Orti Anima Sanguineque: chapter 5: A scaly’s game of thrones

POV: CHRISTOPHER "KOTTOS" McConnell

"You know you never separate the party, right?" I say, arms crossed. "That's how they all die in horror movies. You know that, right?"

Elijah snorts. Actually snorts. The bastard. "Well, sucks to suck, I guess, but we're not them. We're fucking us."

"Damn," Niko drawls, adjusting that ridiculous crown-thing he's got flickering around his head. "At this rate, your will make Chris’ head explode due to sheer ego."

"My head is perfectly sized, thank you very much—"

"Perfectly sized for a peanut, maybe—"

"Oh, that's rich coming from Mister 'I Have To Explain Every Item Description'—"

"Someone has to have brain cells in this group—"

"Yeah, and clearly it's not you if you think splitting up is a bad idea—"

"I literally just said it was a bad idea, you illiterate fuck—"

"No, you said it's how people die in horror movies, which implies narrative causation rather than tactical assessment—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Professor Dipshit, let me rephrase: separating reduces our combined combat effectiveness and eliminates tactical support options—"

"Now you're just using big words to sound smart—"

"THEY'RE NOT BIG WORDS, THEY'RE NORMAL WORDS—"

"Gentlemen," Elijah cuts in, and there's something in his voice, not authority, exactly, but that thing he does where he reminds us we're supposed to be functional adults. Or functional god-monsters. Whatever. "While this is deeply entertaining and I genuinely wish I had popcorn to enjoy the show, we're wasting time we don't have."

I open my mouth. Close it. Niko does the same.

"We still know almost nothing about this place," Elijah continues, voice level and reasonable in that way that makes you want to listen. "Which is why we need to understand our circumstances better. Who else is here. What the geopolitical structure looks like. What threats exist. And we can't do that standing in a circle jerking each other off about whose tactical philosophy is superior."

"...he's right," Niko mutters.

"I know he's right," I mutter back.

Elijah smiles. It's a small thing, barely visible under the brim of that hunter's hat, but it's there. "So. Are we doing this or are we going to keep pretending we're not terrified?"

That pulls me up short.

Because he's right. Again. The bastard.

I am terrified. Not of dying, I've already done that once and it was honestly pretty painless. But of failing. Of getting my brothers hurt or worse because I pushed too hard, planned too little, thought I was smarter than I actually am.

The warehouse taught me a lot of things. One of them was that confidence without competence gets people hurt. And right now, our competence is theoretical at best.

"I'm joking a lot and giving y'all shit," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. More honest. "But like, I really care about you. Even before we were reincarnated into this world, y'all were the closest thing I had for brothers, and now we're literally biological brothers. Well, as much as divine beings can be defined by biology. But just... if any of you think it's a bad idea, truly think such, if any of you don't feel confident, then we don't—won't separate."

There's a pause. A beat of silence where I can feel them looking at me.

Then Niko laughs. "Oh my god, you're so fucking soft—"

"Shut up—"

"—but don't worry." His voice gentles, and when I look at him, he's smiling. Really smiling. "We would have protested more if we disagreed. And I know you care. We know you care. Had it not been the case, hadn't I known that, we would have never chosen to be your friend. We know you care, dummy, and we do too. So don't worry your stupid little head."

"The ending wasn't necessary," Elijah adds, but he's smiling too. "But what he said was true. Don't worry. This is our second chance, and nothing will stop us from seizing it."

I feel something tight in my chest loosen. Just a bit.

"You fucking idiots," I say, grinning despite myself. "Got it."

I take a breath. Center myself. This is what I'm good at. Planning. Tactics. Making sure everyone comes home.

"Okay," I say. "So here's the plan, one more time so we're all clear. We scout our surroundings. Each of us goes in a different direction. The goal is reconnaissance, map the area, identify inhabitants, gather intelligence. The goal is not fighting. If you can avoid combat, avoid it."

I look at each of them to make sure they're following.

"If something happens, if you get in trouble, use the light signal. Beam straight up, as bright as you can make it. The other two will see it and converge on your position. Got it?"

"Got it," Niko says.

