The Unwoven Horrors - Part 1

By: Xaviere Posted on: May 27, 2005

The Celani swept past the row of shrubberies, his robes gliding about his feet. It was a fairly late time of day, but the day never stopped in the Garden of the Gods, and work never ceased, not even for one break.

He stumbled past a cage containing the great Topaz Sphinx (now that Landmarking had desisted, the poor creature had got so confused it had tried to change colour to both at the same time and was now stuck as a rather interesting shade of purple). It was sound asleep presently, but to the trained ear, could have been heard to mumble the words "My hound hath no nose. How does he smell?" over and over again. Other pieces of a time before were also scattered around, including 'The Occultist's Guide to Necromancy', Teneb's favourite spoon and a snow globe containing Hashan before it was destroyed, complete with people wandering the streets looking for munchies. This was truly a place of history.

As the Celani entered the outer sanctum of He who is known to us mere mortals as 'The Weaver', he took a moment to take a breath at the tumult within. He was a new Celani, not used to the vastness of Divinity that he had been exposed to. In fact, the room he was in was so positively, incredibly, *inimitably* indescribable that it was impossible to render coherent to mortal senses.

This was other than the fact that it "looked quite nice".

At the far end of the extensive room was a door, skirted by a doorframe of pure crystal. It was particularly hefty-looking, created by the Divine Smith and designed either as a method of keeping people out, or keeping whoever was in the next room inside. To the right of the door was a doorbell. The Celani peered at the brass plaque underneath. It read:

-------------------------------------------------------------------

CLEMENTIUS, THE WEAVER

NO WEDDINGS
NO PRIVATE MEETINGS
NO ORDER
BUGS EXTERMINATED
IDIOTS SLAIN
IDEAS CONSIDERED
MARKET CHANNEL OBSERVED
NO TIMEWASTERS
WHETHER I AM HERE OR NOT IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS

"L'CHAIM!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Deciding that his task was quite within the guidelines set out upon the plaque, the Celani pushed the doorbell. A faint clashing of bells could be heard from within, finally dissipating into mute silence. Nothing happened, but the Celani could feel something trying to open a window into his true intentions. A peculiar cold sensation, like freezing water down the back of your shirt. But then, the door, as if an unseen hand was pushing it, slid open without as much as a mutter. The Celani swept inside.

"Lord Clementius? Are You there, my Lord?" The voice of the Celani echoed calmly in the emptiness of space. The inner sanctum of the Weaver was serene and tranquil - no dissonance could ruin the sweetness of the world within.

"I've brought You some tea, my Lord, in a stone mug, just how You like it. How are things getting on with the Re-Weave?

There was no reply. He must be busy, the Celani thought. It was well known that the Weaver was a very busy Deity, as anybody could see that from how long it took one of the Smith's apprentices to gild the plaque on the wall outside. But it was the end of the Divine day, and this was the Celani's final task before dropping off for the night shift. He had time to wait for a while. After all, time to immortals was irrelevant in the long run.

The inner sanctum was full of boxes. Boxes of terror, boxes of goodness, even boxes of kitchen utensils that had never managed to get unpacked when the Weaver moved in. The Celani picked up a small box that resembled the Lady Pandora's own personal one, then replaced it carefully on top of another containing the feared Shimite, stuck in its own personal bubble of time. He could not wait until he got his own office, the Day of Reckoning when he would be promoted to sit with the Others, and mortals would rejoice and cry hosannas to his name. But that was a long way from now.

It was getting quite late now. The night shift Celani had already started their tasks, but this one was eager to finish his job. The mug of tea, never getting cold, for it was Divine, was still in the Celani's hand. The other ruffled through the Weaver's personal possessions as he moved forward to search for His Desk. A bright shiny pyramid of unknown properties had somehow caught the Celani's eye. It was about the size of a small fox, seeming to emanate rainbow coloured light from some unknown orifice as he picked it up and turned it over. Another strange creation of the Divine, he thought, putting it down, but not before letting out a short sharp gasp at the wonder before him.

In front of him screamed a colossal tapestry, set upon an endless frame that rose infinitely into the ceiling above and stretched eternally down the room. It shimmered incongruously with iridescent rays that would flare then fade in brilliant reds, glorious greens, and dull, throbbing oranges. The subjects within were almost indiscernible, but the Celani could just make out the Weaving, the heart and soul of the World Below that was Achaea. There was a loose thread at the end, indicating that it was still unfinished. Through all the warps and wefts, there was a world. It could only be described as magnificent.

By the loose end was the famed diamond-encrusted throne of the Weaver. No other had managed to take His Place, and woe be to the one to attempt to do that! But when there is nobody to see, and you have the chance, then why not? It was only a throne, after all, and what better way to help the Weaver than to keep it warm for Him until His return? It was actually cold, and it seemed that nobody had sat in it for a while. Perhaps the Weaver was not at home this day. The Celani strolled around to admire the upholstery, each diamond-studded notch carefully crafted to reflect life from all facets. From one angle, one could see the Path of the Good Soul, as often dreamed about in the Halls of Sarapis, bright and beaming. Another angle saw the Way of the Evil Creature, in colours that were too hideous and clashing for the mortal mind to comprehend. So enraptured by the piece of furniture in front of him, and seeing that nobody was around, the Celani tentatively sat in it. An icy sensation spread through his essence. This was rather uncomfortable, so he stood up. There was a small note pasted to the seat which had not been noticed before, presumably the cause of the coldness, and written in neat, methodical joined-up handwriting was a message:

Gone to a different planet with the Logos.

For some reason They think I work too hard.

I didn't get enough time to post about the latest Weave, could somebody do that whilst I'm gone? It's attached behind this note.

Thanks,

Clementius (not Clem, Clemmy, My Darling Clementine, or "Clem Baby!")

