Alchimia Rex

Embla's gaze locked onto the cell's rough-hewn wooden ceiling, her mind wrestling with why her captor had selected such an ineffective form of confinement. She’d shown herself to be stronger than an Orc, nothing short of thick murisium chains would be capable of containing her. Granted, she had no true experience with imprisonment, but her mother’s training had not been lacking in this regard.

A Malumari warrior was a very valuable asset, and no noble would pass-up the opportunity to convert one to their cause. The way she should’ve been imprisoned would involve metal thorns embedded into her flesh, meant to pierce through her spine and cripple her the moment she put her strength to bare. An ignorant captor would also add enchantments, thinking her unable to dispel them.

But this? Her present "chains" were mere orcwood shackles clasped around her ankles and a crude rope tethered to the cell's cold stone floor, worn smooth, as if asking her to break them. An easy task even in her reduced state. Embla was rather sure that escape wasn't completely off the table. Her spine and guts may have been in shambles, but she had strength yet in her arms.

If push came to shove, she believed she could reach past the city walls before they captured her.

Was this a twisted mind game by the city's Lord? She could sense the lurking presence of five Orcs at her cell's periphery at all times, their musky scent permeating the damp air. But was that all? There had to be more that she could not detect, maybe safeguards, cleverly concealed traps waiting for her? This could be a test, a ploy to lure her into complacency.

Ultimately, she supposed, the endgame was the same.

When he was convinced she had no answers to offer, that he could not break her bond, then the torture would begin, followed by death.

There was not much else to hope for.

Her cause, her fight was lost, its remnants scattered to the winds. Even if her mother had survived, even if the Elves were woken and rallied, Embla knew in her heart she would not go back. She couldn't.

She grunted dismissively, casting that futile thought aside before it could take root. The responsibility for this disaster rested squarely on her shoulders; she could have prevented everything but hadn't. Now Barry was left with the monsters. Be it the Lord of the city or her mother or the Pinielf.

Maybe this was the only way to atone, to hold and delay until her body gave out.

Her brooding was interrupted by a knock.

Slowly, with a pained grimace, she shifted her focus to the wooden door as it creaked open, revealing three figures silhouetted against the torchlight, the sound of rain not too far away. They had not even deemed her enough of a threat to imprison her underground, which made this all the more confusing.

The first was an unknown, a female warrior armored in black spikes, the metal was melted in some areas, Embla could guess they were there thanks to the Seraph. The other two were familiar faces - painful reminders of her predicament.

Urtha, the beast of an Orc who'd bested her in combat.

And Rick, the cunning human who'd orchestrated their downfall.

“I hope your accommodations have been reasonable, Embla,” Rick began, his voice a monotonous drone. She felt his eyes lingering over the raw wounds on her midriff. “How are you feeling?”

Her gaze drifted back to the wooden ceiling, her lips set in a stubborn line. Responding would crack open a door to unwanted emotions. Displaying sympathy for the enemy could risk a bond to form. To bond the enemy was to become subject to their manipulation.

Each passing day her bond with Barry remained was a tactical victory.

"I guess I'll be carrying the conversation," Rick's voice droned on, an unwelcome background noise against the rain from outside. "I’ll begin by pointing out that I want you to run away. No matter how good you are at escaping, Monica is better at hunting. And you have nowhere to go but to Barry.”

She clenched her fists, the cool leather of her gloves creaking under the strain. The armored maiden weaved a healing spell of some sort, though one intended for scanning it would seem.

Rick's voice turned icy as he outlined his strategy. "Whether you do anything or not, I will find your little friends, and I will give them an ultimatum. Either they hand over Sivent’s head, or I will do to them what that angry bush did to Sinco.” His voice held a hint of anger in it, but one dulled. “What happens to everyone else afterward would depend on whether they opt to surrender or not.”

Embla's nostrils flared, her intense gaze boring into the grainy wood above her.

Unfazed, Rick continued. "Believe it or not, Urtha has been very vocal in your favor." The man let out a half chuckle as her shoulders squared off. “I presume you had a purpose for attacking Sinco that went beyond seeking power. What would you have done after you took over?”

The question was honest, there was an edge to it that denoted tension. Embla’s jaw loosened a moment, and she very nearly answered. But she reminded herself of the truth, of the trickeries. She could not trust him, all she could do was endure.

“Were you about to say ‘freedom’?” His question clung to her ear and Embla only made the barest of affirmative noises. “Freedom how, then? Toss it around like confetti? Or did you have some plan to help ease them into it? What happened to everyone that preferred ‘the old way’?”

Her looseness vanished, lips pressing together once more.

It drew an exasperated sigh out of him. "Something to mull over, I suppose," Rick concluded, an irritating note hanging in the air. “I know you won’t, but feel free to call for food or water if you need either.”

