Jackal Among Snakes

Tentatively, as though he would be sparked by electricity if he touched it, Argrave raised his hand up to the golden scales of Vasquer. His fingers met her scales. The feeling was nearly identical to touching cold metal. He could practically feel her presence rushing into his hand like water running through a hose after the nozzle was turned.

Argrave did not like interacting with Vasquer, admittedly. His mind had always been his temple—all anyone else could see of him was only what he showed them—his words and deeds could be adjusted as he wanted. In a way, his mind was the only thing he viewed as his. His body, his clothes, his mannerisms… they were borrowed, and could be changed. That feeling had faded over the months he’d grown more connected to Berendar, but he still valued the privacy of his mind. And that privacy was being violated.

In terms of invasions, Vasquer was quite a polite invader. She acknowledged that he was uncomfortable by the act and did nothing sudden or jarring to stimulate that feeling of unease. Argrave took some time to acclimate to the feeling, steadying his breathing. He felt Anneliese grip his hand. He hadn’t known how much that would help until she did it—it felt like an anchor to the world, something keeping him grounded in this bizarre mysticism.

Argrave first addressed his largest concern—he inquired Vasquer’s thoughts on his ownership of this body despite not being the original soul belonging to it. This thought of his echoed out to the branch of consciousness extended to him.

Vasquer barraged him with her philosophy on the matter. For her, the origin of the soul was less important than the body. The soul is, after all, a cumulation of experiences, thoughts, memories—in essence, it made no difference to her the origin of the soul, as she had never known the original owner. Argrave supposed it was a reasonable stance to take. He questioned if she viewed him as a thief, yet she merely reminded him she could see him as he truly was and knew him to be as much as victim of circumstance as the old Argrave was.

Argrave sent his worry at how much Vasquer could see, fully exposing his feelings of his sanctity being violated. In response, a wave of reassurance and panic came. Vasquer could not see all of his thoughts laid bare—she received things he sent consciously, or things he wanted her to know subconsciously. This process revolved around the soul, and consequently, she had great insight on the makeup of all souls she saw in general. To see the process laid out was immensely reassuring, and Argrave finally found some measure of relaxation.

With the process codified, Argrave comfortably expressed his curiosity about her knowledge of his affinity with death. For the first time in a while, the constant flow of thoughts stopped. The branch of consciousness seemed to wriggle and worm. Argrave grew anxious, yet before he could express that his answer finally came.

Argrave was shown a scene—one person viewed through Vasquer’s senses. To view life through her perspective was wildly jarring. He saw fewer colors, and light was difficult to distinguish. Sounds, meanwhile, were vastly enhanced, and he could feel vibrations in the ground. Smells were so potent as to be offensive. And this person before her…

Vasquer’s mind guided him towards a particular spot of the image she displayed: the soul. It was a nebulous thing permeating the body, and Argrave thought it was reminiscent of the way magic existed in a strange, almost mist-like state beneath the skin. The soul Argrave saw was golden and shining. In contrast, Argrave was shown another’s soul. It was still gold, though shone not half as bright as the former’s. Then, lastly, Argrave saw himself and his own soul. As the first, his shone brilliantly.

was recounting things that he’d done. And at the end of it all… the man changed. He was human no longer—he was immortal, bound to a vessel and possessing various bodies of his choosing. He was a lich, Argrave recognized. He had continued to collaborate with Vasquer long after becoming immortal, yet at Gerechtigkeit’s advent, his lich

ended. Argrave found he was crying and wiped away his tears in shock. He didn’t feel sad, and even now the tears ceased. It appeared this method of conveyance was not without side effects. Argrave searched for the meaning in what he’d been shown, and Vasquer sent

with stony gray eyes held a corpse. Vasquer’s memory influenced him, and he knew

for whom death was not an end.” Felipe lifted his head to Vasquer. “Yet he turned it to a curse. An accident

into place. Argrave, just as Braulio, possessed a

was one for whom

term from ‘Heroes of Berendar.’ His soul was resilient, persistent. If he was stabbed through the heart and perished, he might become a specter of some kind. Or, just as Braulio, he could become a lich if he underwent the proper

character possessed. It wasn’t decided by strength of will, or presence of mind—indeed, it was solely dumb luck… or poor luck, depending on

why he was

to Vasquer—how he’d come to be here, what he experienced before. It was the first time he’d shared his previous life with anyone beyond his inner circle, but what was Vasquer going to do? Tell Elenore? That’d just save

beneath his feet, and

reality was one simulated rather than simply existing, was no less of a shock to the gargantuan feathered serpent than

perhaps already knowing the answer. Did

how he had come to be here, or if there was even any purpose to it at all. Though hypotheses

such a thing as taking a soul from one dimension and putting it in another would be the realm of the gods. The why and how of

just as disappointing to step away empty-handed. It seemed