Annabelle

It's damned hard being me sometimes.

Back in the day, thoughts like that normally came after she got done putting some horrid nightmare in the grave, or imprisoning some poor sap who got taken for a ride by a devil who was 'just so different' from the rest of her kind.

Once she quit the Inquisitor gig she had other troubles. Anna thought stepping back from active duty and taking what amounted to a cushy bureaucratic role would be a nice change of pace, but in practice she found that she just didn't have the ability to separate herself from the people she was sending out.

It made it worse, in a way. Before if she fucked up it was mostly her ass and a few other Inquisitors on the line. It'd suck, but they knew what they signed up for and had typically had worse. But most adventurers… well, it wasn't a job most people took for fun, and the ones who did do so typically didn't realize the realities of being an adventurer.

Sure, some folks could manage to take the losses on the chin. Elves in particular seem pretty lax about the whole rape thing, for whatever reason. Some girls already ran afoul of a monster and could handle future encounters because of it.

Others? A lot of newbie adventurers quit after their first job, which often happens to be their first failed job too. Most of them make it out alright and just realize that this isn't the life for them. Others… break. Not all in the same way, not all to the same degree… but breaking is breaking.

Inquisitors break too. Not as often, mind — you tend to get trained before being thrown into a tentacle-infested hole in the ground, so you at least have a leg up on the plucky peasants who take up adventuring. Still. Sometimes Inquisitors lose, and most monsters they face aren't the merciful sorts.

Annabelle reaches up to scratch at her left shoulder reflexively before catching herself midway. A bad habit, born of a bad encounter. Instead, she turns her attention back to her latest delivery. A letter, writ in elegant script by a hand no less elegant.

She'd read it over several times already. Hell, she had it memorized — again, a habit born of her time in the church. They had to burn orders after getting them, just in case a Mockery happened to be near. That's a lesson she's glad she didn't have to learn herself, at least.

Casually, almost reflexively, she tosses the letter into the flame, then watches as the pyre greedily consumes it. "Not a love letter, I take it."

Anna glances up at the innkeep. "Nah. Just someone I used to know asking about the sky."

"Ah, the Midday Stars?"

"Yeah, that." Anna rolls her eyes. She personally felt the name was a bit tacky, but it seemed to have stuck with the locals anyways. As far as she knew, debate was still out as to whether it was some magical project gone wrong, an act of the Goddesses, or something more sinister.

Normally, she'd have gotten in on that sort of thing — probably set up an impromptu gamble around it, too. Thing is, Anna's pretty sure she knows who's responsible, if not why or how. The angel got involved in just about everything spectacular around here nowadays.

Not that she planned on relaying that to anyone, least of all the sender of what was now a pile of ashes in the fireplace. Dumb as it was, the former Inquisitor just couldn't bring herself to distrust the Fallen.

Anna chuckles to herself.

Goddess, how stupid am I?

Maybe it was because she knew her before, even if it wasn't for long. Maybe it was the fact that she'd caught more than one Fallen herself, and they all had a… manic edge to them that set them apart from the best of their number.

Or maybe you'll just always be a sucker.

This time she fails to catch herself before she scratches at the remains of the devilish crest on her arm.


Asteria

The minotaur watches her daughter desperately trying to hold herself back. An amused chuckle escapes her throat as the young angel begins to dart forward, only to stop and look back at her mother as if aware she's made a mistake.

"Changed your mind?" Asteria asks Ophelia, and the young Fallen stamps her foot in frustration.

"Why should I apologize first?!" Ophelia stamps her foot. "All I wanted to do was help Cami, but she went and made it a fight!"

From what Asteria saw, that was, strictly speaking, the truth. But the truth can often be deceptive if bereft of context, as it is here. Ophelia, as is her wont, offered advice to her sister regarding the correct way to lift an object. Camiel, as is her wont, resented her sister telling her what to do for the thousandth time and lost her temper.

In other words, it was simply a common conflict inherent to sisterhood.

"Did I ever tell you about your eldest sister?" Asteria asks after a long moment.

"Zaphi?" Ophelia frowns, her attention wavering… then with a start she realizes what her mother means. "Oh! You mean from your side of the family?" Curiosity overwhelms her overprotective nature and she's soon on her mother's lap. A bit uncommon for a girl her age, but their size difference makes it easy enough.

"Her name is Calliope." Asteria begins. "She… well, I suppose I should tell you about our old home."