The scraping of chairs and the clank of armor signaled the departure of the three unwanted visitors. Embla was once again enveloped in solitude.

She began a silent countdown from a hundred. Each number a mantra, a protective wall between her and everything else. There was a trick to the man, she knew. Kindness was never free, even the one she’d given Barry had been strategic. Embla carefully reviewed the words.

He had trapped her not with metal but with a conundrum.

He was right she could not escape White Claw, the huntress would find her no doubt. To run away was to be found. Any direction she ran to other than to Barry would be nothing more than a waste of time and energy. To run to Barry would be to lead them to her sisters.

Staying would be a trap in of itself as well. If the man did not intend to torture or kill her, then her very health could serve as a way to make the others falter. She could be used as proof of the Lord’s “kindness” towards even his enemies.

Perhaps she could kill him. But that would be the worst option. To kill the human would invite the other party to do the same.

The warrior closed her eyes, directing her focus inwards, away from the cold, sterile reality of her captivity. Channeling her inner strength was a ritual she'd practiced since childhood, a survival technique her mother had drilled into her from the day she took her first unsteady steps.

The severity of her injuries added a layer of complexity to this healing ritual. Malumari possessed a unique form of regeneration, but it was slower, and required a methodical approach. It demanded a conscious effort, control, and careful guidance.

All Embla could do now was to lay low, wait, and bide her time.

Perhaps an answer would come in time.

In the southwestern stretches of the kingdom, the Deadlands sprawled out, a dismal, swamp-like expanse. The soil there was perpetually muddy and partially submerged. Towering trees, their thick trunks thrust at odd angles, crooked and surrounded by gnarly roots. It was a nightmarish terrain for any who wore armor or sought to use carts for transportation.

These factors combined made invasion of the Deadlands a suicidal task, it was what made it possible for the Tigress clans to prosper.

For years, the kingdom's feeble solution had been a simple one: pretend the clans didn't exist. Their acknowledgement went no further than half-heartedly establishing a vague boundary, barely enforced if at all. Any and all settlements were constructed well away from this imaginary line. And the duty of enforcing that line was thrust onto the nobles.

Vasia, the capital, made a grand show of posting a garrison on the northern fringe of the Deadlands. All the while, Aubria and Sinco handled matters on the east, which was to say not at all.

It was a still functional balance. The rare occasion where a clan would show interest outside the Deadlands would be out of amusement or desperation. The swamp provided the clans more than what they needed, at least to those strong enough to survive. And if the need arose, they could trade for human slaves with the Vampires that lived on a tiny island further east.

But things had started going awry as of the past few decades. The bond-collars were breaking down, and it was happening at an ever hastening rate. According to the matriarchs, a Tigress only needed to renew her bond once every few years. Nowadays, such an event happens every few months. Even with the patchwork repairs to the enchantments, it was clear things were not going to last.

The kingdom had caught wind of this disquiet. An envoy had been dispatched, a maiden carrying empty promises. She spoke of fealty, vowing that the kingdom would provide the bond-collars if the clans bowed down to them.

The audacity was met with a fitting end—she was sent back to the kingdom in pieces.

But the scratches were in the tree-bark for all to see. Without a solution, all would fall to the feral curse.

This pressing issue called for a Gathering, the first one in recent memory. The clans valued their independence, fiercely territorial and each one small in size. It made the Gathering into something filled with tension and animosity. Many of the newer clans spilled blood, the weaker ones did not survive long enough to become a voice.

A sneer tugged at the corners of Throag's mouth as she reminisced, it had been not long after that she’d endeavored to find a solution herself. The Gathering should have been a catalyst for unity. Instead, it descended into a chaotic week of skirmishes and arguments, each voice struggling to drown out the others, each claw desperate to stamp its authority. With no clear victors came no clear leadership.

Suggestions to trade with the Vampires inhabiting the eastern isle were shot down in an instant. No clan worth its salt would willingly trade self-reliance for dependency. There were whispers of a grand raid on the human kingdom, an idea promptly squashed. Such a venture would leave the clans devoid of their best hunters for months, and very few of them could spare them. That… and none of them would willingly let their hunters be bossed around by another.

In the end, the assembly bore no fruit.

Each clan retreated into their corners of the Deadlands, licking their wounds and nursing their pride, left to devise their own, individual solutions—all in vain. Throag's clan, too, sought their own path. In her pride, the Sabertooth decided to tackle the problem head-on at the very source: to seek out a way for them to forge their own enchanted collars. How hard would it be?

The hunt was the toughest challenge Throag had ever faced. It demanded an uneasy alliance with a Vampire and the help of a human from within the kingdom. Three long storm-seasons had passed, sneaking around the kingdom, constantly hiding, constantly waiting. And after all that, the prize had slipped through her claws.

It had not been all for nothing, she’d learned much, and she’d returned to share the information. The clans would need it to be able to devise a new approach.

