But with Purpur, they remain just cackling mischievously at the child who quickly leaves, trying to keep his stares anywhere but the men.
Purpur walks slowly and calmly to the giant armchair and sits down, her tail poking through a hole in the back of the chair. The men stand by her in a row, the closest to her handing her a bunch of papers. She looks through them calmly, signing one or two before finally looking to you. Her eyes are cold, so full of hate and cruelty, malice, pure selfish evil. You hardly suppress shaking with anger.
"Pristupay k rabote. Ya khochu formal'noye plat'ye." The same man that handed her the papers quickly translates, with surprisingly good grammar even with the accent still present. "Get to work, the Lady wants a formal gown, for dinners and executions."
You look over the men again. Tzacl stares forward, appearing perhaps a bit nervous, but keeping his facade up well enough. The other men seem perhaps a bit bored, but, perhaps, even afraid to disobey. This could be a good opportunity to find out more about them should you want to, your eyes should be covered enough not to become too suspicious...
Yarnus didn’t have time to mull over how the humans cold hand reminded him of Omegas soulless body in Perlos lab. As Purpurs guards filled the room his soul skipped as he realized just how far into the viper's den he was.
He was sure that the translation wasn’t literal, but he didn’t want to arouse any suspicion and kept a low profile. Yarnus went about his work meek and quiet and respectful with a little bit of flattery tossed in even though it made him feel ill.
Casually scanning the guards as they came in he wondered if any had been coerced into service much in the same way as Tzacl. Thankfully Purpur requested a formal dress. He could sneak a couple of scans in between stitches.
Being so close to her, this disgusting creature that's behind so many ruined lives, it makes you physically sick. As you pin and stitch the rich fabrics you try to ignore the hatred burning in your marrow, instead sneakily checking up on the six henchmen to hopefully find a weakness.
The first man is the one who hands Purpur her paperwork and translates for her. He is quite thin for the usually robust Horshtockians, standing very straight with only his stubby tail sometimes twitching lightly. With all four arms behind his back he moves his shifty cruel eyes around occasionally, looking out for any trouble. He seems like a much more brutal and cruel version of Syflay, down to the pocket-y fabric around his chest, undoubtedly full of deadly poisonous weapons.
When you look into him with your magic eyes the first thing you see is fear, great fear. Despite his looks this man is neurotic as one can be, his heart constantly pounding out of his chest, his head full of paranoid thoughts. His worst fear is being out-spied - stabbed in the back suddenly, poisoned from a meal, killed by who looks to be an ally - with the fear of Purpur herself being close second.
You expect this fear to be of Purpur killing him. But looking closer, you see something very much different. You see memories of a mother, a woman from the high class of Krakogröw. A woman he was never good enough for. A woman he eventually killed if affect, out of hatred, but also out of unfulfilled love. He is not scared of Purpur killing him - he's afraid of her getting mad at him, or even just disappointed, of not being enough once again. He's afraid of his mother's endless nagging and prophesying of how he's going to fail coming true.
Curiously, although he has access to the women slaves of the House, he is not interested. It seems he is attracted to Purpur herself, enjoying a fantasy in which he’s the one in charge for a change. You don’t think he realizes this is due to his oedipus complexes.
You let go when Katia, as the assassin is named, starts getting more nervous of this strange feeling of being read. You move onto the next man before he can figure anything out.
The next man is bigger, his shoulders broad, his form very pretty and for anyone to see through his skimpy yet rich clothing. He looks very sure of himself, a slight smile plastered over his perfectly symmetrical face. A beautifully ornate sword is ready at his side, his upper right arm playing with the hilt as he stands there, tapping a foot silently.
His name is the first thing you see when you look inside. Usually it is deeper inside, not in the immediate thoughts of one's psyche. But not with this guy. Valenteen is, at least when it comes to his mind, literally full of himself. You see a man who's rich background and natural charm has carried him through his life, using charisma and dirty tactics to avoid ever having to work. Even his job at Purpur's was given to him based on lies and a pretty face, and so far he was always able to keep this facade up. Because of this he can enjoy the perks of being Purpur’s bodyguard - money, feasts and any woman he points his finger at in any way he can think of - without bringing anything to the table.
