II-12 Reunion

Fighting the orcs always leaves you scarred. From weakest to strongest, the damned beasts are surgeons of cruelty. And they’re damn smart about it, too. They study us, they learn what damages us the most, and they take it to new heights. I served the Lone Star Kingdom for three tours, and all I can say is that every warrior there deserves a medal for manning the trenches year after year against the unceasing orc onslaught.

This part is hard for me to write. Hard because I have to remember what I saw in the orc’s black camps… what they did to the people they captured… my comrades… Torture is a foul thing. Anyone who does it will be tainted by it. Anyone who enjoys it is a monster waiting to be killed. But the former doesn’t apply to the orcs. The pain and violence they inflict heals them. It’s like their version of food. They’re perfectly able to maintain a normal conversation about weather and art as they force you to watch them dissect your friends while they’re still alive.

And do not fall for the propaganda! Especially what the Republic puts out. Orcs are not stupid savages. They learn fast. They level faster. They usually end up as incredible mages as well as physical juggernauts. Just a small blessing they’re willing to kill each other as much they’re willing to kill us. Doesn’t take much to get some of them to turn.

But even after the orcs are dead, the wounds remain. On the survivors. Because no one endures that kind of butchery or misery without experiencing wounds within. And even with a good Psychomancer, and so some of those marks never truly heal…

-Memoirs of a Master-Tier War Mage

II-12

Reunion

“Hey, Oldsmith? Is there a kitchen in this place? I’m more than a little pent-up after killing what feels like half a small nation, and I want to cook. I need to cook.”

Shiv’s sudden request practically made the automaton slam headfirst into the ceiling in terror. He stood at the doorway of the interrogation room, coated in splattered biomass and drenched in blood. Behind him, the barely-dressed, physically healed, but now extremely disturbed duo that was Heather and Tran gagged and gasped at what Shiv had done to the Inquisitors. There wasn’t a single patch of the interrogation chamber that was untouched by blood or damage. The remains of the bald Inquisitor now resembled spilled porridge, and his two surviving comrades whimpered and wept from their wounds.

Both Siggy and Oldsmith gawked at the sight of the Deathless. A small, glowing wyrm composed of drifting constellations of spell-shapes orbited his left arm. But more importantly, his helmet and mask were off, leaving his face the only thing unblemished by viscera in that general area. And then there was the smell.

Siggy gagged. Oldsmith’s legs gave out as he began to pray. “I… oh, Ascendants, oh dear sweet gods, please protect me! Oh, Aurora!”

Shiv frowned and turned to look at the blood-meat sludge that was the bald Inquisitor. He grunted a dark laugh and grinned at Oldsmith. “Yeah. That one was a lot more faithful than you were. Didn’t help him much.” Shiv stopped to consider something. “Actually, I’m not sure if my new Biomancy Evolution will work on you or most automata for that matter.” Shiv hummed. “I got some thinking to do. And that’s why I need to cook. So again—before I lose my temper this time—kitchen? Where?”

Intimidation > 49

“N-not here b-b-but I-I-I—” the automaton started clutching his chest. Shiv narrowed his eyes.

“What the hells are you doing?” Shiv asked.

“Core… it’s misfiring and sparking…” Oldsmith groaned. “I need a moment.”

Shiv reactively pressed his Biomancy into the automaton and chided himself when he realized there was nothing organic to manipulate. Guess that probably means I can’t eat or move wounds on automatons. Hm. Wonder if I can just have the wyrms hold my wounds indefinitely or…

“Oldsmith,” Shiv said. “If you die from the bot equivalent of a heart attack, I’m going to steal your face and pin these murders on you.” He was already planning on doing something like that, but Oldsmith didn’t need to know all the details beforehand.

Suddenly, the Master-Advisor was feeling much better. “Y-yes, I’m—I have a penthouse! At—at the top of this building. We can… all we need to do is…”

“Wow, you hear that, Tran? Penthouse.” Shiv chuckled. Tran stared at Shiv with a traumatized expression as he soothed Heather as she struggled not to throw up. The Deathless winced. “Right. The Psychomancy and interrogation probably did something bad to the both of you. Let’s get you guys out of here and then… Well, I guess I could take a look at your mind. I’m an even worse Psychomancer than a Biomancer, though.”

