//------------------------------// // It Purges and Perches // Story: Ofolrodi // by Imploding Colon //------------------------------// Flynn's face hung sunken, hollow. He trotted a limp path through the colorless streets and alleyways of the Dihmer city. On occasion, he would pass sleepless crowds of shorn equines, standing in abject silence and saying not a word. All the while, the bass beat of the ocean throbbed and thundered, punishing his ears and brain on every rhythmic pulse. He passed canals with rippling water where occasional ponies gathered liquid in buckets before returning them—slowly—to some unseen destination. A few other locals trotted in trains, carrying satchels full of bloody meat or purses of silver strips to appropriate trading posts. Meanwhile, soot poured into the air from the goblin factory, staining the putrid malaise with further grayness. Any ounce of color that the twilight had to give—its distant shining nebulae and constellations—was finally devoured by the emptiness of that city and its lifeless industry. This was the only hovel of civilization that the Herald had found, and it was the epitome of misery. Flynn felt that he had sensed the Dark Side in all of its morose shades, but not until now did he experience the full weight of it. Had he known it for all this real, bleak texture, then perhaps he would have reconsidered pledging himself to the Sovereign Seven in the first place. These broken thoughts—and more—bounced across the walls of his balding skull, further shaken by the ceaseless bedlam of the deathly sea looming beyond the craggy city blocks below. The Dihmers stood in icy rows, unfazed by the absurd noise, and Flynn hated them for it. All but one. The one whom he was searching for. Her eyes were lively... colorful... filled with the same purple essence as the twilight above. Her expression had flickered so swiftly—so passionately—from anger to surprise to shame that it rivaled the bursting of the brightest stars. There was no way that the mystery mare was just some crazy, random anomaly. The tiny stub of a horn on her forehead was a curious punctuation to the entire riddle, and Flynn sought it out across the brow of every Dihmer he stumbled across. With no luck. Even as he focused the full extent of his mechanical lens, he came up empty-hoofed, and his sighs carried him from street to street, road to road, with even lesser fortune. A meager fuel. At some point, a new bass percussion rose from the depths of the township, almost rivaling the chorus from the ocean. Curious, Flynn rounded a street corner—and it was there that he heard the chanting in full-force. Dozens upon dozens of voices were murmuring the same phrase over again. The sheer emotionlessness of the words gave the noise a haunting echo, and it rocked him to the core. With helpless curiosity, Flynn approached an open courtyard covered with a thin translucent canvas that blotted out most of the starlight. There, he saw hundreds of Dihmers seated in neatly-arranged rows, facing Edgeside. As he observed, ponies arrived and departed at random, either starting or ending a fresh session that carried on for—how long?—Flynn couldn't pretend to guess. Those who left placed something on the ground, and those who arrived picked it right back up and applied it to their scalps. Flynn wasn't certain at first what they were—Helms? Visors? Wreathes? He concentrated hard, zooming in with his lens... ...until he saw the blood. "It purges. It purges. It purges. It purges. It purges." They were crowns of thorns. Hundreds of them. Each of the seated, chanting, meditating Dihmers wore one, already soaked with the fresh and unfresh blood of the previous wearers When seated, they applied the article tightly, allowing the stone-laced barbs to sink deep into their flesh. When they stood up, they tore at their own skin while removing the headpieces. In both cases—and during the agony in between—none of the Dihmers flinched or winced. They murmured their mantra over and over again with pure ambivalence, even as thin rivulets of blood ran down their moving muzzles. The juices stained the courtyard beneath them, adding to the hazy crimson splotch that had been blemished into the stone for generations untold. "It purges. It purges. It purges. It purges. It purges. It purges. It purges. It purges." Flynn watched with almost matching lethargy. He had long passed the point of being shocked. The only thing that made his heart beat faster was the hope of rediscovering the rarity—the one sign of emotion amidst a stagnant sea of stoicism. There was no color there—none but red. He pressed on, scouring the grayness for the purple that had eluded him... even if somehow he had dreamt it. "Forget