"The Labyrinth is not unlike the Great Mountain Dungeon. You… have not been there either." Asteria chastises herself mentally. When did she get so bad at storytelling? "Imagine if everywhere you looked, there was simply stone. Stone walls, stone floors, stone furniture — enough stone to make a dwarf ill."

Ophelia nods, and Asteria can practically see her imagination alight behind her eyes. "That is the Labyrinth. But it is not just any stone that makes up my old home — it possess a will, a desire. The walls will shift around you, make you question paths you thought were safe. It will lead you into traps, or… into minotaur dens, or dragon nests, or worse."

Asteria pauses. "We did not have many adventurers brave the Labyrinth because of this."

"How did you get around, then?"

"Once, long ago, there was a minotaur who made her way into the deepest part of the Labyrinth. When she returned, she bore with her the secret of navigating its halls and became our Queen."

"Is there more to that story?" Her daughter asks, a little cheekily.

"Much. But we will be here all night if I keep finding new tales to spin. Now…"

"Calliope was my first daughter, born of my victory over her mother in a challenge over… I do not remember. What I do remember is the day of her birth. Calliope was… everything." Asteria admits with a shuddering breath. "Ask your aunts and sire how it feels to hold your child for the first time. Perhaps they can put it into words better than I can."

"I vowed in my heart that I would not allow my daughter to come to harm, even if Chimera herself were to try to pry her from my arms." Asteria smiles sadly to herself at the memory. "But the Labyrinth is a dangerous place even for us, and I knew I could not be with her always."

"So I trained her. I taught her everything I knew. Every mistake she made I forced her to correct. Every task she failed I made her redo. All to make sure she was safe."

Ophelia, to her credit, realizes where the story is going long before Asteria actually reaches its climax. "… she didn't appreciate that, did she?"

"No. She did not." Asteria admits gruffly. "And rightly so. Frustration became resentment became… something worse. A few weeks before the Labyrinth fell to Brutes, we traded words that I dearly regret to this day."

"Oh." Ophelia wipes her eyes. "I see. Did she…?"

"She did not perish or end up captured." Asteria shakes her head, her smile a bit more genuine this time. "We met once, far from here. I apologized and she accepted. Time will tell if we ever truly bond as sire and child once more… but I am hopeful."

Barely a few minutes later, Asteria watches as Ophelia hugs her sister, apologizing all the while.


Samael

The third angel carefully aligns the various items on her desk — an ink well (complete with quill), parchment, an old coin she was given by her fourth ward as a souvenir that just happened to share a shade of gold with her ink well…

Ah. The quill is just off, she realizes. With the barest touch she rights it, making it point off at a perfect angle. Samael looks over her desk five more times, then, satisfied, makes her way to the door of her office… and pauses before the mirror and table she has lying by the exit.

Ah. A hair out of place. Delicately, she retrieves a small comb from the table and tames her unruly curls. Examining herself once more, she nods, satisfied, and finally leaves the office.

A few of her subordinate angels — several of whom she raised — greet her respectfully as she passes. In turn, she offers each of them a perfect smile — not so wide as to be unnerving, but not so slight as to be a slight. A carefully practiced display, one she has had millennia to master.

As she strides through the halls of heaven, Samael ponders.

The Third simultaneously loathes and adores mysteries. On the one hand, a mystery is a vacancy in the tapestry of truth — a disturbance of order, of what should be. On the other… there is a certain appeal to unweaving the tapestry, finding the missing threads, and spinning the entire affair back into new whole, one complete and ordered.

The problem, of course, is that it is far from simple to find those missing threads. Part of why she loathes absence is that it could be an indicator of anything. One possibility was often as likely as the other… but then, that is part of the appeal as well: the unbridled satisfaction of pulling truth from nothing.

Absence. Silence. The curious thing is that the paradoxical presence of absence is what clued her onto this mystery in the first place. Darling Mika has grown withdrawn, of late — her orders are sparser, her words shorter. Doubtless the Second has yet to realize her mistake. Darling Mika's perfection did not extend to deception.

Not that such a flaw is uncommon in angels, of course. Deceit is as natural to most of the holy as love is to monsters, and to Samael's knowledge only the Fallen and the First have ever proven themselves to the contrary. Oh, some might point at Samael herself — she is quite the capable liar, after all!

It does not take long to convince them of the necessity of her skill, and that it was gathered through practice, not inborn talent. An unfortunate acquisition, but one that had to be made in a world where devils and blackfeathers exist.