The Celani squinted into the chiaroscuro of the Weaving in front of him. The Re-Weave did not seem to be too heavy, just some fiddling around with the Bards and tweaking of noses elsewhere. He could do that, nothing too difficult to sort out. A black dot of a bug to remove. And perhaps They would give him a pat on the back. Eagerly he reached forth to study it further.

The mug of tea flew out of his hand as he tripped. The rainbow pyramid had served its purpose. He cried out in vain to catch it, but the contents slipped out and crashed into the Weaving. There was a shudder, like a slight trembling, and then nothing. The tea steamed and soaked into the threads, and the Celani could only watch as it started to bubble viciously. A high-pitched wail sprang up from the loom, almost like an animal in the deepest pain.

He tried in vain to wipe the tea away from the Weaving with the hem of his robes, but the bubbles sank into the thread, leaving a gruesome tea-stained splash mark which faded from view. The Weaving was so bright, so glorious, that nobody could notice, could They? He snatched the post with the Re-Weave upon it and scampered from the room.

Some time later, a blinding ripple of energy snapped out from the Weaving and shot through out the door.

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

"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 me."

The rat business, of course, was rubbish. It was his own blood. Three of the buggers not only managed to take him down, but also stole his money bag and bought a rather nice hat to use as a parasol from Ashtan Central Market. Three *baby* rats too. It was truly pathetic. Scleia immediately saw through his attempt to increase his self-confidence, but had not the heart to smack him down. As a fellow Bard, she was also in the same boat, which had so many holes in it you could market it as a new-fangled cheese from the Chaos Plane.

"This might interest you though," she soothed, pushing over a piece of paper. Ratbyrne had taken to tuning his mandolin so each string played the same note out of pure boredom. His carapace had been peeling off in flakes for some time and no amount of restoration salve application would revive his hard exoskeleton. He was a battered-looking Horkval, with his antennae flopping down over a pair of sable multi-faceted eyes. It was hard to believe that Ratbyrne had seen better days. A hollow clicking sound of curiosity emanated from within his thorax as he took the paper.

"This has to be a joke."

"No joke! It's finally happening, Rat! Something's finally happened!"

"'Doublejab and triplejab damage have been increased considerably.'" He tossed the paper on to the table. "Sounds too good to be true if you ask me." He took the paper again and squinted at the words. "Hmmmmm." He started making thoughtful clicking noises. "Anybody tested it?"

Scleia shook her tawny-haired head. "I haven't been to song-bless my rapier at the Grotto yet. You should go! Take a trip to the Goblin Village in the Dakhota Hills and smack them up a bit. Go wild! Who knows, you might even manage to *hit* one of them!" Her laugh was tinkling, almost chime-like.

Ratbyrne made an attempt to stand up dramatically, in the style of the old Seleucarian warriors of yore. Unfortunately, there was a loud *crack* as another layer of his carapace started to flake off. A flash of hope shot over his eyes as he looked at his Siren companion.

"No, I'm not giving you a massage," she frowned.

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

If a vermin-infested city such as Ashtan is a tourist's idea of a place that needs a good seeing-to, then the Goblin Village should have been destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed, planning permission for a new village denied, the denial signed in triplicate, sent back, overruled, and instead of a new village, a casino set up instead. It was crude, smelly and stank of decomposing corpses that had used fish-based perfumes in their heyday. This was why the goblins lived here - it was putrid and they loved it.

In his teenage years, Ratbyrne had worn the habit of a Mojushai Monk and took pleasure in sending these inglorious bastards back and forth from the Halls of Sarapis. As a Bard, the goblins had first screamed profanities at him the first time he arrived, mandolin in hand. But this quickly turned to laughter as they, and much to Ratbyrne's indignation, discovered that he was about as effective as an acupuncturist who had lost their needles, but could find their marbles without too much trouble. He could take their blows easily, there was no doubt about that, but actually hurting them, actually *physically* doing harm to them - that was another story.

All geared up for a good thrashing, Ratbyrne leapt past a stone wall that was blocking the entrance to the village and squinted into it. There were a few goblins sitting around in the village centre, eating the mud and having baths in the puddles. He would have to get past the guards first. There was usually a cluster of them perched on the fence, but today, there was just one.

And the creature was filthy.

Grey pus oozed out of the crusty ulcerated skin of the goblin. The remaining yellowed and increasingly blackened teeth had what appeared to be a decaying reed from the nearby Pachacacha clenched between them. All femininity that this goblin previously owned, if she had at all, was lost beneath the insane leer, the string of rancid saliva that dangled from the lower lip, and a rather interesting set of varicose veins that were an exact replica of the third page of the Holy Codex written backwards. She had a large gangrenous slash across one cheek, burning red darkening into decay and white necrosis occurring around the edges.

That was good, thought Ratbyrne, his knuckles paling as he squeezed the neck of his mandolin. She was wounded. Surely even a Bard could defeat her. But his mind flashed back to the time he found himself running for his life from a one-legged dryad with a scar across one eye and a hook for a hand. Never take things for granted.

Pretending to be a passing minstrel, Ratbyrne took his mandolin in his arms and started plucking the strings, then remembered he had tuned all the strings to the same note. A sheepish grin, some warping of notes later, he tried again, stroking the repeating bass notes that made a Continuo. He could feel the his spirits rise slightly as the music engulfed his spirit. The goblin merely scowled at him and started eating the remnants of her fingernails.

A carousing Wassail, a bellowing Anthem of Ulangi and a triumphant Hallelujah to the Divine later, and Ratbyrne was ready to see how much damage a Bard could do to a wounded, decaying piece of goblin.

"Oi!" he shouted at the goblin. She turned her head to look at him. The bones cracked in her neck. "You! Yes, goblin! Come over 'ere, you..." He paused to think of a suitable insult. "...you snotty-faced heap of crow poo!"