That cracked something in Tran. “Well, that sounds pretty good to me considering what you did back there.”

Shiv laughed. “You have no idea what it took for me to develop that Skill Evolution.” Shiv paused and then shot the dead, soupy Inquisitor another look. “Actually, it was doing a lot of that. To myself and everyone else.”

Heather lost the fight against her rebelling stomach, but only ended up dry heaving over a puddle of blood. When she was done, she started sobbing quietly, prompting Tran to kneel down and hold her. Shiv just looked at them for an awkward moment.

“Alright, Oldsmith. Let’s go see this penthouse. After I try doing something about all this blood first.” Shiv examined his newly evolved Biomancy—Woundeater. He called the blood-colored mana wyrm to his hand and studied it for a moment. It moved and danced to his whims and his standard Biomancy was still there, but this thing was attracted to injuries and physical harm. Shiv looked at the moaning Inquisitors, and then the Slayers he just rescued, and looked back at his wyrm. “Well, new friend, I think we’re both going to be eating good real soon.”

***

It took a while for Shiv to gather all the blood together. As powerful as his Biomancy was now, he still wasn’t any good at the very detailed operations. He accidentally flayed one of the Inquisitors a bit, and thus one of his wyrms got feed a little earlier than expected. This was when Shiv encountered the first limitation of his new Skill Evolution. The Woundeater wasn’t a feed and forget magical skill, but rather concentrate and carry. The injuries and damages the wyrms consumed became crystallized within them as a new pattern to their overarching spellwork, and that demanded some pretty deep focus from Shiv.

As for the penalties of getting distracted—well, the consumed wounds needed to go somewhere, and these wyrms were anchored to Shiv’s mana and soul. This was how Shiv accidentally peeled an entire strip off his own back. Such was the second limitation and consequence of Woundeater: it made Shiv the wielder of wounds, but also the default recipient if he didn’t pass them on to another organic entity. Pair that with the constant mana strain when channeling the Woundeater wyrms, and this was proving to be a very potent magical skill, but also a delicate one.

It was also something that Shiv was going to be constantly experimenting with, since he now had an easy means of casting his injuries at enemies or taking them from allies.

“This is awesome,” Shiv chuckled as he stole another wound from the female Inquisitor he beat down earlier. A wyrm rushed through her face, drawing away a mess of swelling wounds and fractures before diving back into Shiv. He felt most of his teeth shatter, his skull crack and balloon, and his brain throb with explosive agony. After a slight wince, he nodded to himself. “Alright. Three out of ten. But the concussion is useful. I think I’m going to start memorizing the effects of certain injuries. I think if I can capture a specific state of brain damage—wait, let me try something.”

He pulled one of his old corpses out from his cloak and cast a new spell. A wyrm surfaced from under his skin, swallowing all the damage he just inflicted on himself. A second later, his teeth were back, the inflammation and broken bones were gone, and the brain damage vanished. He cast the injuries into the body and to his delight, he watched the corpse shudder and twitch as it inherited all his wounds.

“Yes!” Shiv cheered, laughing gleefully. “Organic tissue. That’s all we need. I think.” A second later, the wyrm splashed back into him, and he grunted with discomfort. A bit of the concussion had returned. Not all of it, but some, leaving a pain in the back of his skull. Shiv frowned. He used his Biomancy to examine the corpse again and saw, though it sustained some damage to its brain, a few other parts were long-ruined by a lack of oxygen since death. In essence, he couldn’t inflict wounds on something incapable of suffering any additional damage. “So. Availability is an issue too. I guess the next thing is seeing how many wounds can be contained in my wyrms and if they pass through multiple targets at once… But they’re already pretty godsdamned awesome, if I do say so myself. What do you think? Tran? Heather?”

Shiv turned to regard the recently rescued Slayers with a wide grin. The grin faltered slightly as they offered him slack-jawed, wide-eyed stares. “What?” Shiv said, unsure if he did something wrong. He cast the remaining head trauma still stuck inside him back to the slowly rousing female Inquisitor. She gave a sharp cry and blacked out again—more from the shock of him blasting through her broken Magical Resistance. And was another little experiment he conducted. His field was three times wider in area, but a lot stronger. Previously, smashing his Biomancy against someone’s Magical Resistance felt like using a chisel to crack through a wall.