Her smile falters for a moment as a face jumps to her mind, her jaw clenching for a fraction of a second before she catches herself. A dreadful slip, but an understandable one — those memories are terrible ones, and even an ordered soul such as her own cannot be faulted for faltering at their presence.

Mysteries, then. Mikael grows silent. Mother, blessed be her heart, has apparently grown restless, if the frequency of the Second's visits are any indication.

Too many possibilities. The Sealed Goddess, the Fallen, the First, the Betrayer… any of these could easily account for both changes. Well… perhaps not the Fallen. She would have heard if there were any notable enough to cause a stir in Heaven itself.


What other absences exist, then? The blackfeather's ward recently vanished — fled from Mikael's judgment, according to some, for some petty prank. Not too unusual… but the timing is rather coincidental, is it not? Did Mika's behavior shift begin around that time?

More importantly, what does that tell her if it does? Her immediate instinct is to assume it has something to do with the blackfeather herself — perhaps she at last let her mask slip, and now Mika is reaping the consequences of raising a monster.

Samael almost shakes her head to herself, but stops. It would seem strange to any onlookers, and she cannot bear to disrupt their attention due to any mental slipups on her part, no matter how justified they may be.

Besides, as tempting as it is to blame the blackfeather, even she must admit that it seems too… easy. And really, the easiest answer is often the most boring one, is it not?

Such an inelegant tapestry it would make.

Perhaps it's time to speak with her elder sister directly? Mika will doubtless refuse to tell her anything, but sometimes no answer is as revealing as a straight answer.

Absences. Truth from nothing.

To Samael's immense surprise, Mikael already has a visitor when she arrives. Dutifully, the Third waits patiently an appropriate distance away — close enough to be seen, but not so close as to apply undue pressure.

Coincidentally, one of Mother's more eye-catching gardens happens to be here as well, and Samael allows herself to indulge in the carefully-arrayed rows of ordered flora while she waits.

And waits.

And waits…

And—

Oh?

Who is this?

Samael's eyes widen in surprise as she sees the angel leaving the Second's office — the youngest. What in the name of their Divine Mother could a child have spoken with darling Mika about that took so long?

Samael watches Matriel depart the area, and in her mind's eye the absences on the tapestry grow. "Samael."

The Third blinks and turns to meet her sister's eye, a vanishingly rare interruption of her otherwise perfect presentation. "Mika. You look well."

"Thank you." Mikael responds, not unkindly but not kindly either. The perfect middle ground for their relationship — it would not do for the others to think the eldest played favorites, of course. "I'm told you want to speak with me?"

Samael shakes her head, thinking of the more intriguing mystery currently getting further away as they spoke. "I had a problem I required your input on, darling sister… but I believe I've found the solution on my own."

"… very well." Mikael replies. "Have a good evening, sister."

"And you, sister." The Third replies, only just stopping herself from turning before she says the words.

Absences. Order. Truth.

Slowly, Samael picks apart the tapestry.


Tindalos

Pain. Blood.

Her blood. More black than red, more viscous than mortal blood — but blood nonetheless. Vital. Necessary.

And flowing out of her by the second.

Fool.

A voice. Her voice? It's hard to tell. It isn't wrong, though. She is a fool. Why else would she be here now, dying on the ground so shortly after parting with her sister, before even saving her friend's sight?

More voices. Too many. It's hard at the best of times for the Eldritch to distinguish between people — here, as she lies dying, it is nearly impossible.

A hand… she thinks it's a hand? Fumbles and grasps hers. Millie.

That… is good. Perhaps, in her next life, she will remember this feeling, this final warmth. A pity her sister could not be here in the end. She can't remember why, but she thinks she would be proud of her.

The world fades, save for the warmth of the hand and the feeling of having finally achieved a goal…


Fascinating.

A voice? Who… and where?

Tindalos opens her eyes and takes in her surroundings. This… the glade. The peaceful place in her heart-mind. So soon?

Indeed. Far quicker than I originally calculated, but unpredictability was ever my mother's nature.

The voice again. Tindalos whirls, trying to find it's source to no avail.

Above you.

A woman who is a beast… no, many beasts, descends on avian wings to alight before her.

Good evening, Tindalos. Shall we talk?


"Am I dead?" What a strange question for her to ask. Why is it strange?

Ah, what a question. So… human.