"Understood," Elijah confirms.

I nod. "Good. Before we go, Niko, give us the brief again. What do we know about Tartarus? The inhabitants, the threats, the possible layout?"

Niko shifts, settling into lecturer mode. "Right. Based on what I remember from the myths and keep in mind, most of this was recorded after the fact, so some details might be different Tartarus is both a place and a being. A primordial deity. As a place, it's supposed to be as far below Hades as Earth is below the sky. Cosmically massive."

He ticks off points on his fingers. "Geography is supposedly fluid. Bronze walls in some accounts, endless void in others. There are rivers, Phlegethon, river of fire. Cocytus, river of wailing. Maybe the Styx. As for inhabitants..."

He pauses, thinking. "Right now, during Ouranos's reign, we should expect  supposedly a creature called Kampe, some kind of dragon-woman hybrid, though I don't know if she's here yet or if Kronos brings her later. And there might be other things. Proto-giants, early monsters, things born from Tartarus itself. The texts aren't clear on what existed before the Titanomachy."

"So basically," I summarize, "expect anything."

"Pretty much."

"Great. Wonderful. And... try not to die, yeah? We haven't tested if the grace actually resurrects us, if we can actually die as whatever we are now and I'd rather not find out the hard way."

"Touching," Niko says dryly.

"Deeply moving," Elijah agrees.

"Fuck both of you."

"Fuck you too."

"Group fuck you again."

And with that absolutely touching farewell, we split up. Niko heads east, toward the distant sound of something that might be water. Elijah goes north, toward the sections where the darkness seems thickest. And I...

I head west. Toward the heat.

Because I felt it earlier, during our initial scouting. A warmth in the air, coming from that direction. And where there's warmth in hell, there must be activity.

Activity means inhabitants.

Inhabitants mean information.

And information is the most valuable resource in any engagement.

I've been walking for maybe twenty minutes when I start to hear voices.

Not human voices. Too sibilant. Too layered. Like multiple people speaking over each other, creating harmonics that shouldn't exist in natural speech.

I slow down. Switch from walking to stalking. The armor I’m wearing right now is probably good for a lot of things, but stealth isn't one of them, too much dramatic cape billowing. So I compress further, pulling the darkness tighter around myself, letting the hollowing seep into my presence until I'm less a person and more a shadow that happens to be person-shaped.

The voices get louder as I approach. I can make out distinct speakers now. At least a dozen. Maybe more.

I reach the edge of a ridge and look down.

And immediately understand why this section of Tartarus feels warmer.

It's a settlement.

Not a village. Not a city. Something in between. A sprawl of structures carved directly from the black stone of Tartarus itself, organic and deliberate at the same time. Buildings that look like they grew rather than were built. Streets that curve and coil like serpents. And everywhere—everywhere—there are lights. Not torches. Not fires. Some kind of bioluminescence, pulsing in shades of amber and green and sickly yellow.

And the inhabitants.

I've never seen anything like them.

They're... I want to say female, but that doesn't quite capture it. Humanoid from the waist up, faces that would be beautiful if they weren't also terrifying, with eyes that gleam like polished obsidian and teeth just a bit too sharp. But from the waist down...

Serpents. All of them. Massive coiling bodies covered in scales that shimmer in the bio-light, each one different. Some green, some black, some with patterns that hurt to look at directly.

Dragon-women. Snake-bodied. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

And there are hundreds of them.

I crouch lower, making myself small. The ridge gives me good cover and elevation, I can see most of the settlement from here without being spotted. Good tactical position. Classic overwatch.

I settle in and start listening.

The voices carry well in the still air of Tartarus. And while I don't speak... whatever language they're using, there's something about it that feels almost intelligible. Like my brain is translating on the fly, pulling meaning from context and tone and body language.

Two of the serpent-women are arguing near what looks like a well. Their voices rise and fall in hisses and clicks.

"—don't care what the Autumn Coil says, the border hasn't moved in three generations—"

"—your generation, maybe, but our claim extends back to the First Shedding—"

"—the First Shedding was a myth created by your tribe to justify—"

A third voice cuts in, older, deeper. "Both of you, enough. Save your venom for the spawn."

