Cliff
“Our son was born today, coming into the world in the morning hours of the day.
The labour was a long and arduous affair. Sarah’s contractions were powerful, more so than during any recent birth in memory, according to the midwife. It seems as though my son may have inherited some of my latent strengths, the ones imbued in me through the rituals I have undertaken. Because of this, he threatened to kill his own mother during birth, as her body was not fit to deliver a child of such disposition.
It was a stupid oversight on my part. I failed to consider how the altered state of my organic make-up would translate to the unborn child, and in so doing, almost forsook the life of the one I value most. For this, I am a fool of the highest order, unworthy of forgiveness.
And yet... that is precisely what I was afforded by my wife, whose love and compassion knows no bounds. As I strove to fill the silence with profuse apologies, she took my newborn son in her arms, and whispered to me that all is forgiven. That the fault lies as much with her as it does with me.
Truly, I am not deserving of such kindness. Sarah remains the best of me, more so now than ever before.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2152 Post-Separation (PS).
A strong gust of wind tore at Cliff as he fought his way across the open plains north of Galwen, towards the place he knew held horrors beyond rationality and sense. It was early in the morning; his meeting with the lumberjack had taken place just as the man was about to begin his work-day. It had not been a productive exchange of information. The man had known little beyond that which he had already conveyed to Varus’s men, seeming only to remember the additional piece of gossip that the golden orbs had been spotted by other travelers as well, on their way to The Long Divide.
Such an insignificant detail mattered little to Cliff. If one person had witnessed the trail of a Nymphora, then so would others. This was common knowledge amongst those who had dealings with the supernatural.
As such, his conversation with Rachel the day before still sat front and center in his mind, repeating ad nauseam until he could recall every aspect of it with perfect clarity.
The seemingly unprovoked attack by a group of Umbrals. The Empyrean Sigil, gifted to a man of no renown, traveling in the company of one Amelie Harthway, the Flame Princess herself. And the timely intervention of Julien Balder, heir to the Mountainborne Empress of Abengarde. The very notion of it all was absurd to the point of delirium. No sane man with his wits about him would believe such a tale, even were it to come from the lips of the Stonefather himself.
And yet...
I trust in all of it, Cliff thought to himself, his hood brought low across his face to shield him from the bitter gales. The world’s gone topsy-turvy, and me along with it.
His thoughts ran in meandering loops as he ventured on, not giving him a moment’s rest. Taken by a fit of nostalgia, he thought back to his years spent holed up in Carthal. Life had been markedly easier back then. He had not been forced to contend with absurd happenings such as he was now embroiled in, nor had he been responsible for anyone else’s safety beyond his own. It had been a simpler time. A lonelier time.
But on the other hand, I never would have met Catherine if not for Varus. So for that, at least, I am grateful.
The following hours of travel passed much the same as the first. The wind refused to let up, casting itself against him in powerful squalls, slowing his progress. It was not before he reached the northern stretches of knoll-like terrain that he found some manner of respite, allowing him to spur Brom into a steady canter. Ahead of him, the Weydwell Ridge grew with each step until it filled his vision entirely, the side sloping away from a narrow edge, upon which the Baelford stronghold had once stood as a proud warden of the land. These days, it was little more than a blackened ruin, having been razed by Lord Weydwell Harthway some three hundred years prior.
Along the road, Cliff marked what appeared to be similar creatures to the thing he had seen back in Galwen, laying on the table in the square. A creation of living entrails, bloodied and slimy, writhing incessantly upon the earthen soil, its mucid skin marred by dirt and grime. He observed several as he cantered past, traveling in odd numbers towards an unknown goal, as if beckoned by the chime of an inaudible bell.
The sight of them was disturbing, yet Cliff knew he did not have the time to investigate the matter himself. Stonefather knew he had enough trouble as it was, without adding some bizarre flesh-creatures to the equation.
After some time, he finally laid eyes upon his destination, stopping before the entrance to the Grimseid Depths - a cave opening on the southern slope of the ridge. At a glance, the place did not look like much. An unassuming gap in the stone, about the height of four men, wide enough for two carts to enter at the same time. And yet, Cliff knew the opening to be misleading, as the cave would swiftly narrow once inside, making horse-travel impossible.
Dismounting Brom, he gave his companion a loving stroke across the neck, whispering promises of a swift return to calm both himself and the animal down. He did not wish to spend any more time here than necessary, and as such, had only brought enough supplies to last him a few days.