Despite all her wounds, the goblin let out an ear-piercing scream that would have made Ratbyrne's hearing organs implode, if it was not for the fact they were down where his knees were. Hobbling down from the fence, she began to struggle toward the Horkvali Bard, dragging her feet along the marshy ground. Ratbyrne held his rapier out, concentrating, tensing his muscles. He could feel his carapace warping slightly as he channelled all his physical and mental strength to prepare for the battle.

Without warning, the goblin screeched again, and starting running full pelt at him, whipping out her shortsword. She had called his bluff, and now he would regret it.

"Oh, bollocks!" gasped Ratbyrne as the goblin lunged forward at breakneck speed. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the inevitable.

The air around him rippled as the shortsword pierced through into nothingness, except for a wholly inappropriate fanfare from a bugle as the goblin's lunge struck the middle phrase of the Anthem. She stood there, surprised and confused. Ratbyrne was relieved. The goblin wiggled the shortsword in bafflement. She was holding it by the hilt, but the blade seemed to have vanished into a different dimension.

The energy that Ratbyrne had been conserving had tensed his muscles so much that he was certain that his carapace would fall off if he did not act now. With all the strength he could carry, closing his eyes, he pushed forward and lashed out at the goblin thrice in quick succession.

There was a strange gasp, and a gurgle.

"The Acupuncturist strikes aga..." Ratbyrne opened his eyes, expecting a corpse. Now it was his turn to be surprised.

The goblin staggered back, holding her shortsword. There was a strange, darkish stain covering her armour, and no sign of any pierce marks from the triplejab.

"Ya... ya squirted me!" she gasped, half in dismay, half in anger.

Ratbyrne took his rapier and peered at it. A peculiar brown liquid trickled down the blade from the tip. He touched it with his antennae. It was hot. He staggered backwards before running away. He was used to running away. At this moment, he did not know quite what he was supposed to be running from. It just seemed the way to go.

"Too bloody right!" the goblin exclaimed, trying to wipe the substance off. "What are ya, a Jester? Tryin' to make fun of us? Makin' out that you're a Bard when you know we dun like that crap? Get out! Bloody beatniks!" She hobbled back into the village, muttering and cursing to herself in the strange, phlegm-stricken goblin tongue.

Ratbyrne had rushed back to the Bards' Guildhall, only to find that Scleia had gone to Hashan on her way to song-bless her rapier. What was wrong? As he navigated himself through the streets of Cyrene he had spotted a rat hissing viciously at him. First instinct was to kill the infidel rodent and send its body to the caretaker who lived in the courthouse. But the moment he reached out to strike it, a jet of brown fluid shot out from the tip and struck it square in the whiskers. It had squealed, its flea-bitten fur soaked, and not impressed. There was a great deal of gratuitous swearing at Ratbyrne before skittering away. Ratbyrne himself had legged it to safety in the auditorium. He had no idea why. He was not on the verge of death. He would have usually run in the event of death, but this was just wrong. Everything seemed wrong.

The next avenue to walk down, in Ratbyrne's opinion, was to seek out the person who had forged the rapier. It must have been an augmentation malfunction, or an envenoming problem. Something logical, that could be solved easily with the right amount of patience and a large enough bank balance.

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

Hammersmith the Dwarf was perched upon his anvil, pounding away hard at a lump of red-hot iron. His forge was situated in a cave somewhere in the far reaches of the Vashnars, far away from the urban commotion within cities like Ashtan or Shallam. Excellent working conditions for those who only live for their work, and Hammersmith's business was in the armour and weapons trade. As the firm arm rang down upon the lump of metal, he was creating a work of art. The dragon-headed hilt of a broadsword, the notches in a set of fullplate armour, he was the purveyor of perfection for the combat classes.

When Ratbyrne entered his forge, a chamber of swirling smoke and smelted iron, the Dwarf did not immediately register his presence.

"Hello?" Ratbyrne called, edging into the cave. "I'm looking for Hammersmith, the Forger?"

The faint 'clang', 'clang', 'clang' of two metal objects being banged together could be heard faintly.

"I'm here about a rapier? I'm..."

"You are Ratbyrne K'xiron, who came ten months ago looking to purchase a fine rapier to indulge in your swashbuckling ways. You are a Bard, aged fifty-nine, birthday on the 5th of Miramar, and in the throes of extreme excitement you have this disconcerting tendency to shed your exoskeleton in front of women at the most inappropriate moment of intimacy."

Ratbyrne was taken aback at this. "How did you know that?"

"Market research." Hammersmith waddled out into the open. He was a squat fellow, with a musty iron-flaked beard plaited in two. Each plait had been flicked over each shoulder. Sweat polished his ruddy countenance, and charcoal smudges appeared to decorate his face in an almost tribal fashion. A rough cloth peeked out from the pocket on the front of his leather apron, as well as other tools used in forging.

"I am Hammersmith," he introduced himself, holding out a greasy hand. Ratbyrne bent down and shook it for the briefest of moments. "Forging since 197 AF. Now, you come, Ratbyrne K'xiron, enquiring about a rapier. And yet you acquired one from myself but only ten months ago. Why is that?"

One swift flick of the wrist and the Horkval had drawn the implement out of its scabbard and handed it to Hammersmith. The Dwarf pulled out a pair of spectacles, sat down on a footstool and examined it with all the care and passion of a doctor who adored their vocation. With a finger he tested the spring of the blade. It was firm, but not so stiff as to be brittle. Holding it by the hilt, he thrust it towards a plank of hazelwood leaning on the opposite wall. The rapier flew out of his hand and landed in the wood with a loud 'thunk'. It vibrated for some time. Hammersmith stood up and wrenched it out with a single pull before handing it to Ratbyrne.

