The Unwoven Horrors - Part 2

By: Xaviere Posted on: June 27, 2005

The garden of the Garden of the Gods was full with every single Divinity present in Achaea. From Valnurana to Matsuhama, each of Them had gathered to discuss the problems that befell not only the mortal realm, but the Divine Realm also. None of Them were particularly impressed.

"Makali, I demand that You find the cause of this, or You will feel the brunt of my wrath!" roared Sartan, the Malevolent.

"What, You're going to squirt me with Your Divine teacup? Oh, please(!)" Makali sighed, rolling Her black eyes in exasperation.

"Arguing is not going to help," the calm voice of Tarah chimed out. "We need to sit down, and work this through together."

A wave of agreement rolled over the Divine Garden.

"Well, I'm not working with HIM," said the Lady of Sin, pointing to Sartan.

"Neither are We," said Keresis and Thoth, the Lord of Death in turn.

"And I refuse to work with Discordia," scowled Pentharian.

"Pentharian, You're a git," retorted the Goddess of Chaos, pulling out a Golden Apple and crunching into it. "Such a party-pooper."

Miramar, the Goddess of Justice, who was heading the meeting, rapped Her gavel on a wall. "Listen. Nobody is going to be forced to work with Anybody," She declared, peering at the feuding groups in turn, all silenced. "We'll all be working in our individual Spheres. It's got to be in there somewhere. Has Anybody managed to get in contact with the Weaver or the Logos?"

Everybody looked at the God next to Them, and shook Their heads.

"Right. Then it looks like it's once more into the breach, dear Friends. Anything else on the agenda?"

Neraeos, the Sea God, put His hand up. Miramar nodded at Him, indicating that He could speak.

"Sorry to be a bore, but the plumbing in My chambers is all cranky..."

"We're all cranky, Nephew," Matsuhama bellowed haughtily. "Not as if You've got a corner on the Market channel now, is it?"

************************************

The monstrosity known as Tu'enim crawled in a millipedal fashion toward the Siren, who was cowering in a corner of the cavern.

"Only a few hundred children, my dear, only a few hundred..." it whispered.

"I'll die before you touch me!" Scleia said, closing her eyes. She concentrated upon her heart, rhythmic and pounding in her breast. She was willing it to slow down, to pump slower, to - and it was the sheer truth - stop. A small tear was visible in the corner of her left eye as she realised in full what she was asking herself to do.

The gloopy noise of Tu'enim's skin stopped. Far away, for it sounded so far away, Scleia could hear what sounded like the monstrosity talking to another being.

"...yes, my dear, I can feel his willpower growing within me. The Sultan of Shallam, or should I say, the *late* Sultan. What a brave soul, trying to fight you off with a frying pan and a pair of hedge clippers. Quite ingenious." It turned to the Siren, who had opened her eyes. Her faded green eyes looked back at it in fear.

"I must leave awhile, my dear bride-to-be," Tu'enim grinned, seemingly larger in stature, his skin gleaming in the darkness. It was pumping its sucker mouth in and out. "But do not fret, I shall return to consummate our love, and I might even bring back the Guildmaster of the Priests to marry us, but he may be rather dead by that time. Farewell, my dear. Feel free to have a cup of tea. I won't forget to write."

It pointed to a small trestle table that had a small teapot, a jug, a sugar bowl and a teacup upon it. Using all his limbs, Tu'enim blew kisses, before leaving through a wall. The whole thing was peculiar. Its whole body seemed to shimmer, almost walking ghost-like into a solid object.

Satisfied that her captor had gone, Scleia leapt to her feet and started feeling the walls. There had to be a door of some sort. She was definitely underground, but without an exit. Then she thought.

A moment later the Siren had pulled the trestle table to the middle of the cavern, and was now standing on top of it. She had searched around for something to dig with, and had decided upon her cleaven flute. Not great, but it had to do for the time being. She took one half and pushed into the ceiling. Earth and soil fluttered down in great heaps, landing on her head. The best thing to do was to continue. If Druids and Sentinels could burrow down into the ground, it could not have been that hard to burrow to whatever was above.

A few minutes passed, and was that a flicker of sunlight? Perhaps it was. Or maybe it was just a shiny stone. Either way, Scleia was determined to escape her earthen prison. Sirens were not just a beautiful face - some were blessed with a beautiful mind as well.