Retrieving his cloth-wrapped blade from the saddle, he shouldered the pack he had brought for the journey, and began his slow approach towards the opening. With each step, he felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him, a tangible force that seemed to grow stronger the closer he got to the darkness ahead.
As he reached the mouth of the cave, he hesitated for just a moment, steeling himself against the unknown. He could feel the chill of the depths seeping out from within, sending shivers down his spine. But he pushed aside his fear, knowing that he had a duty to fulfill, regardless of the danger that lay ahead.
With a deep breath, he fetched a lantern from his pack, clipped it to his belt, and stepped beyond the ingress.
The inside of the cave was musty, and damp. A foul scent tore at his nostrils, eliciting a grimace from the swordsman. He soldiered on to the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the winding tunnels, repeated in perpetuity as he descended into the belly of the beast.
The passages lay in silence. It was the silence of the dead, of that which had not been disturbed in decades. Not a singular noise outside of that produced by his boots hitting the stone could be heard, and so before long, his imagination started filling in the blanks. Minutes dragged on to become hours as he wandered in sparse lantern- light, the source casting deep shadows across the rocky walls that surrounded him.
At the dawn of what he presumed to be the second hour, he could feel himself beginning to grow paranoid, as his brain conjured images of creatures and beings lurking in the darkness that were not really there. He took a short break near a patch of luminous cave mushrooms, which offered some light to see by. The strange fungi emitted a yellowish shine, indicating to him that they were certainly not safe to eat, no matter how pretty they looked.
He opted to nibble on a bit of dry meat he had in his pack instead, making certain to limit himself to just a few pieces. His food supplies would have to last him a while, was he to get trapped down here. For these depths were treacherous, and the few souls there were whom had dared to brave its dank innards and emerged with their lives yet intact all spoke to a confusing layout of twisting pathways and narrow caves that seemed to wrap in on themselves at several points. Venture deep enough, and there was a real chance you may never find your way back.
Cliff did his best not to linger on that as he trailed deeper still, the air growing cold and the passages more treacherous. His heart raced in his chest as the walls seemed to close in around him, whispering of timeworn secrets lost to the ages. Every step felt like an intrusion upon the resting place of some long-dormant entity, and he could not shake the feeling that someone... or something... was watching him. But every time he turned around to look, he saw nothing but empty space, forcing him to move on with false closure. In this abyss, his lantern was but a fleeting glimmer standing against the engulfing dark, and so anything beyond a handful of feet in either direction was lost to him, drowned in shadow and gloom.
Some time later, he happened upon yet another group of the flesh-amalgams from earlier, sliding across the ground at a snail’s pace. He offered them a wide berth as he passed, wrinkling his nose in disgust. What horrid creatures. Were they coming from the depths? And if so, what possible thing could be giving birth to such monstrosities?
The unsettling presence of the cave grew all the more oppressive at the thought, weighing upon his mind like a heavy shroud. The further he delved into this place, the stronger he felt as though his death lingered close at hand. His senses sharpened, attuning themselves to every subtle shift in the environment, every whisper of movement echoing through the labyrinthine passages.
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Without conscious thought, his hand tightened around the hilt of his cloth-wrapped blade. The cursed thing was evil incarnate, and yet here, in the darkness, its presence was comforting to him.
Suddenly, a low rumble echoed through the cave, bouncing off the walls with a resounding boom. Cliff froze in his tracks, heart pounding against his ribs as he strained to discern the source of the upheaval.
Then, without warning, the ground began to tremble beneath his feet, sending shockwaves rippling through the stone. Cliff stumbled backwards, catching himself against the wall. Fear coursed through his veins, yet he refused to heed its siren’s call, locking his gaze instead upon the heart of darkness, meeting it head-on with ironclad determination.
He stood like this for a good while, staring at the passageway ahead. Even when the rumblings simmered down to a low drone, he remained in place, sensing the advent of something more, something greater. And yet... no figure emerged from the blackness. No horde of nightmare-creatures came rushing at him, intent on rending flesh from bone. There was simply silence, of the deep and settled kind.
Maybe I’m growing dull with age, he thought, loosening the white-knuckle grip he held on his blade. But I could have sworn there was a presence...