"My initial probing of the weapon suggests that there is no problem, Ratbyrne K'xiron," spoke the Dwarf, rubbing his spectacles with a rag. "It has a nice spring, light, speedy, finds its mark, and judging from its damage..." and he looked at the hazelwood, which was now cleaved in two, "...it will do some."

"But Mr Hammersmith, it's started playing up." Ratbyrne tried to think of the best way to describe what had happened. "Instead of actually hitting things, it sort of... well, I'll show you."

The Horkval tensed his muscles, but not as much as when he was battling the goblin guard earlier. With a cry of relief he lunged forward at a semi-armoured mannequin in the corner, intending to jab it twice in succession.

"I see," said Hammersmith, one eyebrow raised as a fountain of brown sprayed out from the rapier tip. He took the rapier from the Bard and slashed at the mannequin. The armour sloughed off it, causing a noisy clamour to reverberate about the cavern. "Tell me, Ratbyrne K'xiron, have you had this augmented?"

Ratbyrne waved his antennae and clicked once to indicate that this was not the case.

"Envenomed?"

"No."

Hammersmith offered the hilt of the rapier to the Bard, who took it and sheathed it carefully. "It seems, my dear Bard, that your rapier has been affected by some sort of specific affliction that I cannot solve at this moment. But, I would hazard a guess that from our experimentation apropos to this moment, that this phenomena seems to only affect yourself. I, as a forger, have not experienced this. Therefore, I can only suggest that you seek out your fellows and find out if this is the case. Good day."

With a short bow, the Dwarf vanished into the smoke of his forge. The clanging sound started up again, and Ratbyrne knew this was the polite way of being told that his appointment with the venerable Hammersmith had concluded.

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

Returning to the Guildhall, Ratbyrne was determined to find the cause of his weaponry malfunction. Perhaps there was a bug in the Weaving. It had happened before. Once, a set of books about fertilising soil from the Sylvan Library had managed to fall out of Chorale harmonics on the moment of crescendo, which certainly raised a few eyebrows.

As the statue of the Great Bard slid open to allow him passage, he could hear what sounded like a rather distressed and highly-strung Siren within.

"Rat! You aren't going to believe this!" Scleia bellowed from one of the dormitories. "Don't come in, I'm changing."

"Changing?" Ratbyrne leapt into the courtyard and through the door into the common room. "You only went out to buy clothes yesterday. Must be a Siren thing."

"I'll take that racist remark as an attempt to raise your own sad confidence, Ratarse," spoke Scleia's voice dryly. "But anyway. I went out to Hashan, and saw this absolutely gorgeous top that I just HAD to have... but anyway. I got my rapier blessed and decided to take a shortcut through the Western Ithmia. Nice day and all that. So, I'm strolling past a load of sycamores and suddenly, this sodding Snake jumps me! Just like that! So, I'm trying to beat him off, giving him what for with the Epic of Nicator's Delight, and suddenly, he's got a rope down and around my neck!"

A surprised clack-click sounded from Ratbyrne's thorax. "He hanged you?"

"The point is, he SHOULD have. But the moment he pulled all this tea came down and we both got completely drenched! Look!"

The door was flung open. Ratbyrne's antennae twitched as the scent of hot, aromatic tea wafted out. Standing in front of him was Scleia. Her shining reddish chestnut hair was completely sodden, most of her tattoos were smudged and the shirt she was wearing was wet and clinging to her. A brown splatter was mixed in with a few spots of blood upon the front.

"This cost me 800 sovereigns!" she scowled, slamming the door shut. A rustle of fabric later, and Scleia had changed her top. She was rubbing her hair violently with a towel as she went to the bar. Sam, the ever-smiling, ever-grinning bartender brought her a strong whiskey which she downed almost immediately.

This seemed the right moment to tell Scleia of all his rapier problems. As expected, she raised her eyebrows, hummed and ah-ed thoughtfully on hearing all the events up to now.

"That's not the thick of it." The Siren pushed forward another sheet of paper. It was another clipping from the Achaean Public News. Ratbyrne scanned the contents. It was not just a Bard thing, as Hammersmith had divined. In Eleusis, there were reports of Sentinels finding their axes turn into sprays of brown fluid as they hurled them toward their targets. Magi in Shallam were finding the spell used to flood rooms with water now flooded rooms with hot tea, with reports of severely-scalded people coming in from all over Sapience. And in a small, as yet undiscovered village in the heart of the Putoran Hills, the inhabitants had found out how to make fire.

"Harps, that's crazy," Ratbyrne said.

"Yeah."

"There's an as yet undiscovered village in the Putoran Hills that only worked out how to bang the rocks together today!"

A whiskey glass narrowly missed the top of Ratbyrne's head. It smashed into the doorframe and the pieces lay scattered over the ground. Sam immediately bounded over the bar in an unexpected show of athleticism with a broom and began to sweep it up.

"Oh, that. Right."

"There's been no word from the Garden yet. Looks like They're probably working on it. In the mean time, all we can do is wait. Maybe we could work on teasing that piano sonata out of waltz time?"

They both sighed. Then Ratbyrne had a flash of inspiration.

"Cup of tea?" the Horkval grinned, holding up his rapier.

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

Makali was livid. Livid in the same way that a cat is livid when he realises that his mate has just run off with the tom next door and taken all the mice. Her dark shadow flooding the way behind Her, the Goddess strode forcefully towards Her private rooms. As a strand of her serpentine black hair knocked against an antique Seleucarian vase that lined the corridor, a faint gust of air blew into the room and shattered the vase. She was not at all happy.

She sat down at Her desk of black obsidian and called, in a infuriated, commanding tone, "Get me a drink!"

A Celani immediately appeared by Her side, holding a shot glass of what appeared to be the fabled Chaos Tequila. She downed it in one gulp and crushed it with a single flick of a finger. The Goddess clenched Her fists, made several sounds of indignation, and thumped the desk. It split in two at Her touch.