about it, Jack-o," a goblin belched, puffing on a stick of smoked herbs. He blew smoke-rings into the grimey twilight coming in through the crooked window of a rusty metal lean-to. "The wastes have yawned up weirdah freaks and farts than these yobbos." "Yeah!" Another imp nodded while counting stacks of metal strips across a stone table. "Stop fixatin' on every crazy buggah that passes by Blobstain! Ain't youse Tail-Bloodahs got enough to worry about with the poor business in the lowah holes?" "I'm tellin' youse!" Jacko paced and paced in the tiny, claustrophobic shack. "These ain't your regulah drongos shufflin' in from the change-o mounds!" He turned and flashed his razor-sharp teeth in the twilight. "They've got glow about them!" Hressssh! A translucent serpent burst out of one of the strips of metal. The counting goblin hissed, batted it away, then slapped his palm over the stack until the chaotic conjuration had vanished. "Mrmmmfff... glow? What bloody glow?" "The bloody glow!" Jacko insisted. "They're Penumbral!" "Hah!" The smoking imp coughed and smirked and coughed some more. "Damn bludgeah! Penumbra's a by-gone Dihmah myth! Besides..." He puffed on the stick again. "...eet's against the ancient etchin's, aye?" Jacko's brow furrowed. "Have you blokes ever wondered wheah the old captahs came from?! The ones who threw us beneath all the Marrow to begin weeth?" "'Ell, no!" The smoker exhaled vaporously out the window. "They up and farted away! Besides... Peetra's flame is all the Penumbra we need." "And streeps!" the counter exclaimed. The other goblin pointed his cancer stick at him. "Good on ya!" "Grrfff!" Jacko facepalmed, stomping a clawed foot down. "Listen heah, buggahs... if these folks are the real deal and theah's an actual Penumbra somewheah, then that means Peetra's flame ain't the only flame theah ees! If nothin' else, eet's a borrowed light!" "Ugh... there he goes again," the counter droned. "Spoken like a true Tail-Bloodah." "Oh not again—" Jacko groaned. "You're the one fartin' in circles, cobbah," the smoker said. "How many times do we have to tell ya that you've got no edge among the branches?!" He pointed. "So long as the Metal Mum's in charge, you ain't cleansin' your blood of its damned dirt!" "This is about more than me Tail-Blood brothahs and me!" Jacko frowned. "For yeahs and yeahs we've done nothin' but collect streeps—and what good has it done us? Any of us?!" He gestured. "It's just a mattah of time before one of them warmongahs gets into the Sarcophagus, and then what?! I'm tellin' ya, we'll be shoved back balls-deep into the Marrow with nothin' left to burn!" "Says you, drongo." The smoker puffed again and blew out the window. "I ain't believin' this rubbish for a second until it falls into me lap—" THWOOOOOSH! A pale sheen of claws and feathers billowed madly into the room, perching heavily onto the table with a majestic spread of wings. "Gaah!" the counter fell back amidst a sea of metal strips. "Grkkkkkgkkk!" The smoker swallowed his cancer stick, gagged, then coughed it onto the floor with a smattering of ashes. "Piss on me mum!" "... ... ..." Seraphimus glared at the group. "... ... ...Get out." "Y-yes, love!" The two frightened goblins scrambled, picked up their strips, and scrambled faster. "Right away, love!" They both bolted out into the soot and twilight. Shivering, Jacko scuffled after them— Grip! Seraphimus' razor-sharp talons yanked him back by the collar of his vest. "You... stay here." "Erm... technically, it's theah house—" Seraphimus glared." "I-I mean... s-sure thing, sheila!" Jacko stood nervously with his limbs locked together, staring up at her. "Uh... ace entrance you made just then!" He shifted slightly. "Wished you were slightly less punishin' on the streeps, though. Seein' as how they're... uh... our only livelihood and all..." There was a low screeching noise. A translucent centipede rose up from the ground. Jacko silenced it by slapping the instep of his foot over the metal strip in question. Seraphimus stared him up and down. "You're puny, pathetic, and your bones look easy to break." "Uhhhh... yeah! Fancy that, love!" Her charcoal brown eyes narrowed. "How has your kind managed to survive under the nose of three warring factions for so long?" "Reckon it's our ears, aye?" He bore a razor-toothed smile, pointing at his large twitching lobes. "Too bloomin' cute for any shard-os or change-os to squash into rubbish, ya think?" "... ... ..." "Right. Yabbin' time." He spat on his four-fingered hand and held it out. "Put 'er theah, love! I'm Jacko of Tail-Blood. How'd'y'do?" Seraphimus sighed, eyes rolling. "Tell me what you know about Penumbra, please." "Righ. Or we could go straight to that. No worries..."