Cutting Ties

[Briarheart]

“You may rise,” I finally said, extending a hand out from my robes and beckoning him with a gnarled finger.

Gaster did as he was instructed, the adrenaline rush starting to wear off. The old man couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with me. His pallid orbs focused on every other possible object in his abode, be it the salvaged furniture, the tattered carpets that sparsely decorated the floor, or the various instruments on a table that were immediately recognizable as things to dissect and examine specimens of various sizes.

The hermit chittered nervously. “Can I... Can I get you something to eat? Perhaps a drink?”

“I do not require the same sustenance as you mortals. My appetite is sated through... other means.” My eyes flickered with hidden meaning.

Actually, I was dying for some water. That walk through the woods sucked. But I was willing to bet anything Gaster had stashed away either had more shit on it than his face or was as rancid as his breath. I didn't even want to imagine was floating around in the rain barrel outside.

Gaster nodded furiously, his initial glee giving way to a surprisingly warm and hospitable tone. “Yes, yes. Very well, very well. Please, come inside, my goddess. You will find that I have prepared everything for your arrival.”

I let the door swing on its rusty hinges as I fully entered his home. The first thing that crossed my mind was that I'm grateful that my sense of smell has essentially been shot since I fully became a briarheart at the hands of a few pyromaniac magistrates in Eiskalt. The second thing was that it wasn't bad enough that I could completely block out the horrific, eldritch odors that permeated throughout the cottage, and that I should probably breathe through my mouth as long as I'm here.

Third thing was to burn this fucking burlap sack outfit at my earliest convenience.

“Laenguora--”

It was the first time I heard my chosen name sounded out loud, with actual human tongue. It felt... weird, to say the least. A bit surreal. Laenguora. A bastardization of some ancient language's word for sickness, because I am pretty horrible with names.

“Would you care for a seat?” Gaster motioned towards a lumpy chair to his right.

“Thank you for the offer, but I will stand.” No fucking way I was going to risk upsetting whatever horrible things had already claimed the chair as their own and spend the next week picking bedbugs and fleas out of the cracks of my vines.

“Yes,” the hermit agreed. “It is unworthy, anyway.” Gaster immediately went to work, going from corner to corner, sifting through piles of junk and refuse until he produced a book that looked to be more valuable than everything else in the room combined.

The grimoire was in pristine condition. The dark leather binding was perfectly stretched across the thin wood of the cover. The brass decorations on the corners untarnished. The creases of the spine were clasped in similar strips of metal. Foreign, unrecognizable letters were printed in the blood of some unknown creature, spelling out the title of the book.

“The Arcaneum Plagicium,” Gaster muttered in awe as he presented the book to me. I took it and casually (but regally and mysteriously--I was in Goddess Mode, after all) started flipping through it. As expected, it contained information on various diseases, poisons, methods of torture and murder, and other such things that I would hope a man with ill intent and towering ambition like Gaster could use to further my goals.

I closed the book. The snap echoed against the rickety walls of the shack. My amber eyes flashed menacingly as I addressed him. “I trust you have studied this? Absorbed all of its knowledge? Committed my secrets to memory?”

He didn't so much as nod as he did vibrate. “Yes, yes I have, every last letter, every last sketch and diagram. I have spent the last ten years devoted to your teachings, my goddess. I am ready to be your servant, your herald, the hand that rots the world, the instrument of your revenge for those who have forgotten or denied you.”

Underneath my rough robes, a chill crept up my spine. Nobody ever talked about me like that before. If they did, it was in sarcastic tones as a sword was pointed at my throat.

I bit my tongue until the sensation passed. “I have heard the worried whispers of travelers across the land. The plague that you have begun to spread is already taking hold. The flame of each life that you have snuffed with my gift has given me... such life...” I trailed off, feeling the weight and enormity of the moment bleed out, leaving nothing but a tickle of dark absurdity behind. That, and dramatic dialogue was never my strong suit. That was one of the first things Markov impressed on me, was that subjects absolutely love dramatic, “godly” dialogue.

If the sickly hermit noticed, he didn't show it. In fact, I'm not sure he did, standing there as he was with his hands clasped together and his head bowed in reverence.

“You have done well, Gaster,” I finally sputtered. “You're a good boy.”