"Where is it? WHERE IS IT?" She yelled, standing up and grabbing at the Celani in front of Her. The Celani cringed as she was lifted into the air by the neck of her robes. Makali was a tall, statuesque figure in Her anger, and all the poor thing could do was to point feebly toward an adjoining room.

Paying no attention whatsoever to the welfare of the Celani, Makali dropped her and stalked into the room. It was bare except for one thing lining the far end and the length.

"Lady Makali, Lady Makali," rushed up another Celani. He had a pair of tweezers in one hand and what appeared to be a crochet hook in the other. "We think we might have isolated the bug!"

Makali went up to the Weaving and studied the shimmering fabric carefully. She shook Her dark head in disgust.

"Show me the bug!"

The Celani hastily bowed and pulled out what appeared to be a normal household jam jar. He passed it to the Goddess and She peered at the creature within. It was a skittish, many-legged creature, with a pair of antennae and two bulbous, slimy black eyes. The crimson body was segmented, and along its underside, it seemed to have what looked like sets of suckers running down to the large serrated pincers adorning its rear end. On visualising Makali it made a shrieking, scratching noise, and clawed viciously at the surface that blocked it from touching Her face.

"That's not it, that's just a Calendar Bug," She announced, passing it back to the Celani. "The sort that causes the 25th of Mayan to dawn again and again. Get rid of it."

The Celani tipped the jam jar up into a tall, sooty bin, and the creature slid down a chute, where it landed at the bottom with a dull thump. A distant squealing and scraping could be heard from the recesses.

Makali sighed and flopped down on a chaise-longue that was near to the Weaving. It broke underneath Her, leaving the Goddess with a temporarily sore behind. To save face, She straightened the crown of platinum thorns upon Her head and drew Her knees up to Her body. It was turning out to be a stressful day. The Garden had been infiltrated by messages and prayers from the people below about peculiar goings-on. Spells had been going awry. Weapons had been squirting some unknown substance, and an as yet undiscovered village in the Putoran Hills that had only managed to find out how to make fire recently. Madness.

She had summoned the Weaving from Clementius' inner sanctum and had set a crack squad of Celani to examine the threads. All donning a pair of Gloves of Harvesting, a pair of tweezers and a crochet hook, they nipped and tucked at the Weaving to remove the creepy-crawly critters and disposed of them in Sin's Bin, which the Lady of Sin had kindly loaned out. Work had not ceased, and the Celani were swapped with new Celani to search for this elusive bug. But there had been no advance on what could have caused this curious phenomena. It was, and She hated to say it, a 'destructive force'. Not only was this event irritating the bandersnatches out of Above and Below, but whatever it was, it was showing Her up as the Goddess of Destruction. A frown found its way on to Her ebon face.

Suddenly, a Celani rushed up to Malaki. "I'm sorry, my Lady, but I couldn't stop Her from comi..."

"MAKALI!" screamed a throaty female voice. It sounded very incensed. "WHERE ARE YOU?"

The room seemed to drop in temperature, and the light appeared to have hidden itself from view as the leather-robed figure hove into view. Makali nodded in recognition, though not fazed by the entrance of Her fellow Deity.

"Morning, Keresis," the Goddess of Destruction beamed. "Everything fine?" She added dryly.

"No, everything is NOT BLOODY FINE!" cried the Goddess of Vengeance. "This is Your doing!"

"What is My doing, precisely?" Makali smiled. It was a sarcastic smile injected with a hint of irony.

The flames burned bright rouge within Keresis' pale eyes. "I'll tell You 'precisely' what." Each word was spat out like the flickering tongue of an eyelash viper. She pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the Goddess.

"Today, this idiot Paladin decided to make a house call by defiling some of my shrines. And You know what he defiled them with?"

Makali shook Her head slowly in derision.

"Mushroom men. Mushroom men! Honestly! So, he ran up to the nearest ram's horn and shouted out that he'd wounded Me. I decided to nail the bastard right in the... well. I got My energies together, and I zapped the bastard!"

"Sounds pretty normal, Keresis."

"I shot the bastard with tea!"

This was the point where Makali got slightly worried.

"Tea! I don't even like tea! So I shot him again. And again. And again. I had to drown the bastard in a load of jasmine before I got what I wanted." She looked at the Goddess of Destruction, who had got up and was peering at a section of the Weaving. The Goddess of Vengeance moved to Her side.

"It's not You, is it?"

Makali shook Her head again. "Something's wrong in the Weaving. It's damaged somewhere. And it's a bastard to locate. I can't work out what's wrong. And the Logos has taken the Weaver off to a different planet. Somewhere with loads of casinos." She breathed out in exasperation, and the air became a tinge warmer.

"Call the Editor!" she pointed to a Celani. "I think I need to write an article about this. Something ambiguous that doesn't sound like something massive is wrong. Keep the little buggers on their toes. Get him here as soon as possible!" She picked at the Weaving with a clean nail.

Behind Them, a sound of waterfalls and babbling brooks could be heard. The two Goddesses slowly turned around to see a glistening, topless young man. He was wearing a demure white towel, and seemed to be doused in some unknown liquid. It was the God of the Sea in all His Divine glory. The scent of tea wafted through the room from His steaming skin.

"I think there's a problem with My bath," Neraeos replied. "I don't suppose You Ladies could have a look at My pipes?"

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

The local newspaper of Ashtan, the Bastion Bugle, was completely sold out. Lucca had made a modest amount of gold, as well as a few bruises as the populace clamoured to find out what in the Logos' name was going on.

The front page was fairly explanatory.

SOMETHING MIGHT-TEA FRIGHTENING by Epicurus, Master of the Garden

Achaea has been brought to a standstill by an unexplainable disaster. All over the continent and the surrounding isles, people have been stricken by a curious affliction that is affecting their normal bodily functions. It has surfaced that 'TEA', also known as a simple beverage taken in a cup or mug, has forced a mass pilgrimage of Achaeans to their local temples to beseech their Divine Patrons to save them from this terrible plague.