But, as you can plainly see with your magic sight, Valenteen is in practice pretty much useless. His tactic is to look imposingly sure of himself, avoid fighting and let everybody else do the work. Would it not be for your abilities you would have problems with him, but once you see through his facade, he doesn't pose any threat at all. You can’t help but smile to yourself a little bit as you move on to the next man.
The next man is huge, a mountain of muscle and grumpiness. His face bears a deep frown, his tusks larger than of a regular Horshtockian. He wears what looks to be boarhide over his back, a belt over his shoulder. You see a spyglass, a few feathered darts and a pair of throwing daggers strapped to it. On his back you notice a strange kind of crossbow, longer and thinner, with another spyglass on the top. Even without looking inside you are sure this man is a force to be reckoned with.
This man hates his job. He hates Purpur. He hates the House, he hates his coworkers and he hates his life. He misses a time when he lived in the woods with his animals, a pack of weird wolf-like creatures with six legs and longer snouts, and just hunted game to feed his furry family. He didn’t have to interact with other people back then, only had to chase them out of his pack’s territory every now and then. Then Purpur and the Horshtockian army came and hunted out the woods. When his family starved, he decided to kill those responsible, Purpur and the generals, but was caught and beaten. After months of imprisonment he was given the option to either be killed or join Purpur. With his family gone, he decided to take the offer out of fear of death.
Sometimes he wishes he had taken the other option. The perks of working for Purpur mean nothing to him, he doesn’t need money, he doesn’t enjoy the fancy foods and he doesn’t want anything to do with Horshtockian women. You decide not to explore the last thought too much in fear of getting to see something you don’t want to.
His name is Boghdan and maybe, just maybe, he could be persuaded against Purpur now that you know why he joined her in the first place.
The next two men are the guys who found you and Tzacl yesterday. You try not to blush at the memory, trying to hide your face in the fabrics. When you are sure it’s safe, you look back to the two men.
They stand closer to one another than the rest of the group, one whispering something to the other occasionally while the other chuckles quietly. Purpur seems annoyed but used to it, only giving them a scolding look every now and then.
The taller man has very strong legs, his upper half almost comically thinner. His fangs poking out of his upper jaw appear to have been manually sharpened at some point, wickedly pointy, his lower lip scarred and swollen. He licks at it occasionally, between laughing at whatever the shorter man is telling him.
Like Katia, he’s from a rich Krakogröw family, with quite an impressive background of battle training. He can wield four daggers at once, skill that not many Horshtockians can master, and he’s rightfully proud of it. His main weapon is speed and kicks, his boots a custom made weapon on its own, made of fine metal with spikes on the soles and tips. His family is very proud of him, although his father is also quite jealous. Unlike the rest of the group he’s confident and skillful, a force to be reckoned with. You try to find some kind of weakness…
You find an… interesting thing. There are no sexual thoughts about the women of the House. Instead, there’s a suppressed thought about the small ugly man next to him. A thought that just might be a kind of attraction? It is covered with fear of the other’s, and especially his father’s, disapproval. Looking to the shorter man you can see why.
Even with this, Timur, a name meaning "iron man" in its origins, seems to be the most dangerous of the bunch so far. Afraid, you decide to move onto the next man.
The shorter man has a strange body shape, he’s muscular but short and his stomach is strangely round. His face is a bit hard to look at, obviously he has had a cleft palate but despite the efforts of whatever surgeon had operated it there’s still quite a huge gap between his jutting front teeth and his lip bears an ugly scar. His left eye is considerably lower than the other, giving him an especially disfigured visage. Generally speaking, he is really quite ugly - no wonder Timur is afraid to admit his attraction.