The two arguers fall silent, but I can see the way their tails coil tighter. Anger barely suppressed.

I file that away. Border disputes. Tribes. Something called the "Autumn Coil." And "spawn" said with enough contempt to curdle milk.

I shift position, trying to get a better view of the settlement's layout. The buildings seem to radiate outward from a central structure—larger than the others, more ornate. Authority building, maybe. Or religious. Sometimes they're the same thing.

As I watch, a group of younger serpent-women slither past, their voices pitched higher, excited.

"—saw her at the feeding grounds—"

"—no way, she never leaves the Deep Coil—"

"—I'm telling you, it was her! Same scar pattern, same coloring—"

"—if you're lying about seeing one of the Great Mother's get, I'll—"

Great Mother. That sounds important. Authority figure, maybe. Or deity.

The political structure is starting to take shape in my mind. Multiple tribes—coils?—each with their own territories and claims. And above them, or separate from them, children of someone called the Great Mother. An aristocracy of sorts.

I'm about to shift position again when movement catches my eye. A procession entering the settlement from the south. More serpent-women, but these are different. Larger. More heavily armored—actual armor, metal plates worked into their scales. And they're escorting something.

No. Someone.

A serpent-woman larger than the others, with scales that shimmer between bronze and gold. She moves with the kind of confidence that speaks to power. Real power. Not just physical but social. Like a warrior queen, a lioness in humanoid shape.

The settlement seems to feel her arrival. The ambient noise drops. The creatures stop what they're doing and watch. Some bow. Others just stare.

The procession moves toward the central structure, and I strain to hear the conversation.

"—borders again?" The golden one's voice is like honey over gravel. Beautiful and dangerous.

"The Venom Coil continues their incursions," one of the armored escorts replies. "Three raids this cycle. They claim salvage rights on the eastern ridge."

"The eastern ridge belongs to the Deep Coil."

"They dispute the claim. They say their mother—"

"Their mother," the golden one interrupts, "is not the First Warden. Their mother is one of the lesser get. They have no authority to dispute territorial boundaries set by ancient right."

First Warden. Another title. Another piece of the puzzle.

And apparently, lineage matters here. A lot.

This is fascinating. Complex political hierarchies, territorial disputes, multiple factions all jockeying for position. It's like watching a medieval court except everyone has fangs and scales.

The golden serpent-woman continues. "Summon the Venom Coil's matriarch. We'll settle this the old way."

"The old way" doesn't sound pleasant.

I watch as the procession disappears into the central structure. The settlement slowly returns to its previous activity level, but there's a tension in the air now. Anticipation.

I'm so focused on the central building that I almost miss the conversation happening directly below my position.

Two serpent-women, both young, coiled together in what looks like a guard post.

"—don't understand why we even maintain the border with the First Warden's children," one is saying. "They're few, we're many. If we allied with the spawn—"

"You want to ally with the spawn?" The second guard sounds horrified. "They're monsters. At least the Warden's get follow the old laws."

"The spawn are strong—"

"The spawn are mad. You've seen what they do to captured prey. They don't kill, they experiment. They take you apart to see how you work and then put you back together wrong just to watch you suffer."

I feel a cold thread of unease work its way down my spine.

"Besides," the second guard continues, "Mother says the spawn are getting bolder. Pushing into neutral territories. Taking prisoners. Something's changing in Tartarus, and not for the better."

"You think it's because of—"

"Don't." The second guard's voice goes flat. Hard. "Don't speak of that. Not here. Not where they might hear."

They. Said with the kind of fear that makes soldiers check corners.

Who or what has even the monsters scared?

I'm considering trying to get closer, maybe slip down into the settlement itself for more detailed reconnaissance, when I hear something behind me.

The sound of scales on stone.

I freeze. Don't move. Don't breathe. The Lord of Hollows form comes with some benefits, and one of them is the ability to go very, very still. Like death. Because that's what I am—death that learned to walk.

The sound gets closer. Then stops.

"I can smell you."

The voice is female. Young, maybe. And there's something in it, not quite fear, but caution. Like someone who's found a sleeping tiger and isn't sure if it's safe or suicidal to poke it.

