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City of Thornmouth
Furcadia
Furcadia

- V -

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    I'm scared of what's inside my head
    What's inside my soul
    I feel like I'm running
    But getting nowhere
    Fear is suffocating me
    I can't breathe
    I feel like I'm drowning
    I'm sinking deeper
  • A decade ago, a dragon found a bloodied Bride. Mute, dressed in tattered wedding garb, covered in deep stains of ichor and blood. Traumatized and unspeaking, slowly bleeding out but clinging to life. A stare that looked blank at first, but on closer inspection was calmly composed, watching. But unsteady on bare feet, swaying from fatigue. Confused, absent, in and out of conversations, but answering to 'Vaidya', or 'Doctor'.

    "A lone Mughal bride, dressed in traditional red finery, head draped in a beautifully patterned dupatta. Black hair beneath had more silver and grey than one would expect, given appearances--mid twenties, a bit old perhaps for a bride--but falling straight and thick, past strong shoulders. Opulent peshwaz, gold, red and orange, draped a somewhat masculine form, heavily stained in places with a deeper brown-red. Elaborate jewelry had long since been pawned, but the faded designs of mehndi remained on the bride's hands and bare feet. Out of place was the men's swordbelt tied haphazardly about the waist, from which hung a shamshir, half hidden in the folds of the extravagant red attire. Heart-shaped face was impassive, an unexpectedly cold quietness in the bride's expression, with an aquiline nose and signs of hyperpigmentation about the eyes."
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  • ❁ Journal

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    ♢ Journal: Soft leather, deep rust in colour and imprinted with ornate designs.
    Brand new. They haven't quite filled it with thoughts yet, but they keep it close,
    a gift from Jaxamir.

    • Bees!!

      I discovered several jars of deceased bees on the shores of Guildereim, thrown out with the trash. Likely caught live and allowed to suffocate, by the look of them. I thought perhaps my usual means of inscribing pathways would work in returning movement to them; rather than cut into flesh and bones, I attempted to carve the pathways into their exoskeleton, but found their chitin too soft and degraded, and liable to bend and burst under even the finest needle I could find.

      Replacement of fluids was another option, one which I have done successfully on normal endoskeletal creatures. However the volume required on larger specimens is incredibly time-consuming to produce at this time. The amrita I have been working with here requires fully replacing the bodily fluids, and is a preparation of preservatives and animated matters that further enhance my own channeling. This particular mixture was not conducive for my issue, as it still required carving into the chitin.

      Instead I looked more to my work in fungal cultures. I have been able to partially reactivate spores with a particular mercury bhasma, first by calcining part of the fungal material to create the bhasma, before adding in fresh spores as a base. The particular fungi resulted in producing a slightly accelerated decay of plant-matter; observations continue on that front.

      Here I reproduced a similar experiment using spores of a particular strain of cordycep, which appeared to activate it, and used with it a renewed amrita embalmment from my previous works. This I injected through the membrane between chitin after draining part of its fluids; many more specimens were lost attempting to prevent them from bursting. I have made a note that this is likely best used on fresher insects.

      It required time to allow development, but as with the decay, growth appeared to be accelerated, and they began moving within several day's time. Most issues I find are related to decay and physical damage, mainly to the wings which are quite delicate and easily bent or broken, rendering many bees unable to fly.

      I will have to obtain fresher specimens and, I think, a queen bee for use of her pheromones in having any sort of long-term control over the specimens.

    • Years Past

      The smell of ash and thick smoke was transcended by burning meat, trailing to the heavens in a wet black smog as the town burned. But that spread off into the distance from where the Bride was now, red finery tattered and ripped, and smelling strongly of sweat, smoke, stale blood and ichor. Absolutely pungent, but their own throat and nose was so clogged with dust from the desert that they couldn't smell their own stink. Dragging their bare feet as they walked, the sheer dupatta doing nothing to protect them from the sun's rays, but held tight to their head anyhow. They fumbled at the heavy jewellery that adorned their nose and ears, throwing some of it to the sand to litter the caving footsteps and blood droplets they left behind, but they had the good sense to keep a piece or two to pawn.

      They stumbled and fell over the hem of their long peshwaz, landing hard on their knees. The wound in their thigh had reopened. Every step they took left their leg slick with blood, mingled with the rust-dried stains from someone else, all down the front of their bridal garb to pool at their waist, as if they had held something or someone.

      Feeling the sand through their hands they considered lying down just there, but was helped back to their feet by the enthusiastic push of a cow's nose, the creature decked out in the finery of a dowry gift. She nudged her face into the Bride's back, until they were forced to wrap a hand around her neck, half-dragged back to their feet to carry on.

      The cow kept them going for a while longer, but by day three, the Bride lost consciousness and fell from the creature's back, bloody, sunburnt feet unable to support them and head no loner clear enough to plot their next direction. They struggled to push themself up on their arms, but those failed them too; instead they rolled onto their back.

      They thought they saw something fly overhead. A vulture? The blaze of the sun made it glow red, or scaly. Or a mirage. Maybe a person, but by then their vision had gone dark, and the only sensation they had was of someone roughly manhandling them, grabbing at their clothes, trying to rip away jewellery, valuables--looting them? The thought came vaguely, and with a sudden, overwhelming anger. They took a swing. Threw everything they had into it, felt that fist connect, and someone swear in response. Loudly. And then they lost consciousness.
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