Now, he had a proper hammer, and godsdamn was he going to use it. But that roused a different question too: Why didn’t Magical Resistance seem to evolve like the other skills. It just seemed to get stronger…

“What the hells happened to you, Omenborn,” Heather whispered, breaking the silence. She and Tran were both seated on Oldsmith’s couch now, each wrapped in a blanket, wearing a set of overly luxurious but ill-fitting robes “donated’ by the automaton. Two untouched cups of steaming tea were placed on the masterfully-carved stone table in front of them. Meanwhile, the two surviving Inquisitors lay shivering on a spread of plastic sheets that Siggy managed to find.

It was a temporary arrangement, but that was okay, because to Shiv, the Inquisitors and Oldsmith were just temporarily alive. He would keep them around until he learned everything he needed. After that, Shiv would deal with them for good. Siggy’s fate was still to be determined. 

Her compliance was mostly because she was piss-terrified of Shiv, but aside from being a slave runner and a drug dealer, she had been mostly cooperative—even useful during his shoddy attempt at an infiltration. Meanwhile, Oldsmith was sitting on the ground beside the Inquisitors, trembling and muttering pleas and prayers under his breath. 

Having someone to contrast your virtues did wonders for how you looked.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened to me?’” Shiv said, frowning at Heather. “I got my Path. That’s what happened. I got killed. Got my Path. Got thrown down into the Abyss. Got killed a bunch more. Ran into some new people that are—” Shiv thought of Valor, the Composer, Uva, and all the others. Even Adam. “Well, let’s just say I like them a lot more than most you assholes from Blackedge. And now I’m here trying to take this gate, stop a weapon, and go save Blackedge. Even if it is filled with assholes like you.”

That left a lot of very details out, but he thought it was good enough for now. He’d give them the full story later. Right now, though. “Siggy! What’s the situation with those potatoes?”

“I-I-I—” a high-pitched series of stammers came from the kitchen. And a pretty good kitchen at that. Maxwell Oldsmith was understating when it said penthouse. This place was a literal mini-mansion crowning this building. The penthouse’s wardrobe was practically as large as the tiny consulate the Republic had here. And that wasn’t going into the library, the recreation room, the machine-foundry—used by Oldsmith to maintain and improve its chassis. And the kitchen. Practically twenty full meters filled with every appliance and utensil Shiv could want. And a mana freezer and pantry with all sorts of ingredients. Ingredients found in both the Abyss and the surface.

“I, uh…” Siggy finally managed. Shiv examined her using his Biomancy and sighed. She sliced her hand open again.

He sent a wyrm to handle that. The spine-broken Inquisitor Psychomancer wasn’t going to be using his hands anyway. The goblin cried out again as the wyrm slipped into the kitchen and rushed back out before splashing into the Inquisitor. He gave a weak cry—and Shiv caught Heather clenching her jaw in what looked like hateful satisfaction.

“If you can’t go fast, do it slow. And clean the food. I’ve tasted enough blood for a day.” Shiv shook his head. “Now I know how Georges feels all the time. Basic things people can’t do right. And then they get too scared and start being stupid, too. Still. Assistant chefs really take the load off of the general prep—ah, who am I kidding, I’ll probably have to throw out her potatoes and do it again myself. Can’t put up with terrible work.” He eyed Tran, and the man was still staring at him, unblinking, absolute stunned.

Shiv sighed. “Alright. Cut that out.”

“What?” Tran said, snapping out of his stupor.

“The shocked thing. Is it so hard to accept that I’m a Pathbearer now? Is that it? You can’t imagine the damned Omenborn finally has a little power? Or are you just dreading the report you’re going to need to give the Roland Arrow now?” Yeah, Shiv was still a bit pissed about that.

“No, what—wait, how did you know about that?” Tran said.

“The Town-Lord told me. He told me during the Festival of the Eclipse. He told me, as he admitted to me, that he didn’t want me to take a Path—that he couldn’t let it happen, and that all the times you two showed up, it was to make sure I was still just a Pathless.” Shiv sneered. “And all that time, I thought you were nice because you were from the capital. Not like the other bastards. Guess I hoped a little too much.”