"Your edge is dulled, Throag," Buul's voice cut through the quiet, as she materialized from beneath a tree branch, breaking the protective shadow cloak Throag had used for disguise. "Even I can detect your presence."

"If you thought my claws not sharp, you'd be at my throat by now," Throag retorted, a menacing growl underlining her words.

"Lucky for you, you brought two humans. I can’t tell which you’ve bonded, and don’t want to take the chances,” the Tigress gestured towards the unconscious figures Throag had tucked under her arms.

The Sabertooth huffed dismissively. Buul was always overly cautious. "What business does your clan have here?"

Buul's face was a mask of stern seriousness. "Much has shifted since you left."

By how much, she wondered. "I need to speak to the Mother. There are tales that need to be heard. Even your clan would benefit from the knowledge."

Buul laughed bitterly, and Throag could only guess at the reason. Still she followed. The deep shadows provided cover, aiding their swift, silent movement among the mossy trunks. Their claws found easy purchase in the rough bark, the thicker branches sporting all the signs of recent territorial markings. The surface of the shallow, murky water remained undisturbed, and they left no trace of their passage through the dense undergrowth.

As powerful and confident as Throag was, the Deadlands had many dangers even someone like her could not face on her own. And just how the dangers of the Deadlands never sat still, the clans would never stay in one location for too long. The dance amongst the clans was a careful one, with the storm-season marking the time when battles over territory would begin.

Throag's brow furrowed in suspicion as she recognized their destination. "Are you luring me into a trap, kitten?" She came to a halt, gripping the bark of a towering tree with her clawed feet, tail latching on to a nearby branch, the Sabertooth keeping a firm hold on her unconscious captives and her travel sack. "Did you think I wouldn't recognize the territory of the Salesha?"

"Like I said, times have changed," Buul's reply was edged with bitterness, her ears pressed flat against her skull. "Our clans waged war against the Salesha and her brood. We emerged victorious."

Throag could tell there was no lie, Buul’s heart was too calm, her body too relaxed. It did not make the statement any less hard to believe. Two clans working together? It was a sign of things having gone far worse than she’d thought. She didn't voice her surprise, however, choosing instead to continue following the younger huntress.

It didn’t take much longer to reach their destination, at the very heart of the former Salesha’s territory. The signs of the battle were clear to see, the trees had been torn, the earth gouged and filled with water. She could smell the death in the stagnant air, dozens upon dozens of ferals, and some of her own sisters without a doubt.

At the center of it all was the new dwelling, standing on the largest tree. The clans built for functionality above all. Secrecy was at the very core of the places they called home, hidden away from other predators and potential competitors. They were woven into the thick treetops, built out of sturdy vines and bathed in a subtle darkness that would make it hard to distinguish from its surroundings. One large communal area wrapped and secure, its size proof the battle for this territory had gone poorly.

After all, it was not large enough to fit two whole clans.

It was on her approach that Throag caught the scent of her clan Mother, it permeated out of the darkness. It brought a slight smirk to her lips, it had been her clan that had come out on top.

Upon entering, she was met by a chorus of yowls and hissing. She could identify the familiar voices amidst the cacophony, as well as the unfamiliar, but chose to overlook them. The Mother had clearly anticipated her arrival and was pretending to be a big fat cat as she lounged in her fur hammock, nonchalantly using her shadows to eat fruit.

"I had thought you dead," the matron commented coldly, her icy blue eyes blinking slowly. "But when the kingdom launched their attacks, I realized you must've at least succeeded."

Throag's tail drooped, and she let out a low growl. "I did. Then my prey got away."

“A prey escape you?” The Mother laughed, a noise amplified by snickers and purrs all around. "Such elusive prey it must have been," the barbed remark hung in the dimly lit chamber.

Throag bristled at the condescension but restrained her instinctual growl. Pride was a brittle weapon, and here it would serve no purpose. Her muscular hands relaxed, dropping the two unconscious humans she had lugged in. Promptly, she upended her worn leather travel bag, its contents clattering onto the roughly hewn stone floor – a dozen bond collars, each of them barely used.

"After so many moons hiding, I thirsted for a proper fight, it blinded me to the hunt," Throag pronounced, her voice echoing off the cave walls, bouncing amongst her kinsfolk. "I found a sister, a Sabertooth, her coat white as frost, feralborn from the eastern mountains." Her revelations stirred the clan, a ripple of shared glances, pricked ears, and curiously swaying tails passing through them. "She’d been free of the curse for less than a year. A bond that lasted even without a collar.”

Throag could feel the surprise through the ripples in the shadows, all eyes were on her, all ears were on her. Half-feigned curiosity turned into full attention, even the Mother stirred. "How is such a thing possible?" the elder's voice, a low rumble, filled the chamber.