************************************

"People of Achaea!" a crackling voice resonated across the continent. "Lend me your ears, or whatever hearing organ you may possess."

A magnificent shadow of an eagle was palpable over Rocco's body as he flapped a pair of ethereal wings. Unsteadily, he rose up into the air above the Eleusian Inn. Glancing down, the Sentinel nodded to the people below.

"See if you can find where whatever it is, is," called Ratbyrne from below. He had taken to stuffing himself with all the food he could find, for he had not eaten for a long time. Scleia had not turned up either. She had probably gone back to Cyrene, knowing her tenacity. He should not have run off like that.

Crispin was attending to the former corpse of Flavel Presanette, who had been propped up against a wooden post into a sitting position. His fur was smeared with blood and dirt, and his skin was wrinkled from being in the water for too long. His pads had shrivelled so much that the claws were visible, long and too drawn for sanity's sake. He appeared to be staring, unblinkingly, straight ahead, yellowed slit-pupil eyes dilated. Anybody who had not known that he was supposedly alive would assume that he was, to all intents and purposes, dead.

"Any luck yet, Crispy?" Rocco cried from up above.

"Crispin, Rocco, not Crispy. And no. I've tried bloodroot to stop the paralysis, but he just spat it out. Which was rather rude, dear boy. Tried a caloric salve in case he was frozen by the water, still no luck. Damn and blast. He's wasting my stocks. Can't we just take him back to his wife? She's not going to notice any difference anyway."

"Tea."

The Druid's eyes shot up to Flavel's face. "Tea," the hapless Sentinel said, in a monotone, impassive voice. "Tea."

"What was that, Crispy?"

"He app... oh, just come down."

A flap of wings and a loud thump later, and Rocco pulled himself off the ground.

"Tea."

"Is he just saying 'tea'?"

"Oh, bravo, my dear Sentinel, ten out of ten for observation!" clapped Crispin with all the derision he could muster.

"Hang on, it's speaking again!" called Ratbyrne's voice from behind the bar. "Rocco, get back up there!"

A wholly avian scowl upon his face, the Sentinel brushed a collection of leaves from his chainmail, before rising back up into the skies again. Then, a rather excited squawking noise could be heard soon after.

"I spy it! I can see it!" the parrot-like voice of Rocco shrieked happily. "Just north of Thera's ruins. And by Lupus, no idea what it is. Looks like a chaos entity. Right ugly bastard."

The next words to be said echoed throughout the world. In Polyargos, Yudhishthira lumbered out of his cave to see what all the racket was. In Shala-Khulia, the great jaguar spirit was awoken. In Mysia, Kelley and Jarvace stopped their feuding to listen. And down in her cavern, scrabbling furiously, was the Sireni Bard, Scleia. But even she paused a moment to listen. The entire mortal world was at a standstill.

************************************

"Felicitations, dear mortals of Achaea, and Those up in the Garden of the Gods," the calm voice of Tu'enim reverberated over the land. "I must apologise for interrupting you in the middle of your tea break. Rather rude of me. But that is not my purpose."

The monstrosity drew itself up to its full height. Taller than the tallest dragon, bulkier than the fattest man, it was like a towering blancmange of insectoid jelly, limbs flailing like a spinning battleaxe. The stench of tea leaves raced through the air. They could smell him like a decomposing corpse in Ashtan, the nearest city to the ruins of Thera. Tu'enim seemed to touch the clouds with his many-eyed head.

"As you may have divined, I am the cause of your troubles. Those of you who live in as yet undiscovered villages that have only managed now to discover how to create fire, *this* is what I mean."

From the Garden of the Gods, where the Divine were watching the events unfold from over the Fence, They saw a massive stream of steaming tea suddenly shoot into the air. A massive explosion shook the earth. Then all was still.

"That, my dear Achaeans, used to be Hashan. Not that you'll miss it much. Never did anything while it was there. Might as well destroy it a second time, nothing exceptionally special about it. Oh, come on, I did you a favour there! Don't whine at me now, I've already done the business."

There was a great wailing from the land as people rose up in mixtures of dissent, mourning, anger, and also sheer happiness that Hashan had been removed again.

"But, I am here to say, that the end of the world is nigh. You will all be dead in a moment or two, so there is no point in putting your affairs in order."

A few more jets of tea shot out of Tu'enim's sucker mouth.