Tran had the decency to look ashamed. Heather, however, had to be Heather. “No. This… this is impossible. You can’t be… you can’t be him.”

“I can’t be Shiv?”

“Shiv’s an Omenborn—and, and he’s… I saw his bodies. There were so many of them…” She blinked, her wide purple eyes staring off into someplace distant. “He died. Over and over. But… even if—no one progresses that fast. It’s been… two weeks? Maybe? Two weeks since the attack. You—you’re more than a Master. That one—” Heather said, staring vicious at the badly beaten female Inquisitor. “She tore through us like we were nothing. She killed Glide and Alice like—like she was crushing bugs.”

A teardrop fell from Heather’s right eye as she bit down on her bottom lip. Shiv was surprised. Heather Hawgrave had always seemed aloof and arrogant to him. Uncaring, even. But now she was openly weeping over the death of her teammates. I guess I don’t really know her that well. Not that she was interested in knowing me either.

“And you destroyed her?” Heather whispered. 'What you did to her—the way you beat her—who are you? What are you?”

Shiv was getting very tired of this question. “Right now, I’m just someone that really wants to cook. But, honestly, I’m Shiv. Up to you if you want to believe it.” Shiv let out a breath as he considered letting his own grievances go. He failed immediately. He wasn’t that noble. “But, Heather. Go taint yourself. Really. I’ve never liked you—I never liked the way you treated me like vermin, I never liked the way your stupid hat and tungsten armor looked. And I especially find it goofy and stupid how you decided to become an elf.”

She blinked rapidly, as if he lightly slapped her across the face.

“I get that I was an Omenborn,” Shiv muttered, trying to keep his anger from going somewhere unreasonable, “but what the hells did I ever do to you? What did I ever do to earn your scorn? Huh?”

Heather swallowed. Tran was looking worried.

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Heather. I want to know. I would like to know? Was there something wrong with me? Or were you just an asshole too.”

Her expression twisted between extreme discomfort and building fear. Shiv scoffed. “Really? Now your silent? Is this it? It was easy to look down on me when I was just some Pathless, but now that I beat and broke the woman that butchered you guys, suddenly there aren’t any words.”

“How?” was all Heather managed. “How did you become this powerful?”

“Death,” Shiv answered casually. “I fought. I died. I fought. I died. I fought. I died. My Path demands it. The system rewards it. And I…” Shiv grinned, his expression turning just a bit feral. “I’m really starting to enjoy it. But it also brings up the stress in me, so—Siggy! I feel you bleeding again! So help me by all the gods, are you peeling the potatoes or are they peeling you!”

“I-I-I’m trying,” the goblin cried out in anguish. Shiv sent another wyrm. The Inquisitor Psychomancer wasn’t going to have a hand at this rate.

“You’re the first damned Pathbearer to lose a knife fight to a bunch of potatoes,” Shiv snapped. He took in a breath and let it out. “Broken Moon, I’m starting to understand Geroges. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Eat shit, Heather. You too, Tran. But you eat less shit. Just a little less.”

Both Tran and Heather flinched and shrank a bit before him. Shiv wanted to keep going, but with his mask off, he could feel their minds and—that’s a lot of hurt echoing out from them. The Psychomancer did a number on them… Shit. I might have picked a bad time to vent.

Shiv grunted. “Drink your tea. It’s getting cold.”

Heather shook her head and swallowed. “If you hate us that much, why did you even save us?”

“Wait,” Tran said, his expression growing confused. “How did you know where we were?”

“I didn’t,” Shiv chuckled. He pointed at Oldsmith—who jerked back in terror at Shiv’s sudden movement. “Bastard-bot here decided to beat a child slave half to death in public. I decided to return the favor and after fighting the smartest, weirdest orc I’ve ever met…” Shiv paused. “The only orc I’ve ever met, I came by to pay him a visit. Also, the gate’s under lockdown and I plan to murder the Gate Lord and most of the slavers here. You guys I discovered by accident. Along with the world’s stupidest conspiracy. A conspiracy I ran head-on into without knowing.” Shiv eyed Oldsmith. “That’s your fault, too.”

The Master-Advisor clutched its face with its remaining arm and began to do the bot equivalent of weeping.

Shiv didn’t like the sound. “Oldsmith. Cry more and I’ll discover how much human flesh I can force into your joints using your friends here.”