"The humans are at the root," Throag replied, ears laying flat against her skull in disdain. She gestured at the unconscious forms of the humans she had carried in. "I traveled with a Vampire, and she thought me dull. But my ears were sharp, and I listened." A fanged smile twisted her lips at the recollection. "The more maiden blood runs through a human the weaker their blood is.”

This drew yowls and hisses, anger.

“You claim the ways of the clan are wrong? That seeking humans with actual strength is the way forward?” The Mother’s eyes narrowed.

“Our mistake was thinking the strength we needed was physical. Humans whose blood is so thick with maiden ancestry are frail exactly because they are too much like us. Maidens cannot bond maidens.” Throag raised her voice with every word. “Why do you think the Vampires were so eager to give us ‘strong men’? They knew of this problem, and sought to weaken us with a poison so slow we would not see it.” Her claws opened wide. “The kingdom does not shun the human daughters. I suspect because some of them understand the thinning, but keep it secret.”

“I have bonded with men of the kingdom, Throag, they require a collar like all others.” The Mother’s eyes closed, plunging the common room into a darkness deep enough even the Sabertooth could not pierce through it. “Do you take us for fools?”

“No, I do not. The human I encountered was not of the kingdom.” She pulled out another item from the bag, a rag. “Smell this, sisters, and tell me if you recognize it. I do not. His scent was of smoke and tar, but not of wood. A smith’s son is what I thought of him, but it is acrid and foul.” She threw it at the ground in front of her. “I detected others with a similar scent in Balet. The nobles were guarding them like treasures.”

The cloth vanished into the darkness, the others sniffed and prodded at it. It was after a moment that the shadows relented, retreating to protect the Mother’s form once more. “What of the collar maker?” She shifted the subject, as if a decision had been reached, and the Mother was merely waiting for the end of the story to share.

With a violent whip of her tail, Throag voiced her frustration. "We found our prey, a human well-versed in the designs of the enchantments and construction. The Vampire made her a Fledgling, but the leech managed to flee during the clash in Balet." A growl vibrated in her chest. "If the kingdom has grown bolder in our lands, then it must be because they believe I still have her.”

“Coincidences are too many for there to not be a pattern, in this we agree,” the Mother mused aloud, the shadows shifting and churning, clearly something else in her mind. “And the Vampire you were with?”

“Died in Balet, she lost against the white Sabertooth and another I could not identify, a charmer.”

Murmurs were shared, small snickers were shared amongst those present.

“A Vampire recently came through our lands from the southeast, they reeked of the Orc tribes and of defeat. She had brought with her a Ghoul and some Fledglings.” The Mother’s voice carried an annoyed purr. “The two stronger ones were sold for some humans. The weaker ones spoke of the clan’s betrayal, of a white Sabertooth and a Fledgling that had attacked their leader.”

Throag’s eyes widened, ears standing at attention as her tail stilled. “That cannot be a coincidence.”

“In this we agree.” The matron nodded. “We will share our knowledge with our brethren, as is the way of the clans. The Vampires have taken advantage of our ignorance for too long.” The declaration brought growls and yowls and scratching from all around. “And, once this is done, we will prepare a hunt.”

“Should we not call for a Gathering?”

“No, this is prey Throag found, and prey we will take before the others can pounce.” The Mother stood, the shadows wrapping around her figure and leaving her as nothing more than a walking silhouette, one half the height of Throag. “If we are to break with tradition, then we will not take half-measures. This hunt will involve the whole clan, for it is for the survival of the clan.” Her sky-blue eyes peered upwards to the Sabertooth. “To prepare for this grand hunt, you will share the wisdom you obtained while hunting there.”

The taller maiden hesitated, suppressing the sense of pride within her chest. She’d expected her return to be one of ridicule and loss. Not this.

She raised her head, closing her eyes, ears flattening against her skull as she descended to her knees, presenting her throat in the largest sign of submission. “It would be my honor to be the clan’s guide, Mother.”

“It is so, then.” Came the response. “Now tell me of the white furred sister.”

“Her name is Monica, and her human is Rick.”

There was a wave of giggles and murmurs across those gathered. Mother’s eyes widened slightly. “A human worth remembering?”

“He was annoying to chase.” Her voice tightened at the memory.

Never before had prey so weak managed to stay out of her reach for so long, as if he’d known her every move. Even now she could not fully understand how he had accomplished this, a man as sluggish as any other, keeping a step ahead of her for long enough she’d grown frustrated and gotten serious.

Serious against a human.

The audacity of it was a thorn on her side.

“What was worth remembering was Monica. A cub, she’s not been a Sabertooth for long.” She broke the silence, interrupting the sniggering. “But she needed to see me use the shadow thorns once before she applied them herself.”

Mother’s form tightened, blue eyes narrowing, the pressure of her attention making the darkness around them to shimmer like a coiling Lamia ready to strike.

“A grand hunt indeed.”