Chimera — for somewhere deep down Tindalos knows this being to be her — laughs.

To answer your question — no. You are near enough to death that without your evolution you would certainly be doomed, but you have yet to pass that threshold.

"Why am I…" Tindalos pauses, suddenly realizing she can remember how she ended up here with perfect clarity.

Memory is a curious thing. Held back by the flesh, but born of it all the same. As I have answered one of your questions, you shall answer one mine. Why did you save the girl?


Tindalos watches as the caravan carrying her friend makes its way towards the domicile of the alchemist who will refine her cure. The Eldritch finds herself wishing she had asked to keep her sister's feather. She would have enjoyed riding with her friend, she thinks.

Without it, she is forced to instead follow at a safe distance, always just far enough that she cannot be seen by ordinary eyes. It makes her feel… lonely. Yes, that is the term. It still seems bizarre that she can feel such a thing in the first place, but worse is the thought that has been plaguing her mind since she truly understood the concept.

Was she always lonely, and just incapable of realizing as much? Are all Eldritch? Is Eris?

What a sad thought. Is it strange to have sad thoughts when you are watching your friend from afar? She should ask her sister next time they meet.

The Eldritch continues to follow the caravan in silence, pondering her nature and changes. Perhaps it's this inattention that allows the spawn to slip past her senses, though the guards labor under no such hindrances.

It's the shouting that breaks her from her thoughts, and she has to fight the instinct to immediately leap into the fray to attack the… lycanthropes. Weak creatures, easily culled. Her intervention is likely unnecessary, and more importantly would expose her to danger and unwanted attention.

So she observes. The guards handle themselves well — from what Millie has told her, her family is able to afford capable warriors to protect their valuables. It took a while longer to explain wealth and commerce as concepts, but Tindalos got it after a while.

The noises shift, and Tindalos notices something is amiss. The battle no longer goes in the defender's favor. Why?

It takes only a moment's observation to decipher the issue. A larger, powerful lycanthrope, a true apex among his kind, has joined the battle. He is clever, for a male — his weaker troops served to probe the carriage's defenses so that the true assault could proceed with the benefit of knowledge.

This is… not good. Bad. Very bad. The defenders lose ground by the second, and the alpha makes its way unerringly to the carriage. To Millie.

She cannot allow that to happen, consequences be damned.

The Eldritch falls upon the spawn horde in a cloud of chittering blackness, devouring the weakest among them in mere moments. The Beloved cry out in relief, then shock as they realize that another monster has arrived.

Tindalos ignores them, weaving through the crowd of bodies in the way only one with a malleable body can, and briefly morphs her arms into a pair of massive claws. The alpha has his pack trained well, and two manage to fling themselves before her scything arms before her claws sink into the their leader's flesh.

The alpha stumbles and roars, but is spared death thanks to his minions' sacrifices. The two apex monsters clash, their respective advantages being put to brief and vicious use — and the lycanthrope immediately realizes two facts. Firstly, it has lost the momentum it possessed. Second, it is outmatched. The clever beast flees, the rest of its companions being sent in to prevent Tindalos from easily following.

The Eldritch slaughters the remaining spawn with relative ease, though she is unable to follow the alpha. Part of her… the beast part, she supposes, feels a grudging respect for its grasp of tactics. The other part wants to rip it into tiny pieces for daring to go after Millie.

Which… is an odd behavior for it have, now that she considers it. There must be someone stronger in the carriage for it to have gone for it like that — otherwise it should have been satisfied in carrying off the relatively powerful guards as breeding stock.

"Camilla!" A voice shouts from within the carriage, all panic and fury. "Get back inside this instant!"

Millie, however, does not listen, striding out of the carriage to stand next to the Eldritch. "Tinny? Was that you I heard?"

"…yes." Tindalos admits, belatedly noticing the myriad weapons leveled at her. "I'm sorry, Millie."

"What for…? Oh, you." Camilla laughs. "It's fine. You all saw her fighting to save us, yes? She's harmless, there's—"

A hand grabs Millie by the shoulder and tugs her behind the figure it belongs to. Despite her general inability to distinguish Beloved with any degree of accuracy, even Tindalos can spot the traces of her friend's features in the face of this new woman, hardened by battle as they are.

"Camilla, get back in the carriage. You, monster. Leave."

"Mama, please! She's my friend—"

"Friend? This is the creature you've been gallivanting about in the woods with?"