There have been reports flooding in, literally, of people finding that their weaponry has been ejaculating a dark fluid, tattoos fading to brown on touching, with people who use starburst tattoos finding themselves re-animated in a deluge of warm Eleusian mint tea. It has also surfaced that some people have been discovered to have not been bleeding blood, but a rather nice variation of rose petal tea. All major city states have declared a state of emergency, and immigrants are streaming in from the nearby villages to find refuge from this horrific disaster. It has been rumoured that the Vampire Lord Zsarachnor and the Vampiress Belladona have sought solace in the Tundra to flee from this seemingly solution-less situation.

City-leaders all over Sapience have launched verbal attacks upon their opposites. The Tyrannus of Mhaldor has called it a 'conspiracy by Shallam' to bring the whole world down upon its knees and obliterate the Lord of Evil's isle from the map, whereas the Overseer of Ashtan has called it 'a political farce'. The Speaker of Eleusis, in conjunction with the Council of Oakstone, has announced rationing of herbs and elixirs until a cure has been found, and Hashan, as usual, has done 'bugger all'. Reports of sightings of a large, weighty anamorphous creature about the lands have not been confirmed by anybody as of yet, as it may well be Estach trying to put on a corset.

So, is it a conspiracy? Has Pandora Discordia pulled a practical prank upon us all, or it is truly the beginning of the end of Achaea? There has been no Divine confirmation to say otherwise, so until then, we can only watch, and wait, as more people vanish without trace in what has been dubbed the 'Teatime Terror'.

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

Far from the bustle and cry of Cyrene's snowy streets, or the untouchable luxuries of the Garden of the Gods, Flavel Presanette was walking through the chilly forests in the depths of the Eastern Ithmia. He was hunting for slippery elm, the sort that only grew on the wild red elm tree. With his trusty vixen by his side, they trudged through the cosy bowers. The walnut trees seemed to bend in acknowledge of his entrance.

The vixen trotted through the mossy ground, stopping once in a while to survey the scene. Her perky ears twitched at the sound of the wind rustling the leaves. Flavel smiled and called for her to stop right there.

"Let's have a look here, shall we?" the Sentinel said, crouching down to rub the back of her neck amiably. With his right hand, he touched the nearest tree and closed his eyes. After a few moments he opened them again.

"This isn't a grove, so let's have a look for some elm, shall we?"

The vixen barked in agreement, and started snuffling around the copse of trees. A vibrant flash of red as she swished her brush to and from indicated that she had found what they were looking for. Flavel put his hunting spear to one side and pulled a small knife from his belt. Kneeling down, he carefully examined the bark of the red elm tree. It was patchy, suggesting that it had been harvested before for its herbal value. Using the knife, Flavel gently sliced a layer off from the bark and prised it away from the trunk.

So engrossed was he in this menial task that he did not notice the trail of what looked like muddy water trickling towards him from behind. He did not see the water solidify and wrap around his leg. He did not cry out as the creature engulfed his body and dragged him into the undergrowth, unable to scream as the liquid entered his lungs and slowly drowned him.

Only the vixen saw, and her black eyes blinked in almost sentient emotion as she sprinted away into the woods.

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

The creature slid back in whatever way it saw fit to the bowels of Golgotha from whence it came. Or so it seemed it came, for it was deep underground, under the hellish turf of Bagwar's Copse where the creature came to rest.

"My, my, what big teeth you have."

A squelching noise, coupled with a low, Trollish moan, reverberated through the cavern.

"Tell me, when you digested the Mhunna, what did he taste of?"

Silence.

"You preferred the other creature. Very well. Go to Shallam."

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

"What's going to happen to us, Rat?" Scleia pondered.

They were walking through the depths of the northern Ithmia forest. Sampling the delicacy of the viridian wonder around them, the two Bards were instilling themselves with the Demeterian Inspiration. They were unarmed except for their musical instruments - Ratbyrne had his mandolin clutched in one hand, and Scleia her flute. It was decided unanimously that rapiers were not in their best interests as the Bardic weapon of choice in the current climate.

"The end of the world." She stopped in her path. "It's odd. I never thought it'd come to this."

Ratbyrne sat down under a wide-branched evergreen tree. The soft trickle of the babbling brook could be heard, an undertone under the whistle of the wind through the leaves. He was in the same situation as everybody else. Cyrene, usually a quiet city, had been overrun with people fleeing from Caer Witrin, Actar, Genji and Aeraithia. The Senate had declared that all Guildhalls were to be used as refuge centres. The Bards' Guildhall, with its supply of sweet food and alcohol was a perfect spot. It must have been the only time when the Bards were allowed to leave Cyrene, thought the Horkval. His carapace was still aching.

"Did you read the news?" said Scleia, plumping down beside her friend. "Lady Makali said that there was nothing to worry about. She was just messing about. All destruction, no action."

"And still people are going missing," added Ratbyrne. His antennae twitched thoughtfully. "And we can't work on the piano sonata."

"I know."

"The piano's full of tea. I don't think I can drink another cup once this is over."

"If it's over. If we aren't all dead by that time. You know, there's something that I've been waiting to..."

Ratbyrne was not listening. He had leapt to his feet and bounded upstream of the brook. His antennae scouted the scenery, as if he was trying to find something.

"Rat?"

He did not answer. Scleia rolled her eyes. Typical male attitude, she thought, hands on hips, right eyebrow raised in quizzical expression. There were more important things to be thinking about than trees, animals, lager, fishing...