"And stop sending your silly troops to try and kill me. It's NOT going to work." It rubbed its abdomen with a tentacled limb. "Come to think of it... Lord Thoth!" it bellowed. "Endbringer!"

The cowled, ashen-headed head of the Lord of Death leaned over the Fence. "Yes?" the chilly, impassive voice of Death answered. "You shall be conquered, foul creature."

"Sorry for cramping Your style. Seems I've taken matters of death into my own hands. My siblings have almost completed their task of destroying the Weaving. Everybody will have never existed, except for us, the Great Enemy, the Old Enemy of the Divine. But I do have one question before I cleanse you all from existence. Where is the Weaver? Where is He who tortures my kind? No doubt He has abandoned you all."

"We will exterminate you!" Makali yelled from high above. "We've done it before, and We'll do it again!"

"WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW?" screeched Tu'enim, pounding its limbs on the ground. If it was possible to put all the caterwauls together in one box, with the grating noise of metal against metal and two hundred and fifty score blackboards with nails scratching down them, it would not come close to the anger and passion within the monstrosity's voice.

The sky had darkened. It was the end of the world all over again.

************************************

Scraping away underground was Scleia, resembling a Druid metamorphosised as a Wolverine more than a Sireni Bard. She had heard the megalomaniacal rant of the Minuet Bug, and was determined to seek out Ratbyrne, or anybody who had a plan. The whole Achaean population was going to be decimated, except for her, and frankly, if she had her way, that was *not* going to happen.

There was a cone-shaped dent in the ceiling where she had been digging away. Scleia could not have been too far from the surface, for she could still hear the birds twittering in the trees. She was still in the Ithmia, she had guessed, for it would not have been logical for Tu'enim to have made his lair too far from Achaean life, and the soil was typical of Ithmian terrain.

Her arms ached, and she sat down upon the trestle table to have a rest. Her clothes were stained with soil and tea stains. There was a healthy spattering of soil, stone and worms scattered all over the floor and table. She was not made for a navvy's job. Her eyes fell on the teapot. A cup of tea would do wonders, but it was not particularly advisable to accept one from a gloopy, tea-slime emitting creature with a penchant for power over all. It did not look like particularly good tea anyway.

Rest time was over, and Scleia had started scratching at the soil again. She heard a hollow cracking, and without warning, a large section of the ceiling caved in on top of her.

"Sunlight!" she gasped in happiness. A warm golden ray of light was beaming down upon her.

Quickly, she brushed the remnants of the ceiling off herself, and with all the dexterity that she could muster, she grabbed two tufts of grass and started hauling herself up. She would run to Eleusis, the nearest place, and gather help.

Without warning, a gloopy tendril lunged from the shadows and wrapped around her right foot.

"Oh, give me a sodding BREAK!" she growled, flailing her legs. It was the tea-creature that had dragged her down, a sheer mass of gelatinous liquid, nebulous as a water weird, and it was not going to let her go so easily.

Scleia's foot knocked against something on the table, and she winced in pain. But the pulling stopped.

A hideous, bloodcurdling shrieking noise of an animal in the final throes of death wailed throughout the cavern as she peered down, still hanging from the ceiling. Then all was silent. The slippery sensation on her foot slid away.

"That's it..." she whispered to herself. "Why didn't I think of it before?"

The Siren clambered out of the hole, and staggered towards the nearest tree. She had a plan. But she needed people to help her with it, and an animal willing to give her several buckets of milk.

************************************

Creeping around the ruins of the former northern city of Ashtan, smoke and dust engulfing the air, Tu'enim surveyed its glorious work. The statue upon the Parade of Zarathustra lay in pieces, the Ratman was hanging in two from the top of Dockhand Square, and the Well of Chaos was filled with steaming tea. The streets were filled with floating, bloated corpses, of both Ashtanites and rats, gliding upon a river of tea.

In the Garden of the Gods, there was a certain amount of disarray. Not panic, for the Divine cannot panic, for it would question Their omnipotence.

"Perhaps if We taunt it, it'll get so annoyed that it'll suicide itself?" asked the Great Bard hopefully.

"No, no... that won't work, Scarlatti," Lorielan spoke, flicking through Her books of Knowledge.

"Maggot it?"

Mithraea shook Her sunbeam-crowned head. "It's a bug. It's practically a maggot already."