At once, he felt the hairs on his neck rise, and a profound terror grip his spine. Something wicked made itself known to his senses, a great and terrible entity prodding at his mind from a distance. He recognized its loathsome touch promptly.
Man-thing come to die, it spoke. Flesh-stench strong and hearty.
Nymphora, Cliff thought, breathing deep. You shall not have me.
Cave-depths dark and sacred. Children-flock starved and hungry.
I am not your meal.
Man-thing fat with spirit. Mother calling, strong desire.
Reveal yourself, creature.
A great stirring brushed against the edges of his perception. A putrid wind ghosted across his skin, coming from the passageway ahead.
Man-thing come to Mother.
Cliff moved without hesitation, stepping forwards to greet the nightmare that awaited him. Rounding a bend in the tunnel, he came face to face with the source of the malevolence. A towering figure cloaked in shadow, sitting hunched upon a rock formation in a spacious chamber. Dozens of smaller creatures surrounded the daemon on all sides, like obedient vassals standing guard beside their god. As the light of his lantern landed upon them, Cliff saw them for what they were; the flesh- amalgams from earlier, undulating back and forth as they swayed in a peculiar rhythm.
They’re worshipping her, he thought, feeling a sneer overcome his features. The Nymphora is their mother.
Man-thing scared-confused. Man-thing seeks reason.
“I’m here on behalf of Lord Varus the Stormbringer,” Cliff said, his voice carrying far in the cavernous space. “He wishes to see his wife, the good Lady Marlene, once more.”
Good-Marlene is no more. Consumed by the Hate-Serpent.
“What?” Cliff frowned. “No, that... that cannot be. The Lady Marlene had no dealings with Vex’Thar, or any of the other-”
A deafening shriek filled the air nary a heartbeat later, startling him to the point of recoil. White-hot pain flared in his ears, followed by a slight piping sound. The flesh- amalgams scattered about the chamber ceased their undulations, as if noticing the change.
MAN-THING WILL NOT SPEAK HIS NAME.
“... I apologize,” Cliff said, shaking his head. A thin stream of blood dripped from his ears as he did. “Won’t do it again.”
The Hate-Serpent hears. The Hate-Serpent knows.
“You tell me the Serpent devoured the Lady Marlene,” Cliff said, narrowing his eyes. “How do you know this?”
Man-thing asks wrong question.
“How can it be the wrong question when I need to know the answer?” he said, a touch of anger entering his speech. He took a step towards the shrouded daemon, eliciting a sudden and violent reaction from the flesh-amalgams. They slid about on the stone with rapid movements, until they formed a natural barrier between Cliff and the Nymphora.
Man-thing grows impatient. Man-thing seeks death.
Cliff breathed deep to calm his troubled mind. There were so many things he wanted to ask the creature. Things relating to Marlene, things relating to himself... things relating to his family. And yet, it seemed to him as if he was swiftly running out of time, the patience of the daemon wearing thin.
“Just... tell me this,” he said at last, lips pressed into a thin line. “Is the Lady Marlene dead?”
Dead yet animate. Cold yet warm.
“What is that even supposed to mean?” He shook his head. “You’re speaking in riddles.”
Man-thing should know. Man-thing smells of the undying.
An angry sneer tugged at the corners of his mouth. The Nymphora alluded now to things it ought not to know. Things that ought to remain hidden, for the betterment of all.
“... What must I do to release her from this curse?” Cliff demanded, thinking of the blade he carried, and the power it contained.
Man-thing seeks the impossible. A curse woven into flesh and bone. A thread that cannot be unraveled.
“I care little for your view on the impossible,” Cliff spat. “I have achieved the unachievable before. I will do it again.”
Man-thing is vain. Man-thing is arrogant.
“Maybe so,” Cliff said, turning his back on the creature. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Man-thing will not leave. The Mother deems it so.
At once, the flesh-amalgams swept past him to gather before the tunnel he had emerged from, blocking the passage. Their undulations resumed in earnest, faster now than before, as if to match their newfound vigor.
Man-thing will face his lover.
“... What?” Cliff said, confusion clouding his thoughts. Does it mean Catherine? But she is far to the north, on a mission for the Intelligence Office. I know this for a fact.
Turning around, he wore an intense expression as he sought the Nymphora yet again, its imposing form still seated upon the rock. Throughout their entire exchange, he had not been able to see the daemon clearly, veiled as it was in thick shadows. But now, the creature moved, rising to its feet with great exertion, and the darkness that obscured it slipped away, revealing its features to his eyes.