Fuck.

I consider my options. I'm on a ridge, back to open air, with at least one hostile at my six. The settlement below hasn't noticed me yet, but if this goes loud, they will.

Fight or talk?

Talk first. Fighting is always easier than un-fighting.

I stand slowly. Hands visible and away from weapons. Non-threatening posture.

I turn.

The serpent-woman watching me is young. Maybe my age, if age means anything here. Her scales are deep red, like rust mixed with blood. Her human half is scarred, not fresh scars, but old ones. The kind you earn surviving.

She's not attacking. But she's also not relaxed. Her body language screams caution. Her tail is coiled tight, ready to spring. Her hands hover near weapons I can't quite see but know are there.

And her eyes.

Her eyes are fixed on me with the kind of intensity you see in prey animals that have suddenly realized the predator is much, much closer than they thought.

"You're..." She pauses. Swallows. Her voice is carefully controlled. "You're new."

Not a question. An assessment.

"Observant," I reply, keeping my voice level. Non-threatening.

She doesn't smile. Doesn't relax. If anything, she tenses further.

"You don't belong here," she says. "You smell wrong. You smell like..." She inhales, and I see her pupils dilate. "Like Earth. Like sky. Like the upper world. Like..."

She trails off. And I see it click in her mind.

"You smell like the Mother," she whispers. "Like Gaia herself. But also like... like something else. Something that shouldn't exist."

Well. Shit.

Her tail coils tighter. "What are you?"

I weigh my options. Lying seems pointless—she can apparently smell divinity. But full truth might be dangerous.

"I'm new," I say carefully. "Recently arrived. Trying to understand the lay of the land."

"New from where?" Her voice is sharp. "Nothing should come to Tartarus from above. Nothing should escape Tartarus from below. And you..." Her eyes narrow. "You're not a prisoner. You're not spawn. You're not..."

She stops. Takes a step back.

"Primordial," she breathes. "You're primordial-blooded. Child of the first gods."

I don't confirm or deny. Just watch her process.

Her tail uncurls slightly. Not relaxation. Repositioning. Like she's calculating how fast she can run.

"This is Deep Coil territory," she says, and her voice is carefully formal now. Respectful in a way that tastes like fear wearing manners. "Outsiders require... permission to enter."

"I wasn't planning to enter," I say. "Just observing."

"Observing is—" She pauses. Recalibrates. "May I ask what you're observing for? If it pleases you to share."

The formality is interesting. She's scared. Trying not to show it. Defaulting to protocol because protocol is safe.

"Information," I say honestly. "I'm trying to understand what exists here. Who lives here. The structure of things."

She's quiet for a long moment. I can see her thinking, weighing options.

"I am called Scylla," she finally says. "Of the Watcher sect, allied with Deep Coil. I... patrol this ridge. It's sacred ground. The Watchers notice everything that happens here."

"Hence me being noticed," I say.

"Hence," she agrees. A pause. "May I... may I ask your name? Or your purpose? I promise," she adds quickly, "I mean no offense. But if a primordial-blooded walks Tartarus, the coils should know. For... for safety."

Whose safety, she doesn't specify.

I consider. Giving information is always a risk. But she's been straightforward. And she's clearly not planning to attack—she's too smart for that.

"You can call me Chris," I say. "Or Kottos, if you prefer the formal name. And my purpose is exactly what I said, understanding. I'm... very new to all this."

"Kottos," she repeats. And I see something flicker in her eyes. Not recognition exactly. But... consideration. "That name has weight. Old weight."

"Apparently."

Another pause. She's still coiled for flight, but her posture has shifted slightly. Less immediate fear, more calculation.

"The settlement below," I say, gesturing. "Can you tell me about it? Who they are, what they are?"

Scylla glances down at the settlement. Back at me. I can see her deciding.

"We're... they call us dracaenae," she says carefully. "Dragon-women. Snake-bodied. There are many coils—many tribes. Deep Coil, Venom Coil, Autumn Coil, Ash Coil, Fang Coil, Shadow Coil, and the Spiral. Each controls territory. Each has its own matriarch."