Like his friend, he’s also from Krakogröw and his family is incredibly prestigious. His father is an army commander and his mother is one of the House’s high ladies. He’s under a lot of pressure, constantly struggling to keep up to the other warriors because of his smaller frame. He surely wasn’t born a soldier, but isn’t a weakling either, he’s skilled and strong and fueled with frustration. Frustration from being born like this but everybody around him still having incredibly high standards for him. Frustration from no woman wanting anything to do with him despite his efforts. You would almost feel sorry for him, if it wasn’t for the way he solves this problem.
You cringe at the memories of beatings and rape of the helpless brothel women this man uses as an outlet for his burning hatred for his own life. For him, sex is no longer for pleasure, it’s to feel superior. You turn away in disgust before even getting to know his name.
You want to move on, but then stop yourself. For a moment you hesitate, but then return to the disfigured man, focusing on his thoughts of his colleague. It seems he has no idea about Timur’s suppressed attraction but sees the man as the best friend he ever had, the only true ally in his shitty life. He adores and admires him, but never even thought of a relationship beyond friendship. You aren’t too sure how he’d react to the idea…
You move on. Next up is Martin, Tzaclkratz’s nanny. This enormous bulk of muscle just stands there, a big dark spot on his head from when Tzacl bashed him over it after you put him to sleep. His face is very stoic, not showing any thoughts at all.
When you look inside you see that that isn’t just the outside impression. This man is really not thinking much. He thinks about when food will be ready and if the big stout grasslander concubine will be free tonight. You look deeper, his feeble mind like an open book for your eyes.
This man is not very intelligent, but he is very very hardy. He barely feels pain and doesn’t complain, really, he doesn’t require all that much to begin with. He used to be in the army, like his father, and his father’s father, until one day his fleet was attacked by a grasslander tribe while on a hunting trip. He was the only survivor, purely because of his size and pain resistance. You gulp when you see a memory of a grasslander desperately trying to beat him down with a mace. Martin would just stand there and take it, then grab his head with both arms and crush it like it’s nothing. For his resilience and low maintenance, Purpur keeps him close, just in case.
You’re already halfway done with the new dress when you look to the final bodyguard, Tzaclkratz. The skeleton is looking away, seemingly in thought… You debate yourself at first, not wanting to intrude… but then your curiosity gets the better of you. You turn your magic eye onto him, feeling a wave of emotion overcome you from the soulful being.
He’s thinking about you. About the kiss, the hug, the crying… about just being close to you. There’s a glimmer of an expanding thought, of a house in the mountains where there lives a huge skeleton woman, with his brother, Omega, you and him living there peacefully…
You quickly look away as Tzacl lifts his eyes to you, praying to the gods he hasn’t noticed you snooping. Better not try that again. The gunk on your eyes is getting pretty thin by now, too. But you still have one person to scan…
Hesitant and afraid of what you’ll see, you look to Purpur. The thick lipped woman with a mean stare is truly the epitome of evil. High class, rich evil. You can’t help but shiver with hatred when you look at her. Bracing yourself, you turn on your magic eye…
Purpur hasn’t gotten this rich just out of luck. She is cruel, but also intelligent, educated, cunning. Her mind is full of cold math, calculating gains and losses. Currently she’s thinking about the annoyance that is the supply routes being cut off. It seems she has no idea about the army, very dismissive of all the warning signs… You soon find the source. It’s from Tyran’s assurances.
Even if the poisoning and cut supply routes are rousing her suspicion, once Tyran had told her it’s nothing to worry about, she believed him. Some way or another, he has the ability to foresee things or see things happening far away. She learned that he is always right. And so she trusts him completely.