A powerful gasp escaped his lips as he took in the full sight of it.
Its form was a cursed merger twixt flesh and shadow, its rotted skin stretched over bones too long to fit within the confines of its body. Black veins ran in winding patterns across every inch, converging on an elongated neck that seemed broken, leaving the top half to sag lifelessly to one side. Attached at its apex was a head of such repugnant make, to simply look upon it made Cliff’s stomach churn with nausea. It was akin to the head of a worm, welded onto a vague imitation of a human, its bulbous flesh a sickening brown and grey.
Worst of all was the daemon’s face. Sewn onto the worm-head with visible strings of connective tissue, it had the distinct features of a human woman, mouth opened wide in a portrayal of shock and pain. Black liquid ran from the corners of her bloodshot eyes, streaming down her face and neck.
Utter horror gripped every part of Cliff as a spark of recognition lit up in his mind. He knew that face. He had seen it a million times before, in all manner of states.
It was the face of Camilla. The love of his life, and the mother of his child.
“N-No...” he choked, his entire being rocked to its very core. “No, no, no...”
Hate-Serpent found the Mother-corpse, the Nymphora said, speaking now in his wife’s voice. Swallowed her whole, both scream and sorrow.
“Please...” Cliff whispered, falling to his knees. “Not this...”
Even now, she fights us. Even now, she suffers.
Flashes of his wife passed before his eyes. Memories of a life spent together, carving out their own pocket of happiness in a world of terror. He saw their first meeting, on the grand docks of Benadiel - her blonde hair fluttering in the summer breeze. He saw their first kiss, and felt anew the sensation it had evoked in him. He saw the first time they had made love, and remembered the charged tension, and the way their eyes had sought one another for reassurances of comfort and approval. And he saw the birth of their child, and the tears of joy they had spilled as they got to hold their daughter for the first time.
All of it came to him in a rush, overpowering his senses and rendering him mute. He could not bring himself to look upon her defiled features any longer, lest he risk pure hysteria.
The Mother was not the sole inhabiter of her flesh, the Nymphora continued, relentless in its pursuit. There lived a second soul.
What...?
Cliff tried to make sense of the daemon’s words. A second soul? Not the only inhabiter?
The realization struck him like a knife to the heart.
The Mother with unborn child. Consumed by the Hate-Serpent, both.
Every other thought vanished from his mind, as the core of his being focused on this singular truth. His wife... pregnant? With a second child?
And he had... he had taken her... he had taken her head and smashed it against the-
Cliff’s fists clenched so tightly, his nails dug into the skin of his palms, drawing blood. He was not worthy of the air he breathed. Lower, even, than a worm upon the ground. Death would be too kind a punishment. He should suffer in perpetuity, burn in the eternal fires of damnation.
Behold, the unbroken cycle of birth, the Nymphora said, lifting its disfigured arms to the heavens. Behold, the maimed child.
A wet sound reverberated throughout the cavern, as a flood of water and slime burst forth from the creature’s lower half. It came in a great stream, running down its legs to form a viscous puddle upon the stone. And from its innards, the creature pushed a baby, giving birth to a new monstrosity right before Cliff’s eyes.
It was one of the flesh-amalgams, landing in the puddle with an audible splash.
Behold... your unborn son.
Cliff looked upon the bloodied, deformed shape of his son. The child that had died in his wife’s stomach all those years ago. A single tear ran down the side of his face. And then...
He surrendered himself to insanity.
His mind shattered into a thousand fragments, rupturing the self and eliminating his ability to perceive the world around him. A primal scream clawed its way up his throat, as his hands sought the only thing yet clear to them. His weapon, wrapped in cloth upon his back. The Curseblade of Greed, Rak’shul.
As soon as his fingers made contact with the blade, the cloth wrappings shielding it from view exploded into thin ribbons, shredded apart in an instant. The Curseblade came alive with a roar, a malevolent gleam emanating from its blackened length.
Barbed vines sprang forth from its pommel, writhing across the ground to wrap themselves around the flesh-amalgams and bury deep into their skin, siphoning their blood. Sapphire-blue eyes gave way to burning crimson, filled with a hatred that spoke of death and slaughter.
Every part of his being was reduced to a single impulse. To kill.
And so kill, he did.
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