Wielder of Names 4-73
Het and the Three Companions
Part 3
The golden-haired woman had no fear in her heart at all, and so her feet were quick and true. Bellowing a mighty cry she raised her gleaming blade to strike. But since she had no fear in her, her blow was rash and prideful and full of none of the self-preserving wisdom of longer-lived warriors. The beast was a twisted and hateful thing, and it took the blade upon its flesh and hacked up bloody spittle as the cold metal dug deep into its shoulder. But there the blade lodged, and as the golden-haired warrior struggled to pull a new weapon from her collection, the beast shrieked and lifted her into the air with unholy strength, and cracked her rib cage and sucked her guts out in a second, and that was that.
The priest gave out a cry, and swung his lantern at the demon, for dogma had taught him that such creatures hated light above all things. And indeed, dogma had taught well, for the beast spat a frothy spittle and recoiled from the lantern, and the priest struck out with his preaching rod, as he was taught to do. But while confidence guided the priest’s blow, it was an illusory confidence, driven by his refusal to accept fear. The shaking of his limbs that he had so long ignored turned his blow, and it struck wide. The sweat of his palms greased his grip and his weapon flew from his hand. He tried to utter a prayer, but found to his surprise he could not speak a single word. He cried out as his head was split and devoured, and his lantern was knocked aside and snuffed, and that was that.
With the other two dead, and having little regard for Het, the beggar had absolutely no reason to continue to appear brave, and ran shrieking into the pitch black, where he was set upon and torn apart as he tried to scrabble over a low wall. And that was that, and only Het remained, quaking with terror, unable to see beyond her nose, and clutching a torn shred of the beggar’s cloak.
The demon ceased its screaming, and prowled in circles as it licked its gory chops, for Het was surely easy prey. Het could scarcely control the shaking of her limbs as she heard the click-clack of its nails, and felt the charnel heat of its breath staining the night. Finally, tired of toying with its prey, it fell upon Het all at once with its limbs splayed out, and its eyes all aflame, and its lips ripped open in an awful shriek.
But it what it could not have known (and neither could Het) was that Het had not denied fear a place in her heart of hearts. It was an uncomfortable guest, but a familiar one. Unlike the golden-haired woman, fear quickened Het’s step and pumped through her blood, refining her purpose. Unlike the priest, she knew the ways in which it tugged at her, and contorted her senses, and so she made extra effort to straighten her back and steady her hand. And unlike the beggar, Het cared little for the appearance of bravery, for she did not think herself brave. Lacking an audience to impress, her resolve had not wavered in the slightest, for Het was an aspirant to Royalty, and her mind was as a mighty Tower, with walls a hundred thousand paces high.
So it was that as the monster dove at Het, and reached out with all its hooks and nails and instruments of death, Het struck out with her eyes and limbs all filled with lightning. She swung with a purpose sharpened by fear into a perfect cutting edge, and smashed the demon’s brains out with a single fantastic blow. So powerful was the impact of Het’s stave upon the demon’s skull that the earth itself shook and the villagers who huddled inside their low and lonely dwellings thought the end of the world was upon them.
The demon was flung fifty paces, where it shrieked and died in spurts and spasms. And that was that.
After some pains, Het re-lit the priest’s lamp, and waited and shivered there until morning as the corpse of the beast cooled and froze, and the faint warmth of the sun bled over the horizon. Then she dragged it to the town square, and made to take down the skins hung on the great tree.
When at last the curious villagers emerged, they were exuberant, and lifted Het upon their shoulders, and spat upon the corpse of the great beast. A party was sent to find and bury the three other travelers, and the rest of the grisly display was taken down from the old tree. Het was fed thick gruel with honey, and the light and heat of the town grew in strength with the day, so that by noon, the fires in hearths were roaring, and the houses steamed in the cold, the dogs pranced in the streets, and children emerged to goggle at and pick at the monster’s corpse with sticks.
For her part, Het was happy to see a little life return, and relieved for the light of the day. She slept much of that afternoon, and through the night, and in the morning set again upon the road, glad to be rid of that place. But she took its memory with her, and kept fear a close and intimate friend. Later it would serve her well on the road.
But that is another story.
The price of holding a key?
To be unable to fear other than your own failure?
It’s not that Allison isn’t afraid. Fear is a perfectly normal, healthy, and rational response. Especially in a situation such as this.
It’s just that Allison is determined not to allow fear to stop her. In effect, the Essence of Courage. Such is the demeanor of Kings.
Precisely. As Het demonstrates.
I’m pretty sure Mottom can feel the power of Allison’s masterkey and that’s why she is trying so damn hard to intimidate her.
‘Just hurry up and kill me you old witch.’
“I’m not a witch, I’m your god! Now I’m not even sure if I want to be that though!”
Dang it, Alison, don’t try to bullshit the queen of bullshittery.
She can fart to fly around, too.
Wow, I didn’t think when people called her a witch that she’d actually pull of moves this much like the common image of a surprisingly powerful old hag.
ฅ(*ΦωΦ*) ฅ
utterly mad
utterly soverign
In the second panel, what’s happening? The orientation of the wrinkles in the table cloth has changed, her hand posture has changed, and it almost looks as though her hand is passing through the table cloth as though it was the surface of water. Does this one over read matters or is the art in that frame particularly confusing? Unlike Abadon to be sloppy or needless in his craft.
Her Glory’s guest has moved slight closer to the table and is moving her quivering hand towards the cutlery.
What I see is that her hand has moved, as if moving toward the utinsels, but is shaking in hesitation as she is not sure wehter or not to comply with Mottom’s request to eat.
Ah.
In the second panel, Alice has moved her hand toward her self, possibly in an attempt to conceal the trembling of her fingers.
Her hand is shaking as she reaches for the knife.
I assume that is her hand trembling as she reaches for the eating utensils without much confidence
Her hand is shaking.
it looks like shes stopping her hand from shaking; all to appear resolute in the face of horror. the queen immediately calls her bluff as you undoubtedly has highest sensory input.
if alison discovers her newfound power, the citadel will crumble along with numerous souls. can she live with the consequence?
Allison (Al-Yisun) seem to have much in common with Pree Ys-Het.
Fear is a familiar if unwelcome guest in their minds, they delude not themselves with bravery, and they care not if they have an audience to impress.
Despite ownership of 1/7 of existence, Mottom can’t keep both eyes open. It would seem that time (and by proxy entropy) will not be denied. One wonders why the Thorned Angels bother. They need only to wait; their victory is inevitable.
To wait is against their nature. If they still possessed such an untarnished virtue, they would not have walked the path of Thorns.
Mother Om seems exceedingly happy that Alice-Un has broken up the monotony of her routine.
…All this time and I didn’t ONCE make a Mad Madam Mim joke!
I’m kicking myself!
Age cannot be the reason for Mottom’s appearance; all other lords of infinity are seemingly immortal.
Such a delicious turn of events. While I really would like to see Alice-Un smite that Evil Godess-Queen with pure divine righteous fury, this is also an amusing turn of events.
Be wary of a headbutt, Alice-Un. Mottom’s nose seems sharp enough to take out an eye.
Truth to be learned or lies of false prophets?
The stupid child’s obvious fear and inexperience with the crowns have made Great Queen Mot overconfident, staying the hand that slew the king!
OR
The old hag’s obvious fear from her overexperience of the crowns has made Alice-un, Great Conquerer, confident enough to stay in the hand that slew the king!
oh wow uuhm i kinda binge read everything in 2 days welp now comes the waithing then
Heart Pounds.
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she reminds me of Yubaba, but so much worse
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