Tindalos can sense an argument nearing eruption when a strangled cry reaches her ears. Still primed from the battle, Tindalos wheels on the source of the noise…

…and sees the lycanthrope with its claw grasping the throat of a guardswoman near the perimeter. It must have doubled back, intending to stealthily snatch a breeder, only to fail to silence her at the last second.

Terror fills the young woman's eyes — and not without reason. The wolvish males are no less sadistic than the females, and few women can endure their attentions for long. Worse, newly bereft of a pack, this one will be eager to breed its captive as often as possible. An… unpleasant fate, by mortal standards.

Before she realizes it, Tindalos is moving. A claw reaches out to slash at the arm restraining the woman — and then pain, white hot and visceral, erupts across her abdomen. As she falls, Tindalos notices the gleam of cruel intelligence in the creature's eyes — it was hoping she'd fall for this trick.

Indignation surges through her as she falls to the ground, and from her shoulder erupts a long quill that stabs the beast through the eyes as it relishes its victory. The beast jerks and releases its victim, falling beside its spiteful foe.

As she hits the ground, Tindalos can't help but think herself a fool. Why did she save the girl? It did not benefit her to do so. It likely would not have dissuaded Millie's protectors from their antipathy towards her, at least not enough to salvage this situation.

So why? Why did she do it? Why did the spawn know she would do it? Why is she lying on the floor? Why is it getting colder?

Pain. Blood.

Her blood. More black than red, more viscous than…


You don't know.

That is the truth. She doesn't know.

It did not benefit you.

It didn't.

But you did it regardless.

She did.

The Goddess is silent for a while.

A different question, then. If you were given the option to go back and redo that moment, would you allow him to take the girl?

The answer is obvious. Knowing that she would perish if she acted, of course she would.

…would I?

The girl would be subjected to immense torment without her intervention, but Tindalos doesn't know or particularly care about her. Why should it matter?

It does matter.

But why?

I don't know.

Her sister would know.

My sister.

What would she do?

She would help regardless of the risk.

Of course she would help her. Like she helped Tindalos. Like she helps everyone.

Because it is the right thing to do.

Oh?

Found an answer to the first question, have you?

I suppose that's acceptable too.

Despite her words, the Goddess's lips curve into a smile. Tindalos can't quite tell whether it's benevolent, predatory, or something else. The gryphon-like lower half kneels, bringing the womanly body closer, and the Goddess reaches out to swipe something from the Eldritch.

What looks like a collection of bright blue wisps bound by less bright threads hovers in the Goddess's palm.

Ah, law. My sister was always fascinated by it, even before she met her mother.

That is… the Contract?

Indeed.

The Goddess turns the Contract over in her hand, eyeing it critically.

…ha! I wonder if its creator realizes what exactly she's accomplished with this. Somehow I doubt it. Evolution always has a way of… filling in the gaps of your knowledge and ability, for lack of a better explanation.

Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm not saying she's unintelligent, merely that this Contract interferes with aspects of existence she shouldn't really be familiar with.

The Goddess pokes the light web back into Tindalos. It… doesn't feel like anything, really.

I had an idea about offering you a trio of choices, but really, I don't doubt you'd pick this one anyways and I've spent enough time on you already. I look forward to seeing what you'll become.

Will I be alright when I awake?

...hmm? Oh, yes. Evolution typically entails a… nevermind, no time. It heals all wounds, barring certain spiritual afflictions. Hard to plan around, obviously.

That is good. She would hate for Millie to be sad. Or her sister. But at the same time, it makes her glad to know that someone would be sad if she died? Strange.

The Goddess does not comment on her thoughts any longer, having departed. In her wake, all that remains are images of who Tindalos can be.

With excitement in her heart, Tindalos makes her choice.


It's a bit odd, waking up in a pool of her own blood. If even Tindalos thinks it's odd, then it must be so. Or… it's not odd at all, and she just thinks it is because she doesn't know better. She'll have to ask.

"She's up!" Someone yells, and a moment after Tindalos is tackled to the ground. This is very concerning for all of two seconds, but she realizes from the crying in her ear means it's probably Millie. Either that, or the girl she saved is very relieved that her savior lived.

A few minutes later, once the crying and other things Tindalos isn't good with are done, Millie makes a comment that causes her to seek out her own reflection, which is very confusing because she thinks she's seeing out of more than two eyes.

"Tinny, did you always have feathers?"