"And the 'spawn' I heard mentioned?"

Her tail coils tighter again. "The spawn are... dangerous. Mad. Children of one of the Great Mothers, but twisted. They don't follow the old laws. They hunt for pleasure. For pain. For curiosity. Most coils avoid them when possible."

"And the 'First Warden'?"

"The jailer of Tartarus. Appointed by..." She pauses. "By those above. She keeps order. Mostly."

Useful information. Very useful.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

Scylla is quiet for a moment. Then: "Because you could crush this entire settlement with a thought, couldn't you?"

It's not really a question.

"I'm not angry," she continues. "You asked. You didn't demand. You didn't threaten. And you smell like the Earth mother, all mother, mother to the first of us, our ancestor and our goddess which means..." She swallows. "Which means you're probably one of the children she bore. The ones the Sky Father seeded in her. The ones it is told could shake the cosmos.”

Huh. Apparently we have a reputation already.

"I don't want trouble," I say honestly. "I just want information."

"Then take it," she says. "Take whatever information you need. Just... please don't destroy us. We're just trying to survive down here."

There's something in her voice. Not quite pleading. But close.

And I realize: she thinks I'm a threat. A massive one. She's being helpful because helpfulness might keep her coil alive.

"I'm not here to destroy anything," I tell her. "I'm here to understand. That's all."

She nods slowly. "Then... then I hope you find what you're looking for, Kottos."

She starts to turn away. To leave.

"Scylla," I call.

She stops. Looks back. Still wary.

"Thank you," I say. "For the information. And for not attacking first and asking questions later."

She blinks. Surprised. "You're... thanking me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're..." She gestures helplessly. "You're you. Primordial-blooded. You don't need to thank anyone."

"Sure I do," I say. "You helped me. That deserves acknowledgment."

She stares at me for a long moment. Then something in her posture shifts. Not quite relaxation. But less fear. More... curiosity?

"You're strange," she says. "For a god."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

A small smile. Barely there. "It was meant as one."

She turns to go again. Gets a few feet away. Then stops.

"Kottos," she says, not looking back. "If you need anything else... information, guidance, whatever... the Watchers will help. If asked politely."

"Why?"

"Because you asked politely the first time. And because..." She glances back over her shoulder. "Because something is changing in Tartarus. Something old is stirring. And I think we're all going to need friends before it's over."

Then she's gone. Sliding into the shadows between stones, disappearing with unsettling speed.

I stand there for a moment, processing.

Information gathered: Multiple tribes of dracaenae, complex political structure, someone called the First Warden, dangerous entities called "spawn," and something stirring in the deep.

Also gained: One potential ally, if I don't fuck it up.

Not bad for first contact.

I'm about to head back when I hear something. Distant. From the settlement below.

Commotion. Rising voices. The sound of scales on stone, moving fast.

I move back to the edge of the ridge and look down.

The settlement is in chaos. Dracaenae are moving in every direction, weapons drawn. And from the south, from the direction Scylla mentioned where the spawn hunt, something is approaching.

No. Many somethings.

I can't see them clearly from this distance, but I can see their effect. The bio-lights are going out. One by one. Like something is eating the light itself.

And then I see movement. Massive shapes. Humanoid but wrong. Easily fifty feet tall, maybe more.

Monsters straight from the worst nightmares.

And they're heading straight for the settlement.

The dracaenae are forming defensive lines. I can see the golden one, some kind of leader—shouting orders. But they look small. Fragile. Like children playing at war against something that could crush them without noticing.

I should leave. This isn't my fight. I got the information I needed. My brothers are waiting.

But.

Scylla helped me. Gave me information freely. Offered future assistance.

And tactical thinking says: allies are valuable. If the dracaenae get slaughtered, I lose potential assets. If I help them, I build goodwill.

Plus and I'm honest enough to admit this—part of me wants to test what I can do. See how these new god-powers work in actual combat.

The warehouse taught me planning. But planning without data is just guessing.

"Fuck it," I mutter.

Then I start running down the ridge, toward the settlement, toward the monstrous horde, toward what's probably a terrible idea.