The Divine sat in silence, not quite sure what to do. Then it was the Green Lady who had a flash of inspiration.

"We do have the Shrubbery..." She suggested quietly.

The head of each Divine rose in realisation, and nodded in agreement. Already clad for war in His battle armour, Aegis replied, in a stern, commanding tone:

"I'll get my trebuchet."

************************************

In the Eleusian Inn, two Forestals and a Bard were wondering what they could do. They had acquired the key to the door from the bartender, Amerante, and were in the process of barricading it from anybody who wanted to come in.

Ratbyrne pointed a ring with a blue gem at the door, and concentrated. A stream of iced tea shot out the end, forming an icewall. Tables and chairs were propped up against the doors and windows. Upon the upper floors, the baker Arscot was preparing food that would last for a long time. Nobody had any idea of how long they had left to live.

They had left one window upon the top floor, so that Rocco or Crispin, taking it in turns, could use their eagle eyes to see what was going on in the world. Rocco himself had almost passed out from the number of people dying, passing by his deathsight like a shower of rain. Ashtan had been completely obliterated.

"It's going for Mhaldor next," said Rocco nervously, taking several puffs from his pipe. "Then it'll go for Cyrene, Moghedu, Jaru, Shallam. Then it'll come back up north, for us." He stood down from his vigil and grabbed a mug of cider, taking a much-needed swig. Suddenly, he slumped upon the table. Ratbyrne rushed up to him. Far away, there was a faint explosion, and if one listened hard enough, the sound of people screaming as they burned to death in boiling oblivion.

"And there it goes," the Sentinel sighed, squeezing his eyes closed as all the Mhaldorians flashed before them, screaming in agony. "Sunk under the waves in a torrent of tea."

The other Sentinel in the room, the newly-animated Flavel, was still not responding to conventional treatment.

"Tea."

"I daresay, old boy, but that's not possible for me to give that to you."

"Tea."

"Oh, shut up." The Druid sighed in exasperation. Usually his cures worked. But at this moment in time, he had to admit that even he, transcendent in herbal cures and concoctions, was at a loss.

A shout from Rocco brought all the sane creatures in the Inn together. "Have a gander at this!" he said, as they all craned out the window.

On top of the Great Rock, they could spy the tall, foreboding figure of the God of War. He was standing next to a hefty trebuchet. Positioned upon it was what looked like a large sack, filled with some sort of dung. It was ready to be launched.

"It's Lord Aegis!" gasped Ratbyrne. "He's going to kill it!"

The booming voice of the God of War rang true through the air. "You've had your fun, bug! Now, die!"

There was a sharp twang as the trebuchet launched its contents, sailing through the air. There was a thump, followed with a squeal of surprise.

"You're not going to believe this," the Bard said, making happy clicking noises. "He just shrubbed it."

A sigh of relief sprang up around the room. Surely salvation had arrived?

"Bugger!" the usually authoritative voice of Aegis resounded.

"Very clever, my dear Divine, very clever," the glacial voice of Tu'enim called out. "Almost had me there."

Suddenly, the ground began to pulsate, quivering like a porcupine's back. Everybody in the Inn clung on for dear life as the trees on the Oaken Way shuddered, some even being uprooted and collapsing right in front of them.

"Right, let's liven things up a little," the Minuet Bug announced dryly. "Wake up, my cronies! Wake up!"

Rocco gasped in abject horror at what his eagle eyes were telling him. "Oh, no," he said, backing away from the window. "That's just not right. It's just not possible."

"You mean... not possible, like THAT?!" Ratbyrne exclaimed, pointing to the lower level of the Inn.

As if invisible strings were pulling him up, the comatose body of Flavel Presanette had dragged himself to his feet. His breathing was stertorous and drawn, fur dull and unkempt. Syrupy brown spit hung down from his jowls. He turned to look upstairs at the cowering group. His eyes were iris-less, and only bore note of a dot of a pupil in each. With a flick of his wrists, the former Rajamala Sentinel unsheathed his claws to the full, and let out an horrible, bestial shriek.

"Sorry mate, I think you've 'ad quite enough!" Amerante cried out, breaking off a stool leg and running towards him.

"Amerante, old boy, NO!" Crispin cried out from above. "Don't touch him!"

