"I observed as they bled out—no hands for salvation, no legs to flee their own corruption, no tongues to condemn their peers. Gluttony's due, presumably."
– An Amused God
We made our way toward the main hall as the screams and roars intensified. The stench hit first—thick, metallic blood mingled with raw meat and the sour rot of exposed viscera. When we reached the threshold, the scene unfolded in grotesque clarity.
Debris littered the floor—chunks of shattered ceiling, splintered tables, and crushed chairs. Guests lay trapped or dead beneath it, limbs pinned, faces frozen in terror or agony. And at the centre of the carnage moved the cause: a colossal flesh beast dragging itself forward with agonising slowness. Its head was a grotesque amalgamation—dozens of fused faces, mouths gaping, eyes rolling independently, tendrils of hair and sinew writhing like living whips. The body pulsed with exposed hearts beating in erratic rhythm, hands grasping at air, layers of fat and muscle shifting like oil on water. It possessed only one leg—short, stumpy, a twisted pillar of limb, tongues, and bone. The arm it used to drag itself rippled, body parts appearing and vanishing in waves—fingers sprouting, then retracting; faces bubbling up, then sinking.
The heads screamed and roared, voices overlapping in a cacophony of pain and rage. With every utterance, residue poured outward—dense, corrosive miasma in its purest form. Deeper. Stronger. More suffocating than what I had encountered before.
Guests attempted to flee, but the miasma weakened them—limbs trembling, minds fracturing. Some succumbed to madness, turning on one another in blind hunger; others lunged at the monstrosity, only to be absorbed—flesh melting into flesh, screams joining the chorus. Whispers threaded through the roars:
Help…
I am in pain…
Save me…
Where is my son?…
Where are we?…
I am hungry…
Further guests and waiters tried to escape, but panic, desperation, and miasma transformed flight into slaughter. They tore at each other—claws, teeth, improvised weapons—until only the strongest or maddest remained, and even they fell to the spreading corruption.
Beside me, Richard coughed violently. I turned. His face had paled; his eyes glazed with unnatural hunger as he stared at the writhing guests.
No time to hesitate. I enveloped him in shadow—swift and protective—then commanded a phantom to slip into the shadow of a fleeing guest. Richard would be released once they reached safety above.
I faced the monstrosity alone.
It devoured rubble, flesh, debris—anything within reach. Guests mutated before my eyes: extra arms sprouting, heads multiplying, and skin splitting to reveal glistening muscle. Some could not endure the change—bodies liquefying like wax, melting into puddles that the creatures slurped greedily.
Madness. All of it was born from false hunger—the harvest of seeds sown in gluttony—a pitiful, theatrical end for them. And yet here I stood, in the midst of it, part of the spectacle. Watching and almost enjoying the symmetry.
The miasma pressed against me, seeking to twist my form. I raised a barrier—thin, translucent—and transmuted the corruption into pure residue. Difficult. Exhausting. But the beast ignored me, focused on easier prey.
Mutated guests—those with nothing left to consume—charged. Some devoured themselves as they ran, flesh tearing from their own limbs; others fused with fallen comrades in grotesque unions. I drew the cane from shadow storage, shifted it to rifle form—"Cawww"—and fired. Mutated or not, their bodies were fragile—bullets tore through softened tissue with ease.
I detonated the three mirage spells—violent bursts of darkness consuming all life within their radius, then expanding outward. The explosions were silent from my vantage, but phantoms relayed: two struck VIP vaults, the third a secret elevator. All locations filled slowly with spreading tendrils—essence drained, bodies consumed. This final act drained nearly all of my remaining residue. Fortunately, the spell fed on what it took, sustaining and growing. I ordered deactivation once no life remained.
Mutants pounded my barrier—fists, claws, teeth. Residue nearly gone; spells faltered. Still, I tried a fire spell and incinerated several of them, but the smell only attracted more. A wind spell sliced them apart, but the survivors devoured the fallen or fused with them. A petrification spell turned several to stone, while the others simply consumed both flesh and stone alike. I attempted to drown them with summoned water, but the water itself became corrupted by blood and miasma, twisting into something monstrous.
Enough.
I summoned earth—earth spikes erupting from below, skewering dozens, slowing the tide. Then flight—barely enough residue to lift me above the fray.
The giant construct lumbered closer, trailing gore and offal. No point continuing this farce. In this human body, limits bound me. Better to end it noisily than die quietly.
I began to sing.
Not any song. A melody steeped in the Old Tongue—conveying meaning beyond words, reaching into the beyond. A song reserved for one race alone: the spirits—beings more ancient and more potent than gods themselves.
I sang of mercy. Of power. Of a dance long overdue.
Laughter answered—amused and delighted—echoing from everywhere and nowhere. A whisper brushed the back of my mind:
"Finally, you have called us, Qulien."
Power surged—residue flooding my body like cool water through parched earth. Arms encircled my neck—tender, possessive. Humming rose around me—multiple voices, harmonious yet dissonant, soothing yet warlike.
I had called one spirit. Many answered.
A woman's voice—rich, teasing—spoke from behind me: "Oh Qulien, let us enjoy this waltz you have summoned. We have missed your dances so tenderly."
"Forgive my long silence," I replied softly. "I never found the occasion. But take this moment to revel fully—this dance is… extra special."
"And why is that?" she asked, amusement curling every word as the hymns shifted—now intense, martial drums of war beneath the melody.
"This dance is performed not in my fae form but in human. And you shall be my first. Is that not special enough?"
Laughter—hers, then others—rippled through the air. Voices joined: some light and playful, others deep and resonant.
"That is indeed special," she purred, tightening her embrace. "But this dance will not be our last. You still owe the others."
"Of course."
Another pair of hands patted my head—gentle, almost maternal. "Thank you, Qulien, for this dance."
"You are most welcome, my ladies. Now—let us teach this uncouth beast the proper waltz of the old religion."
"Yes," she whispered, "let us."
Her arms tightened around me as the hymns grew louder.
Much louder.
It would indeed become noisier from now on.