Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave recalled that he had once complained in an online forum about ‘fade to black’ cutscenes in video games. The screen would go dark, and then someone would narrate what had happened. ‘It’s lazy,’ he recalled writing. ‘Devs didn’t want to animate a surgery.’ Argrave was sure he’d been about fifteen years old when he wrote those nonsensical complaints.

Now, Argrave wished for nothing more than his vision to fade to black and a month to pass.

Instead, a twenty-foot-tall giant wearing robes made of its own hair rearranged furniture to prepare for Argrave’s heart surgery. He secretly hoped he’d have a panic attack and faint.

The Alchemist moved a table closer and placed a bowl of obsidian there. More and more things piled up beside Argrave, and his breathing started to quicken as he questioned what, exactly, each implement would be for.

Eventually, Argrave decided it would be best to stare at the ceiling. He saw the Alchemist eat something—a collection of herbs, it looked like. Then, the man’s finger retracted into itself, reemerging as a dripping rod of bone. The Alchemist held up a cup, filling it with a thin liquid the same color as the herbs he’d just consumed.

When the cup was filled, the Alchemist held it to Argrave. “Imbibe,” he commanded.

Argrave sat up. It was very difficult to refrain from asking what he was to be imbibing. When he drank, it tasted like a subtle, leafy tea mixed with cough syrup. He laid back down, distinctly aware of it travelling through his body.

The Alchemist stood over him, staring down. “Breathing will slow. Emotions will vanish. Blood will thicken,” he commentated, watching.

Should I be awake for this? He questioned internally. As if reading his mind, the Alchemist continued, “I would prefer you asleep or comatose, but I obtain more information if you are alive and conscious. Observe my actions. You will write a report when I am finished.”

Argrave nodded, then waited. The Alchemist merely stood over him, staring down. It wrote on blank books off to the side. Argrave realized it was drawing a diagram of him. Minutes passed, and Argrave merely stared around at the obsidian ceiling and the ivory-fleshed monstrosity looming above him.

“You have the faintest blood of a feathered serpent,” he said. “Vestigial remnants will change your period of adaptation.”

What does that mean? Argrave questioned. Strangely, it did not panic him at all. It felt like it didn’t matter, actually. He realized that his limbs felt very heavy. That didn’t matter, either—he had no desire to do anything but lay here anymore. Even blinking was starting to feel cumbersome.

The Alchemist raised his hand up. One of his fingers grew an eye on its tip. He positioned it directly above Argrave’s chest. It was eerily still, like it wasn’t living at all. Off to the side, the Alchemist’s other fingers prepared implements. Foremost among them was the Unsullied Knife. As Argrave watched, he put things together calmly.

Ah. He’s using an eye like an endoscopic surgical camera, Argrave realized. And he mixed a potion inside his body that would suppress my functions, to make things easier for the surgery while allowing me to retain my consciousness.

The Unsullied Knife drew near his flesh. The white scalpel’s red inscriptions shone all the brighter in the Alchemist’s hands. Argrave felt nothing as it approached—fear, panic, all were gone. It touched his flesh, making the first incision.

Though, perhaps ‘incision’ was not the right word. His flesh moved aside, bunching like clay, revealing bone beyond.

“The tool puts living things in a state of minor stasis,” commented the Alchemist. “Souls, flesh, blood: all suspended. It interacts with all realms of the world. This instrument could even excise the Blessing of Supersession that blooms within you.” The man spun the scalpel about in the small hands at the tips of his fingers. “Provoking an ancient god in this manner could be very interesting.”

dull haze that had obscured Argrave’s emotions,

next action will not be further

back against the table. The only thing he saw was the sleek obsidian

upwards, it’s like a really long fade to black, Argrave realized. He found some serenity in the constancy of

when one of the Alchemist’s fingers moved into view, a tong-like implement holding

think that’s

commanded. “Direct all attention towards the operation. Firsthand experience and testimony add

sight below. To say the least of the situation, he saw much more of

think I’m going to have a nightmare about this later, Argrave reasoned. I’m sure

You should

have some compassion,

of comparison,” the Alchemist finished. “You deviate far from all human norms, making you a poor control. Tall, frail of bone. Weak, sickly organs. Yet… your body’s adaptations to the magic integrating with your blood and flesh will be far

more in

be ripped apart quietly, feeling neither intrigue nor disgust. As

Garm did something to the artifacts? The thought bounced around in his head for a while. Well, I wouldn’t become Black Blooded. But I don’t see how they could have done anything. What could he have done? Inject spirit-goo into them? Ridiculous. Yet… certainly, Garm was alone with them a few times… he’s usually by the backpacks, after all. All of them, save the Amaranthine Heart, were

back to the growing pile of bones

together if they didn’t work, Argrave questioned. Well, they looked fine. But hell, I barely comprehend them

Alchemist’s finger-eye

about

#####

buffeted his eyes. As the whiteness induced by sudden sunlight settled, what he saw beyond was not at all what he expected

peaks jutting up above. The clouds were thick and dense, almost prompting one to try and stand on them. Nonetheless, they concealed much of the environment ahead. Durran could only barely make out a field of green. They were definitely far from the Burnt Desert, despite where

hung out over the ledge, drooping down off the side off the mountain. Durran was close enough to the clouds that he could see them move, but he had

didn’t know where this cave was. He didn’t

in his excitement. He was greeted by a pair of

during their night in this strange realm. She took Argrave’s directive very seriously, obviously. Durran couldn’t help but feel a bit ostracized when their distrust was so blatantly displayed, but then… perhaps he had

the Burnt Desert,” Garm noted from

them some day. Poured

“You will,” assured Garm.

and sat down, laying his glaive out. There was no wind at all, strangely enough—winds would surely be incredibly harsh this high up provided this was a normal place. Instead, things remained as pleasant as ever. The giant tree leaning out beside him resembled