Flavel's cold, emotionless eyes turned to the approaching bartender who was wielding a wooden stick in his left hand. Without a bat of an eyelid, he grabbed Amerante by the arm and twisted. There was a painful crack. The bartender fell to the ground in agony.

Powerless to help him, Rocco, Crispin and Ratbyrne could only watch as Flavel leapt upon the hapless bartender and vomited some sort of corrosive substance all over his face. Amerante clawed and writhed at the Rajamala, but his body soon went limp, and all was still. Flavel stood up, and slowly lifted his head to watch the petrified people above him.

"There's only one of him. We can take him," Ratbyrne spoke, trying to sound reassuring but failing miserably.

"I think, dear boy, you mean *two*... of them..." Crispin interjected.

Standing on the lower floor of the Eleusian Inn was the former bartender, Amerante. He stared up at Ratbyrne with empty, iris-less eyes.

************************************

"The Paxmusicalis and Berceuse are going to end soon, and that icewall's dripping. It's not going to hold them much longer."

Ratbyrne fingered his mandolin anxiously. It was turning out to be a rather strange day. First his rapier had been squirting tea, then the piano was full of it, and now, he and a select few Eleusians were trying to defend themselves from the danger that lurked behind from a pair of...

"Tea-zombies," said Crispin scathingly. "Tea-zombies! It sounds pathetically ludicrous."

Miri the Tea Mistress of Eleusis trundled into the room carrying a tray of cups and a teapot. "You boys must be tired after all your zombie fighting," she beamed cheerfully. "So here you are, tea for everyone. None of this new-fangled hi-tech tea either. I told Lord Lupus myself that it wouldn't do! Good, home-grown tea."

How she could be so sickeningly delightful in a crisis was a mystery. But they all poured themselves a cup, toasted the Logos and downed it in one. All Ratbyrne could think of was Scleia. He should not have left her by herself. The telepathic channels were all down, and there was a sense of emptiness deep within him. Even his carapace had stopped paining him. He clicked thoughtfully in the back of his throat.

"Hashan. All dead. Ashtan. All dead. Mhaldor. All dead. Cyrene. All dead. Shallam. All dead," declared Rocco, smoking his pipe furiously. He was exceptionally pale, and shaking terribly from crown to toe. Miri went over to him and gave the poor Sentinel a motherly cuddle.

"Dearie me, you fret too much, young Master Rocco!" she soothed, stroking his head.

"Got any other ideas, Mistress Miri?" he asked, tears rolling down his face. "We're going to die. The creature's probably destroyed most of the Ithmia now. Those two *things* downstairs are going to break through. The Divine aren't doing anything. The only thing I can do now is either become one of them... or take my own life."

There was a sharp 'thunk' as Miri slapped him across the face.

"Now, I don't want to hear any more lip from you, young Master Rocco. We're going to get through this, you hear me? We're all going to get out."

There was a cracking noise from the trapdoor entrance. Everybody turned to look at it.

"Here they come," said Ratbyrne, pulling out his rapier, not that it would do any good, and getting his mandolin ready. Crispin flailed his quarterstaff, summoning a defensive sphere around him. Nodding to the Druid, Rocco pulled out an axe and took his hunter's spear in his other hand. Shimmering images of the most fantastic beasts ever known to Achaea landed upon them, glowing brightly. They had morphed with the spirit of the fabled Wyvern.

With a noisy slop, the ice broke, and the two minions climbed over the top, hissing animalistically. Rocco took a deep breath and launched himself at his former Guildmate. A gigantic gash spewed tea from Flavel's torso as Rocco mauled right into it. Crispin swung his quarterstaff fast and low, generating a colossal gust of wind that knocked them to the ground, and countered back by puncturing Amerante's left foot, impaling it to the ground.

Though it seemed impressive, the two minions tore away from their attackers and leapt right at them. Amerante grabbed Crispin's quarterstaff and broke it into two pieces, before grabbing the Druid by the cloak and proceeded to rip it to shreds. Flavel had managed to climb on to Rocco's back, unsteadying the Sentinel, but had also caught hold of Ratbyrne's antennae, confusing the Horkval all over.

"Crispy!" yelped Rocco in despair, trying to reach out for his spear. "Unify your grove here!"

"I cannot!" was the answer. "I need a forest! And it's Crispin, Rocco, not Crispy!"

"My mandolin!" cried Ratbyrne, watching as Flavel snatched it from his hands and tossed it out of the window. "Can't you do that fire thing, either of you?"