The crying stopped, replaced by uncontrollable shaking. Shiv could live with that.

Intimidation > 49

“Holy shit,” Tran muttered, going a little pale himself.

Shiv looked at the Slayers and—after seeing their faces and sensing how traumatized they really were—started feeling bad. “Look. I’m—not exactly sorry. I meant every word. But I wasn’t going to ever let you guys die. Even you, Heather. You’re an asshole, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to be tortured and killed. The same doesn’t go for the Inquisitors, the slavers, or Master Child-Beater here.”

“I should have never ordered those gloves,” Oldsmith whispered as it slumped tighter into a ball.

“The point is,” Shiv continued. “I was always going to come for you." Always. Because that’s who I am. That’s who I want to be as a Pathbearer. Not some psychotic Omenborn monster that butchers and tortures people for pleasure or to complete some ritual.” Shiv mentally cursed his parents. “I won’t be like them. I won’t be… What are you two looking at?”

Heather and Tran were staring at the Inquisitors with pained expressions on their faces. “Two people who look pretty butchered and tortured,” Heather managed to say. She then sneered viciously. “But they had it coming. They deserve more. And worse for what they did—for what they did!”

A spatial distortion shivered around her. Tran reached out and took her by the arm. “Heather… Heather—”

“They ripped so deep,” she continued, trying not to sob. “They kept pulling my memories apart and cutting deeper and deeper and I couldn’t stop, and they wouldn’t listen and I—” Tran held her, and for the first time, Heather Hawgrave seemed human to Shiv as she started weeping. Her entire body shook. And then Tran started crying too. Shiv stared at them for a bit longer, coughed, and decided to check up on Siggy in the kitchen. This wasn’t for his eyes. And he was kind of regretting venting his repressed anger on them earlier.

Might not have been the best time… Shit. I’m making a habit of this mistake. I don’t think ahead enough. Valor might have stopped me there. Uva definitely. Felling hells, I’m starting to miss them something bad. Well, her a lot more than him. Even Adam. He’ll probably be happy to see the Slayers, but the other stuff—I better get my wyrms reading to eat a possible heart attack he might have.

Whatever the case, I need to start getting a hold on my anger here too. Weave was practically relaxing, but this place, the slavers, the pointless cruelty, 811, and almost everyone here makes me want to go on a killing spree. But the slaves and weak have paid enough for that recklessness. No. We do this with more control. More focus. I need time to prepare and plan. And also to find the damn Animancy Core…

“Siggy,” Shiv said, resolving to be more mindful and controlled. His resolution died immediately as he did a double-take at the potatoes. Red crept in from the corners of his vision as he nearly lost control and beat the goblin to death in a fit of blind rage. “What—you—godsdammned what is this shit you felling shit are you trying…” At this point, Shiv stopped being capable of human speech as he stomped over to squint at the potatoes.

His hands were shaking. His hands were shaking so much, and only the sweet sensation of pulling a goblin apart would cure this affliction. Beside him, Siggy was shaking, sobbing, and backing away.

“Peel… peel the skin… just skin…. Peel.” Shiv managed, his right eye twitching. He picked up a potato—barely one left. Most of it had been carved practically to the core. So much good stuff had been chipped away. “This… this not peeling. This is… this is… atrocity.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” the goblin breathed.

Shiv took in a deep breath. Later. He could always kill her later. Slowly, even. What did Georges do in this situation? How did he, oh… oh right…

“You… godsdamned… walking cesspit.” Shiv forced out between clenched teeth. Siggy flinched as if she was struck. “Give me that knife. Never touch a knife again. Get out of the kitchen. Forever. Never come back in. If I see you in a kitchen again in your life—in all the lives to come and across existence—I will return, and I will make the potatoes peel you.”

She chucked the knife on the table while nodding so fast her head blurred. “Okay—please, don’t—okay!”

“Out,” Shiv growled. “Watch them. Listen to what the Slayers tell you. And close the door.”

She practically achieved Master-Tier speed with how fast she fled.

Intimidation > 50 (Skill Evolution Imminent)

Skill Gained: Culinary Berserker (Adept)

And the red-rage burrowed deep into Shiv’s flesh, infusing him with more strength, a single-minded focus, and an insatiable to peel and cut and cook until it was done.