You explore the memories about the man. Tyran, the jester, the creator of all the technology, weapons and tactics she had used over the years. It was decades ago that he had come to her with this proposition. He’ll do all the science and tactics and she’ll do all the economy. After he showed her his creations, the magic cuffs, mechanical ballistas and many other strange thing she can’t even begin to understand, she said yes, even if this strange creature that grows hair disgusted her. Since then it has been a steep way to the top. By Tyran’s instructions, she built a brothel right here, the place of "exchange". Soon, her brothel was the best in Glasswöll, and when the army decided to camp around the House, it only added to her influence. High class women from all around flock to her and she lives in great luxury, all thanks to her cruelty toward the other races. And to this strange man and his inventions and…
You see a different memory. It’s of a feast that she refused to partake in. A feast of a prepared cavedweller. Powering through your disgust you explore the memory. It was for the man from the mountains. The "Skhodstva". The supplies from the mountains come in exchange not just for money, but for sacrifices. Every now and then Purpur would pamper one of her slaves for a month, then give him over to the religious folk in the mountains in exchange for supplies of fresh food.
These Skhodstva don’t seem threatening, but maybe it’s because you see them through Purpur’s memories. They don’t seem like Horshtockians, only two arms and no tail, but Purpur has never seen one without their orange cape covering most of their looks. They are the ones communicating and sacrificing to the Gornyduk - the God of the Mountain. They believe that to keep the balance of Glaswöll’s sole existence, they must appease it. Previously, the place of exchange was for all the Horshtockian tribes to bring their sacrifices to Gornyduk to. Now, they all must first be at good terms with Purpur, which only adds to her power.
The gunk on your eyes has gone critically thin. You decide to stop before your eyes begin to show, getting back to work on the dress.
Yarnus felt a little bad for looking into Tzacls mind, but he really did need something to push away what was in the minds of the Horshtockians. The guards were not as awful as they seemed. Horrible still, but some were not as cruel as the others. The hunter was a perfect example of someone coerced into his position much like how Tzacl was ‘recruited’. Even Valenteen didn’t seem to be cruel. Manipulative, yes. But who was Yarnus to judge on that alone. He was guilty of that himself at this moment. As far as Yarnus could tell, Martin wasn’t even terribly mean spirited. He almost had every right to be after the grasslanders killed his family. But he didn’t feel much hostility towards grasslanders in general from him. There was even a hint of fondness maybe, in his thoughts of the stout concubine.
Yarnus turned his attention back to the task at hand. The dress was nearly finished. His experience from the previous dress meant it would fit better and hopefully meet Purpurs expectations. It wouldn’t bode well for him if she didn’t think it was better than his first. He had to keep up the ruse of being an obedient slave. His hands moved quickly once he had decided on the decorative stitching to use. Purpur would have no idea the simple stitch used all over the dress was runes, a runic curse of sorts. Thuraz, the thorn, the mark of Thralls, the mark of slaves. The points all faced inwards. The old meaning was to have the nature spirits bring misfortune, but in this case it was literally spelling out that the evils Purpur had brought to the slaves would be turned against her. A small satisfied smile crossed his skull before reality crept in again. Even if he believed in the old spirits or even that he had the power to work runes, they wouldn’t be here in the Void. The closest thing to spirits he knew here were the glitches poking about in his head.
Yarnus really needed to think of how to disable Purpurs guards. Trying to separate them and taking them out one by one would be a daunting task. Katia would have to be out of the way first, he was probably the most dangerous with Timur a close second. Timur probably didn’t stray far from his companion. A fight with one would turn to a fight with three or more. No, there had to be another way. While holding the fabric up to check the way it hung, Yarnus looked over the group of guards again. Even if the Hunter would turn on his fellows the odds still were not their favor. The assassin and the pair from the night before were his main concern. Looking back and forth between them he noticed that Katia was starting to stare directly at him. Maybe his eyes were starting to shine through, or maybe just the slight movement of his head caught the unwanted attention. Either way, Yarnus looked down at his work once again. He had to think of something quick. Why would a lowly slave be looking at the guards so closely. Why at the one closest to Purpur and the one that was… shortest.