"We'll all die!" Rocco shouted, trying to throw Flavel from his back. "It's too much of a risk!"

"Risk it! I'm past caring!"

Summoning up the burning white flame within him, the Wyvern spirit guided Rocco in the way of fire. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

There was a loud splash, two shrieks, and a painful crash. The Sentinel opened his eyes, and beheld a beautiful sight.

"You've been busy then?" smiled Scleia, dropping the bucket of milk on the floor. A prismatic shaft vanished behind her. She stepped over the definitely deceased Flavel and Amerante to the Horkval, now lying down upon the ground.

Ratbyrne rolled over and squinted into the beaming face of his Sireni friend. "Scleia!" he gasped, pulling her down and hugging her tightly. "Ow," he winced. His carapace had started hurting again.

"What was that?" said Crispin, looking dazed and confused as he peeled himself off the ground. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend," Scleia said, standing up again. "But I can't talk much. Tu'enim's coming..."

"Tu-what?" asked Rocco in confusion, before belching rather loudly. "Sorry," he added apologetically.

"Tu'enim. It's a mutated bug that's fallen through the Weaving. It wants to destroy Achaea and repopulate it with its children. And it wanted me to mate with."

The three men looked at her in disbelief.

"What? Am I not worth it?" she said, pouting in derision. "Anyway. It kidnapped me when you ran off, Rat, and it's it that's causing all the tea problems. But it's not infallible." She picked up the bucket again, and pointed to its contents.

"Of course!" a voice behind them said. It was Miri. "Milk! Too much milk ruins the tea! Especially if it's herbal!"

"Mistress Miri," replied the Siren, "bring out all the milk you've got! We've got a cup of tea to break..."

************************************

The bodies of Flavel Presanette and Amerante the bartender, after it was ascertained that they were definitely deceased; joined the choir invisible of the Chrysalis Basilica; pushed up the ginseng roots; snuffed it, had been removed from the Inn and with all the care of a unloving mother, dumped outside. Ratbyrne had taken great pains in pushing both of them out of the window, where they landed with a disturbing crunch of skulls upon hard ground.

Inside the Inn, pails of cold Eleusian milk were being pushed into the middle of the tea room. Scleia was overseeing the proceedings, and frowning as the final mug of milk was poured in. Sitting down, it was now Crispin who was furiously smoking his slippery elm pipe. His large estate in the Western Ithmia, Rustavon Park, was most likely destroyed. He had an empty feeling inside him, touching his heart. The unseen bond that he had with his grove in the gardens of Rustavon had been severed.

Slumped in a chair was the Sentinel Rocco, utterly exhausted. The effect of bonding with the animal spirits had left his body drained physically. Nobody could imagine what was going through his mind, as the sole person who used deathsight to estimate the amount of time left until they died. Nobody could imagine the suffering that had passed his eyes. The blood had drained from his usually rosy Tsol'aa cheeks. His head rolled from left to right, as if some inner daemon was tormenting him.

"That's not going to be enough," frowned Scleia, shaking her chestnut-haired head. "Is this definitely all the milk?"

"Well, that's all the stock we've got here," answered Miri. "The goats are in the Eleusian Fields and I'm not volunteering to go out there."

"What about the cows?" the Siren asked.

"Same as the goats."

Scleia threw her head back and let out a rip-roaring scream of anger. Her attractive faded green eyes seemed to blaze all the colours of the sea.

"WHERE IS MY GOD NOW?" she bellowed. Suddenly, she staggered backwards and grabbed hold of a nearby table to steady herself.

There was a strange, cold sensation, a whip of wind, and the feeling of cold sea air upon cheeks lashed through the air. Through the waves stepped a curiously blue, humanoid creature, wielding a trident in one hand, and leading what looked like a bovine character with a rope with his other hand.

"With Lord Neraeos' regards, Scleia," the creature nodded, before vanishing.

A demure 'moooooo' suddenly resounded in everyone's ears.

************************************

Tu'enim swallowed. It was a rather gristly tasting creature, it thought, as the remains of Elias, the Eleusian Gatekeeper entered its digestive system. By this point, the monstrosity had grown so bloated, so disgustingly fat that certain famous weighty Achaean personages would not even scratch the surface of this putrid being.