He slapped the mangled potatoes off the cutting board. This… this was his fault too. He should have never entrusted such a sacred duty to a drug-dealing, slave-running, pants-shitting bastard. He needed to do this himself. He was the only one that could do this…

“The kitchen…” Shiv snarled. “Will fear me! I will be chef! I AM THE CHEF! THERE IS NO GOD IN THIS KITCHEN! BUT THERE WILL BE A HELL! THERE WILL BE A MONSTER!”

His primal declaration made the walls shake and doors rattle. Outside, his Biomancy detected Siggy shaking and crying uncontrollably. She deserved worse for what she did.

Shiv gathered new potatoes—knew exactly where they were as he blasted into the pantry. He seized them like a wolf ripping into flesh, and took carrots, spices, peppers, and a jug of water. With each step, his rage radiated out from him, seeping into the kitchen. His rage became preternatural. Every ingredient in the kitchen glowed, and all the appliances sneered and taunted him, mocking his skill.

“I’ll show you,” Shiv growled, pulling the chef’s knife Georges gave him from his cloak. He stared down at the potatoes and imagined them to be Confriga, Harkness, 811, and so many others he hated. “I’ll show you all. I’ll teach you true pain. There is no god for you… not even the system will protect you from me…”

Strangely, the potatoes began to tremble

***

Cooking > 31

Culinary Berserker > 3

Skill Evolution: Intimidation (Common) > Dread Aura (Adept)

Dread Aura > 55

When the red mists of absolute fury broke and sense finally returned to Shiv, he found himself and all the other seated before a massive dining table filled with food. On the other side of the table, Oldsmith wept mechanically as it inexplicably rammed a chicken drumstick against the vox-slot it had instead of a mouth. It was especially silly because it couldn’t actually eat anything.

And then was there also something else. Shiv could sense how broken the automaton was—feel its terror. It was like a shell inside the bot’s being, and it rattled and broke some more as Shiv tentatively reached into Oldsmith. The bot squealed out in terror as its crying intensified. Shiv shivered slightly as he felt a rush of something flow around him. It was like a mana field, but not quite—it was far more shapeless, and emanated out from him more like an odor. It also couldn’t be directed like a magical skill, but he could strengthen or lessen the aura if he focused enough.

The others at the table were equally petrified. Siggy felt more fear-broken than Oldsmith was. Her hands shook as she fed the paralyzed Inquisitor Psychomancer spoonfuls of diced and seasoned potato. The Inquisitors were next to her, and they weren’t much better. The Psychomancer recited a litany and refused to meet Shiv’s gaze. The female Inquisitor spent some time using to redecorate the interrogation room wall up a facade of strength as she glared defiantly, but her courage was a fragile thing as well. Even Heather and Tran were partially cracked.

And everyone was eating food. Food Shiv could only vaguely remember preparing in a fit of all-consuming rage.

“What just happened?” Shiv muttered.

Tran eyed him and swallowed. “You, uh, you made everyone food. And you told us to eat.”

“It wasn’t actually a choice,” Heather whimpered.

Shiv blinked as he counted twelve different dishes on the table.

“I can’t eat anymore. Please…” The Inquisitor Psychomancer gave a broken sob.

“Strength, Inquisitor Wilson,” the female Inquisitor swallowed. She looked mostly healed. The other Inquisitor was still paralyzed. “Don’t let this beast know your—”

Shiv glared at her and focused on magnifying his Dread Aura as much as he could. Her words became lodged in her throat as she choked. Her courage burst like a crumbling pillar. She looked away and began eating as fast as she could, foregoing dignity and scarfing things down with her hands.

Shiv blinked. “I… I made you all eat?”

“Yeah,” Tran said, watching Shiv as if he was a mana bomb about to explode. “You, uh, you were in the kitchen for about two hours. You were… pretty mad. And then you came out with dish after dish with murder in your eyes, and well… we started having dinner. You demanded we all eat before anything else.”

“I… did?” Shiv said. He rubbed at his face. He could barely recall anything. The potatoes were—his hand started shaking. No! Don’t think of that! Control! Shiv pushed the memory away, but glared at Siggy. She refused to meet his eye.