Yarnus hands nearly shook when it hit him. Perhaps, just perhaps, someone saw a small figure in the woods when the other guard was killed. No, actually it didn’t matter. Just a rumour Yarnus could have heard from the army’s cooks… you know, before they were all executed. It was a perfect lie, because it was the truth. ‘Someone of a smaller frame was seen that night. Of course Yarnus would be scared. The killer of one of Purpurs guards was in this very room, possibly planning their next move. He let his head raise, but not in Katia’s direction. No, he looked straight at the ugly brute whispering something funny to Timur.
The ugly Horshtockian is snickering at his own joke as Timur grins widely with his sharpened fangs. You look to him and he notices your stare, his smile falling slightly as he frowns, unsure what to make of your look. From the edge of your vision you see Katia’s suspicious yet wide stare switch to the short man, then back to you, but by that time your head is back down, finishing up the last few stitches.
You lift up the enormous dress and carry it to Purpur, bowing down low even if just being so close turns your marrow with hate and disgust. The large woman nonchalantly raises her eyes from her papers.
"Gotovy?" she asks softly. You just bow lower, handing her the cursed dress further.
She gets up as Katia takes the dress from you harshly, giving you a hostile look. You stumble backwards as he tears it out of your hands, trying to keep your balance only to be tripped up by Valenteen and have the men laugh at you as you fall on your back. Valenteen gives you a shiteating grin as you slowly stand back up, not daring to even acknowledge their cruelty, Timur and the ugly man being the loudest of the bunch. Martin gives a few heavy chuckles, Katia just squints his eyes, Boghdan remains stoic. Tzacl frowns at Valenteen and the suppressed light of his magic irises burns with hate, but diverts his hateful stare before Valenteen can see.
Purpur doesn't seem the last bit interested in what's going on, simply putting on the gown, she moves her arms around in the sleeves, stretches her legs and tail and inspects the runic writings which are incomprehensible for her. Finally she walks over to the mirror and takes a good long look at herself before turning to you with her cold eyes.
"Khoroshaya rabota."
"The Lady is satisfied with your work," Katia translates. Purpur turns back to the mirror, then speaks again. "She would like to buy you, once all the distracting trouble is over. Your master is very hard to persuade, but we have ways..."
You hardly suppress a gulp as you see Katia’s cruel stare.
"Teper' vy mozhete uyti."
"You may leave."
You bow to Purpur, then to the men, giving the ugly Horshtockian a little look to add fuel to Katia’s paranoia before you gather your things. The small grasslander opens the door for you and you quickly leave, glad to be done with this whole ordeal.
You make your way through the opulent and heavily guarded halls, hoping to find your way back to the kitchen quarters, when you suddenly see the tall posture of none other than Afnun, standing by the door and talking to a small grasslander servant who seems scared breathless of the giant grunt.
"Afnun seemply ask where his cook!" It's scary to listen to his booming voice, even if you know it's just an act. You quickly come closer and announce yourself to spare the servant the fear.
Afnun turns to you and you make a step back, his stare hard and angry. "You stuped rab-beet! Slow slow slow! Afnun go hungrey without heez cook!" He grabs you by the collar and pulls at it harshly, threatening you with a finger, his other pair of arms at his sides disapprovingly. "If cook no cook, what he gud for? There will be beeting toneght!"
The servant just watches, shaking in fear, as Afnun drags you away further down the hall. After a while he finally stops, the pressure on your neck spine harder to endure by the second. He looks around cautiously, listens in, then lets go of you, squats to your level and begins feverishly patting and comforting you with all four arms.
"Afnun so sorry for hurting leetle skeleeton, plees forgive Afnun," he whispers, petting your head. He sighs deeply. "Afnun glad mishin aboot to be over. So tired of being meen. Heving to lauf at cruel jokes of other Horshtockiens. Afnun can't weit to be gud agein..." He looks around one more time before leaning back in. "Deemon tell Afnun everythin. Is big day tommorow." He grins widely, but then frowns. "Onely problem is Purpur's men. You see dem? Afnun think, not even he could take them all out... Need gud plan."