"Hello, Eleusis!" it yelled. With a great lurch, it vomited a volley of tea at the nearest tree, causing it to burst into flame at the heat. "Bye bye, Eleusis!"

It had not noticed the tiny dot, almost invisible in the sky, gliding along the air currents, biding its time.

"I think I'll have a nice stroll down your shops. I'm feeling rather peckish. Not many people around though..." Tu'enim added, trundling itself around. "Except for in the Inn..."

Scleia wriggled about, trying to get a better view. "Thirty seconds, then we go," she whispered in Crispin's ear.

"Yes, yes, but this wind is messing up my manicure."

"Rat, have you got yours ready?"

"Rocco and I are all go, but Rocco's really tired... it's now or never," the Horkval Bard sighed, hanging on for dear life in the Sentinel's shaking talons.

"All go for what, my dear Siren?" a voice from below asked, almost honestly.

Scleia muttered a curse word to herself that made Crispin lose his balance in the air.

"So you escaped my little pet, bravo! But what a shame that it had to come to this..." the Minuet Bug almost sighed sadly. "Oh well, your deaths shall have honour of place within my abdomen."

"You know what, you sack of crow poo?" Scleia screamed, for she had the loudest voice, "Eat this!"

As if the Garden itself had commanded it, there was the sound of rain. Or was it rain? Tu'enim glanced up with three of its eyes.

"What, you're going to wash me to death? Oh, please(!)"

Creamy white droplets slammed down in a torrent on top of the monstrosity. An oily gurgle sounded from within its digestive system, before it glanced down in surprise. A white, pus-filled bubo had formed upon its lower sucker piece. And another on a tentacle. One under its third eye. The creature let out an earth-wrenching squeal, falling to the ground in pain as the droplets tumbled down upon it like snow.

YOU LITTLE WITCH! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" cried Tu'enim in pain, writhing about on the ground, trying to rid itself of the pustules appearing on its body. "THIS CANNOT BE!"

"Oh yeah?" shrieked the Siren from up above. "Consider yourself fixed, bug!"

"YOU... WILL... REGRET..."

There was a short pause, followed by a massive, wet explosion. As the fragments flew up into the air, Crispin and Rocco flapped their wings to try and dodge them, but without any warning, a massive ripple of energy shot through their bodies. The sky turned blood red, the clouds raging black, and the wind had picked up. Soon enough, there was a tornado rushing through the air, almost intolerable for Crispin and Rocco to control their flight paths in as they ducked and weaved to find a safe place to end.

"WHAT'S HAPPENING?" shouted Crispin, his hair blowing up so it looked as if it was being pulled at one end.

Suddenly, a dripping, bloody tentacle stabbed into the air and wrapped itself around one of Ratbyrne's legs. Rocco noticed this and tried to fly away, but was pulled down by the force of the tentacle and pulled toward the tornado centre as the forces of nature attempted to tear them apart.

"SCLEIA!" wailed Ratbyrne, as he was pushed out of Rocco's talons. "SCLEIA!"

All the Siren could do was watch as the flailing Horkval fell to earth, his carapace smashing into pieces as he struck the ground, burning into ashes as Eleusis bowed to the Minuet Bug's final dance.

In the Garden, an ebon-faced Goddess sighed, and the flames were blown out. If one looked closely, perhaps they could divine the tiniest of tears inside Her eyes.

************************************

The Celani pushed the doorbell of the entrance to the Weaver's inner sanctum.

"Come in," a voice called from within. The doors swung upon as they had done before, and the Celani slid inside. In his hands he had a stone mug of tea.

The inner sanctum was considerably more tidy than it was before. All the boxes had been unpacked and contents placed in suitable places. For once, the Celani could see the floor. He had not missed much. It was a cold, pallid marble white tiling. Rather demure.

"I brought You some tea, Lord Clementius," the Celani said, kneeling down respectfully at the Weaver's diamond-encrusted throne and proffering the stone mug. "I hope Your holiday was good."

"Just the Celani I wanted to see," the Weaver said, taking the mug and putting it aside. "My holiday was good, thank you. Interesting antics up at this casino place. I'll have to pass the portraits around. But to business. I've been having a chat with the Logos, and some of the other Gods, and I've decided, and it's been agreed, that tea is going to be banned from the Garden. Milky tea, anyway."

It was a little-known fact that the Weaver preferred green tea anyway.

"That is good news, my Lord."