“She tried defying you at first,” Heather said, sneering at the female Inquisitor. “She even tried to fight you. But then you took her into the kitchen and there was so much screaming… A while later, she came crawling back out, crying and begging for mercy. There’s, uh, a pile of your bodies in the kitchen now. Most of them are missing ears, eyes, noses…”

Shiv suddenly felt a little sick. He looked at the female Inquisitor. “Did—did I cut you and use the wyrm too—”

She burst into tears as she shoved more food in her mouth. “I’ll eat,” she said through the food. “Just don’t show me the properly peeling method again! I’ll eat!”

Broken Moon, what the hells did I do? Shiv said, swallowing. “I—I tortured you? I—” He looked at Tran. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Tran did a double take. “Stop you?”

“Yeah! Just… I was mad. But I didn’t need to do that! I—why didn’t any of you tell me to stop.”

“Shiv… I… tried,” Tran managed, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I came into the kitchen and… what you were doing to the food and her eyes and… I tried to get you to calm down and…”

“You threatened to impregnate him with her wounds,” Heather breathed, shuddering.

“I… did?” Shame and horror swelled up inside Shiv. This wasn’t… he didn’t want… he wasn’t thinking. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “All the fighting and things I’ve seen… I was already beyond pissed. And then I went in the kitchen and saw the potatoes—” Rage exploded inside Shiv as the memories returned to him. He clenched his fist. “Those godsdamned potatoes. You!” Siggy fell back, tried to flee. “Stop!” Her courage shattered into dust as she turned to look at him. “I’ll never forgive you for what you did to those potatoes. I…”

Shiv took a breath and fought back the red creeping across his vision. “I—I’m sorry. I’m just… Very stressed. I was… I was hoping to vent some of that pressure and rage through cooking.” He sighed. “I do feel a lot better now.”

Everyone stared at him. “That’s… good.” Heather nodded. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

“Yeah,” Tran said, forcing a slight smile on his face. “Yeah… Good. We all need to… to let off some, uh…”

The crippled Psychomancer gagged. And then froze. Shiv narrowed his eyes at the man, and found himself curious. “I heard that cough before… Was there too much salt?”

“No… no!” he cried.

Shiv snarled. He flared his Dread Aura, and the Psychomancer’s courage was ground to ash. “Don’t lie to me! The truth: Too much salt?”

“Yes! It’s so strong! Too strong! It’s the saltiest thing I ever ate…” He started wheezing.

The Deathless paused. He got up. He walked around the table. Siggy blacked out in terror at his approach. The Inquisitor Psychomancer began to shiver and sob. His female comrade wept as she cursed at Shiv. “Damn you, monster. Look at me, Inquisitor Wilson! I’m here! The Aurora is here! You will be embraced soon!” She reached across the table to take his hand, her own courage on the verge of breaking again.

Shiv reached down. Everyone tensed. And he took a bite of the diced potatoes. “Ugh,” Shiv gagged, and started coughing too. “It’s like I’m eating a desert—like I’m eating sand. What—” He thought back to his rage… He didn’t use that much salt. At least he didn’t remember using that much. So how could… He studied the food and noticed the dishes glimmered with traces of the hateful redness that possessed him earlier. Shiv blinked. Is this… Culinary Berserker’s doing? Is it magnifying the flavors and tastes? What even is Culinary Berserker? What kind of skill is that? It just felt like it was amplifying my rage in the kitchen… amplifying everything… Maybe even the taste.

Shiv shook his head. “I’m… I’m sorry. My cooking is usually better,” he said, a bit stunned. He eyed the Inquisitors, staring at him in shock. “That said, you’re still finishing this. It might be your last meal, so make it count.”

They both started weeping and praying together.

Sighing, Shiv walked back to his seat and shook his head. “What a long, godsdamned day.” And then his eyes fell on the Inquisitors again. And also the Master-Advisor. “And it’s still not over. Tran. Heather. There are few stories we need to hear. And these fine folks are going to tell it to us after they finish their food.”

Shiv leaned in closer and pushed his Dread Aura as hard as he could. “And they’re not going to lie or leave a single detail out.”

He pulled his bloody chef’s knife out of his cloak and slammed it on the table.

The female Inquisitor went cross-eyed, and then she promptly passed out.

Dread Aura > 56