The Horkval had caught hold of a strange, limber creature, of sharp tooth and sallow skin. It was a buckawn, eyes wild and jowls dribbling. In one hand it carried a sack, and the other, a small dirk. Sharp, ragged squeals emanated from its throat as flecks of tea squirted from the dirk tip as the buckawn tried to stab Ratbyrne with it.

"What's in the sack?"

"Nut tellin'!"

"Don't play silly buggers, I saw you dragging him out of the water." The Horkval pulled the buckawn's neck back so it was staring right into his large, multi-faceted eyes. They seemed to be burning bright red.

"You can't make me," the buckawn spat out. A glob of saliva landed upon Ratbyrne's left eye.

"Listen, you little bastard, I might not be able to skewer you on my rapier, but one flick of my wrist and your neck will snap. Give me the sack."

The sack fell to the ground. Ratbyrne released his grip on the creature and gave it a knowing look. The buckawn hissed at the Horkval, before gathering its wits and scrambling away towards Forestwatch. Kneeling down, Ratbyrne carefully prised the sack open, and retched at the scent.

Inside the sack was the rapidly decomposing corpse of what seemed like a half-eaten Rajamala. It was bloated and water-logged, suggesting that it had been in the river for some time before the buckawn pulled it out. The flesh was wrinkly, like dried sileris. Around its neck, Ratbyrne could make out a bronze medallion. A bronze medallion unique to the Sentinels' Guild of Eleusis.

"Scleia!" he yelled. "I think you'd best come and look at this..."

There was no reply.

"Scleia?"

Only the soft murmurs of the brook answered.

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

Scleia, seeing her companion dash off into the underground, had taken it upon herself to engage in a spot of vocal training. Putting her flute to her mouth, she inhaled deeply and blew a single note. It was sonorous, warm and gentle, in a low register. She placed her flute down on the mossy ground and hummed the note to herself.

When the Siren had reached the correct pitch, she sang a simple, yet controlled "Ahhhhh...". Her voice was sweet, pure and enchanting. A white stag, grazing nearby, cocked its antlers so he could listen to the wonderful music.

She did not sing any song, but her voice rose to a crescendo as she beckoned the higher notes to her mesmerising power. From the depths of the deep wine-coloured sea of the Sea God, the Sireni Bard traversed hill and valley to Vastar's domain of the high skies. The leaves seemed to shiver in delight as she completed the highest note, indiscernible unless one had very good hearing at the upper ranges.

The words of an old folk song wandered through the wind as Scleia sang to herself, stepping around the trees:

"See the zephyr dance through the depths of the trees And wait for me down by the riverside, I'm waiting down by the riverside, Come to me down by the riverside..."

Her foot got caught on something. Probably a root, she thought, shaking her foot away. It was silly, she knew, to battle buckawns wearing four-inch stiletto heels, but they were, to all accounts, a very nice pair of shoes. She made a mental note to get them enchanted with waterwalking, but threw that image out when she realised that the current climate of the world probably meant that her stilettos would melt and be collected in teacups for later use.

"Come to me down by the rive... bugger!"

Her foot was being held back by something, and it was not a root. She screamed as she landed flat on her face, and clawed at the earth with her long, well-manicured fingernails.

The tips snapped in unison as Scleia was dragged into the earth, held by a tendril of semi-solid tea. A resounding wail, almost like an undead dryad, rose up from her vocal cords and echoed through the forest as she was entombed beneath.

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

"Scleia?"

Ratbyrne shrugged his shoulders. "Listen, I'll be back in a bit, so just... manicure your gloves or whatever?" He made a disconcerted clicking noise as he folded the top of the sack up to prevent the soggy contents lolling out. Slinging the sack over his carapace, being careful not to catch on to a flaky part of his back, the Horkval trudged along the babbling brook, looking for a shallow part.

He reached a small pool, where the river had meandered so much that the bank had formed a large dip, widening the river. Testing the water with a hardened leg, Ratbyrne waded across the river Zaphar. He did not like water very much - it caused his carapace to shrink into all sorts of places on his abdomen. Of course, the Horkval could have bounded across the river in one giant leap, but with his uncertain burden upon his back, it could prove quite interesting if it all slopped out. The Order of Neraeos would have a field day with unlimited writs on him for wilful water pollution.

He was looking for a Druid. Or a Sylvan. They would know what to do. What better place to find one of those than the treetop village of Eleusis?

"I NEED A RES!" he yelled when he reached the top of the gatehouse. "IT'S ONE OF YOUR LOT, I THINK!"

A cold wind rushed through the air, chilling each part of Ratbyrne's body from head to abdomen. A rustle of leaves, a breath of fresh air, and a blazing flash of prismatic light shot out of nowhere. It came to rest at Ratbyrne's feet. A few moments later, a figure zipped down through the light and stopped in front of him.

"Good, that's still working," drawled the Mhun Crispin Lapidoth, who had just appeared down the prism beam. "Which idiotic nincompoop got themselves killed then?" He was wearing a pink suit that was enough to gouge the eyes out from anybody who stared at it for too long. An acid green cloak swished around his body. The whole ensemble was rounded off by the fact that he was smoking slippery elm quite unconcernedly from a burnished redwood pipe. This made Ratbyrne feel rather uncomfortable.

"Come on, come on, corpses don't resurrect themselves, you know," he added. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Joke? Erm, no..." Ratbyrne took the sack off his carapace and tipped it upside down. The pathetic remains of the Rajamala toppled out. Crispin Lapidoth curled his lip in remote disgust.

"Rocco!" the Mhun called, tapping the burnt contents of the pipe right on to the body. "It's one of yours!"

There was a fluttering of what sounded like wings, a stifled gasp of surprise, and an embarrassing thump as Rocco Defuncto, a wide-eyed Tsol'aa, fell from the skies and landed with a startling splat on top of the corpse.

"Well done, old boy," sneered the Mhun.