"It has also decided that We don't want something like this to happen again. You neglected to report to anybody about the accident with the spillage upon the Weaving. I hope you know the consequences of your folly. Achaea has almost been destroyed irreversibly. There are very few survivors. Thankfully, the intelligence of a certain few mortals saved the day. Again." He added, under his breath so the Celani could not hear Him, "Bloody upstarts."

The Weaver stood up and turned to the magnificent creation that lay before Him, still unfinished upon its loom. It had been moved back from the Goddess of Destruction's chambers.

"Therefore, We have decided to enact a just punishment. Lathis checked the books and this is the best punishment we can give in this issue."

"But, Lord Cle..."

"NO BUTS!" Clementius' voice reverberated all through the sanctum. "Your punishment is that you shall be eradicated..."

"My Lord!"

"...henceforth as a Celani, and you shall return to the mortal realms from whence you came."

The Celani fell face down at the Weaver's feet. "The Gods are just and compassionate."

Clementius smiled wryly. "No, We aren't," He said, turning around. "You just got lucky."

The Celani's body started to glow a blinding white. The light seemed to come from within him. Cracks started to appear all over his skin, the light seeping out in all different colours. The entire room seemed to rumble as the brightness burst through the Celani in a flare of divinity. Then all was dim.

The Weaver took up his shuttle, ready to start adding some more to the fabric of creation. But a piece of sudden inspiration took hold of Him. He put the shuttle down, and instead, pulled out a gargantuan pair of scissors.

"Almost irreversible," He murmured.

He put the scissors around the Weaving, and pushed the handles down.

************************************

"Hello, Ratbyrne, going for a good killing session?"

"I'm a Bard. The words 'killing' and 'Bard' just don't go together well."

Ratbyrne dropped his rapier and mandolin on the table and flopped down in one of the chairs of the Bards' Guild Common Room. His usually pristine white shirt was marked with a darkish red-brown substance.

"You've got red on you."

He glanced down. "Rats."

"It's not that bad."

"No, no, I mean, 'rats'. I was killing rats earlier."

His companion nodded in earnest. Ratbyrne examined the stains carefully. "You see this one, Scleia? That was a nasty young rat that I had the pleasure of duelling on the south side of Hashan. And this - this used to be the heinous Old Rat of Cyrene. And I've not managed to get that piano sonata out of waltz time. It's really bugging m..." He trailed off, shaking his insectoid head.

Scleia shrugged, pulling on a pair of four-inch stiletto heels. "Fair enough. I know how you feel. Some bloke in the Crystal Leaf tried to chat me up so I punched him. Fat lot of good my rapier did. Kept missing the bastard. This might interest you though."

She pushed over a piece of paper. A hollow clicking sound of curiosity emanated from within his thorax as he took the paper.

"Before you say it's a joke..." she spoke slowly.

"How did you know I was going to say it was a joke?"

The Siren looked at him weirdly. "I don't know. You weren't, were you?"

Ratbyrne appeared to be stuck in a shroud of confusion. "I thought I was, but I... oh, I don't know. But it's finally happening, Scleia! Something's finally hap... pened..." He trailed off again. The words did not feel right. Even as he said them, he got the feeling that they were not his words to say.

"Minuet's fixed! Isn't that great news?" Scleia stood up and tested the heels, plodding about the chairs.

"Not really," shrugged Ratbyrne. "Doesn't really do much for the killing side. I'd have better luck killing things with a cup of tea." He tossed the paper away. "Maybe that piano sonata sounds better in waltz time. That's something I do know. We might not be all that good at fighting but we know what a good piece of music sounds like."

Scleia walked over and ruffled his antennae. "You old romantic, you," she beamed, patting him on his carapace. "Tell you what, I'm just about to get my rapier song-blessed... would you, well, that's if you want to..." A rosy blush was forming on her pristine cheeks. "Would you like to come?"

Ratbyrne winced. His carapace was aching a little. "Oh, I don't know, Scleia, my carapace is all achy..."

"If you pop off to the dormitory I'll give it a massage?"

The Horkval turned around in shock. "That's very out of character, Scleia?" he said, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Two friends, going to get a rapier song-blessed. I'm just scratching your back for scratching mine." Scleia took his hand in hers, and started leading him away from the common room.

"Two friends." Ratbyrne smiled. It was turning out to be a good day after all.