"That's Flavel!" nodded the new arrival, quickly peeling himself off the ground, and brushing bits of ripped fur off his chainmail. "We'd wondered where he'd popped off to. No mention back to us at the Guildhall."

"What, nothing on deathsight?" asked Crispin, a solitary eyebrow raised in surprise.

"Well, seeing as deathsight's only telling me that cups of tea are being broken by too much tea, I might have missed it."

"That was stupidly silly, dear boy."

"Don't look at me! You're the Druid, you're meant to do that jiggery-pokery and..." The Sentinel made some weird movements with his hands.

"It's not that, it's..." Crispin made some elaborate motions with his hands and gave the Sentinel a rather irritated glare, as if to say, "You stupid boy.". "Anyway, there is no guarantee it will work. I must be the only person on Achaea who is actually pleased that there is such an abundance of tea in the world. Quite excellent. I shall never need to get my butler to order tea from Miri ever again. It is such a hassle signing the order parchment."

"Oh, sure, you need to pick up a quill and write the bloody thing. Big hassle."

"I get my butler to do it. Of course it is a hassle."

Ratbyrne saw fit to interject at this point.

"I'm sorry to interrupt this REALLY interesting conversation, but...?" He cocked his antennae at the body on the ground.

The two men glanced down at Flavel's body and realisation shot across their faces. Carefully, Rocco took the sack and folded the corpse inside it, before dragging it down the steps to the Ithmia Forest below. The head made a hollow 'thunk' noise as it struck each step on the way down. Ratbyrne followed, and finally, Crispin the Druid.

Rocco dumped the body underneath a large evergreen fir. "This fine, Crispy?"

"Crispin, Rocco, not Crispy. Otherwise I'll impale you on my quarterstaff." The Druid touched the fir, concentrated a while, then nodded in agreement. He took his quarterstaff and planted it firmly in the earth. Ratbyrne could hear him whispering words in some strange, arcane tongue. The leaves of the fir seemed to emit a faint green glow, before fading away into nothingness. Crispin inclined his head. All was ready.

"Where's the body?" he asked, clicking his fingers as if he was calling a waiter. "No matter, I can smell him. Here we go."

With a grimace, for the smell was overpowering, Crispin took the corpse's hand, and placed his other upon the fir tree. He whispered a soundless incantation, and the whole grove seemed to glow blazing white.

The tranquillity of the forest was interrupted by the sound of somebody vomiting up a lot of tea.

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

Scleia's head hurt. That was the first thing she noticed when she awoke: a throbbing ache resounding about her temples. The first thought that came to mind was that she could do with a cup of tea. What sweet irony.

She pulled herself to her feet, then stumbled and almost fell over. One of her stilettos had gone missing, and the heel had snapped off on the other. She kicked it away, for it was futile keeping one without the other, and a broken one at that.

"This is a strange thing," a ice-cold voice spoke from nowhere.

The Siren jumped around in surprise.

Leaning against the wall of the cavern was a peculiar creature. It resembled nothing that Scleia had come across before, and yet it did. It seemed like an amalgamation of every single monstrosity upon the continent, with a pair of Horkvali eyes and Rajamalan claws thrown in for good measure. It had five eyes, two on its face, one either side and one on the back of its head, and seven limbs, some like tentacles, others with pinchers on the end. One of them was examining her flute. A gloopy brown substance dripped off its skin, which disappeared the moment it touched the ground.

"What does it do?"

Scleia tried to speak, but all she could make out was a miniscule squeak. Gathering her composure, she murmured, "I don't know what you are, take the flute, but don't kill me."

"You don't know what I am?" It let out a yelp, almost like a dog, but also like the odious cackle of a Mhojavian hyena. "You of all people should know what I am."

She peered at the creature, taking a few steps forward. "You're definitely not my ex-boyfriend." An anxious expression flew over Scleia's countenance. "I don't owe you any money, do I?"

The laughter carried on. In its best moments it could have been described as ice cubes being dragged backwards over a set of nails being clawed down a blackboard. With a single motion, he snapped the flute into two pieces and tossed them away.

"No, no..." It stepped into view. "I am Te'unim."

"Te'unim?"

"Yes, I was the protagonist behind your little problem with your Minuet Harmonic," it replied. The gaping hole of a sucker that was its mouth drew up each corner in a ghastly attempt at a smile. "You used to call me the Minuet Bug. Of course, I wasn't really up to talking that time. I wasn't tangible. Not like this."

Taking one tentacled limb, he stroked Scleia's cheek with grim affection. She immediately leapt backwards.

"But it seems that I got fixed. A bit too well."

Scleia was scrabbling backwards from a sitting position. Her back hit a wall, and her broken nails clawed at it wildly as she tried to kick away from Te'unim.

"The Divine will find you. They'll find you, and They'll take you out," she remarked uncertainly.

"The Divine are idiots. My siblings are already tearing the Weaving to pieces. It's just a matter of time now before the whole universe collapses upon itself. I just had the luck to drink some of that Divine sweetness before my body changed, and I fell through the threads."

"So you're a mutation. You're a freak of nature. A pustule on the fabric of creation."

Te'unim smiled again, and started towards the petrified Siren. "Oh, I'm not a freak. You're the freaks. And you're all going to die. Your souls make me stronger. But I need a little insurance first. If we can't destroy it from the outside, we need more on the inside. A little persuasion in numbers."

The clatter of pinchers on the cold stone floor increased in volume as Te'unim bore down upon Scleia's cowering form. "I heard you singing. It was hypnotic. Your voice is quite exquisite. If my children had that quality..."

Scleia had heard enough. "Hang on," she said, standing up and looking the bug straight in the eyes. "You kidnap me, now you want me to give your kids vocal coaching? What kind of screwed-up logic is that?"

"Oh, no, my dear Siren. I don't want you to give my children singing lessons," replied Te'unim. "I want you to be the mother of my children."