Apathy

[DistantCryptid 405]

 

Spoiler

OOC: Hello, Hello! This is more or less a post I've had cooking for a while, just here to say that all art, including the text-breakers are made by me! (of course, with a level of quality i could do consistently and at a reasonable pace) Hope you enjoy the read.

 

 

 

 

“A physician without their tools, that simply will not work.”

 

  Was the thought that had brought the arachnid-adjacent thing onto the snow-filled north, a simple expedition, it was reasoned, to find the spring that numbed the senses, to bring samples of it with them, so their toolset would be impeccable, ever the perfectionist, the tailor-turned-physician saundered towards the snow with little preparations, without the need to eat as much as the average descendant, and under the assumption their stay would be short, and if it was not, there were indeed things to eat in the north, despite their own discomfort.

It had not occurred to them the fact that they had not brought proper equipment, they had watched the snow, their own breath fog in the frigid regions. That the frigid temperature brought the words ‘strife’ and ‘challenge’ to their mind. Never had they considered themselves a being that could only live in a very narrow window of temperature, wretchedly prideful as most of their kith, Hiraeth assumed that the blanket of darkness of the night would favor them as it did in their own home, that the cold that has been upon that region of the continent for far longer than they have existed would smile down upon them, that their own planning, without any prior experience would suffice.

For the first month it did, snare traps were set down, and hunts were done under the cover of night where the blessings bestowed upon them by design allowed them to see when what they chased down slept, the tailor found themselves disgruntled, having crafted a hefty lining out of the fur of the surrounding fauna, patching holes from the weeks or days that it would take them to drag something back through the spiky underbrush, never in their two and a half centuries of living would they assume that the tool that would see the most use would not be the spear, but the needle and thread they had to master to earn their income.

After the first month of extracting all they could from their surroundings, moving that tent onto the next clearing, repairing any holes that would allow the chilling winds to cut through onto their skin, they had developed a reliable, though all too monotonous routine, hunt by night, cook, rest and repair by day as the outside was little more than a wall of indecipherable brightness. It had indeed worked for them, though ambition bit at their ankles like a neurotic malicious hound, and at first they kept it close to their chest, on a leash they had developed since quite young. There was a time and place, and they knew better than to think now was the time to allow such to rule their decisions.

 

 

Ambition, apathy, restlessness, a trifecta that had driven them to crawl their way onto the surface, to attempt to not only survive the north, but to conquer it, it started quite small, larger risks taken, bolder approaches to larger beasts, and yet there was only so much satisfaction one could extract from striking a sleeping opponent in their home, there was only so much satisfaction one could wring from the strangled bodies left behind by the traps they had set, only so many times they could scoff at an animal’s desperation for food that they would not understand a trap set right before them.

Gradually, did their routine shift into the daytime, where they could see the least, with their visibility so encumbered by not only the snow, but the fog and frequent snowstorms, it was no matter, they reasoned with themselves, the chase had always been something exhilerating, something that brought them again, and again, and again upon the brightness, as they called it. Mystifying the simple price for the impeccable night-eye, allowing poetry to seep into the otherwise hollow day-to-day of their increasingly long expedition, they simply had to, an artisan at heart, they had this tendency to embellish stories since they had been a small child.

Each push of ambition was rewarded readily, bountiful feasts for one they attributed to their own decision, but were merely a consequence of adapting to their prey’s schedules, the thrill of chasing down an elk, reindeer or even the stray moose down snowy mountaintops brought them a joy that remarkably few things could truly wrench from the Mori’Quessir. The traps set upon the snow were never neglected, however, for the fur of what such a contraption killed was still very much needed, for those repairs that had gone long into the night, where they saw the best.

The Mori’Quessir would find themselves gradually less entertained by mere bloodsport, however, the months dragged on, exploration stalled and pushed back in favor of their own entertainment, how unfortunate it was, there were so few things that could truly captivate the morbid-minded Mori, another trait quite expected of their kith, though kept close to their chest, although as solitude stretched on, the lessons learned on appearances seemed to slip away from their priority.

 

 

Hiraeth would catch themselves stopping each time they would see something freshly caught by the twine, watching with rapt attention as breaths grew panicked, as claws dug into the dirt, as desperation only caused the situation to worsen, there was a certain solemnity to their observations, or at least that would be what the ‘Quessir so obsessed with social appearances would tell others if asked, if caught. In reality, they were no better than the average Trissida practicing bloodsport, in reality they would deny even to themselves, the Mori was still very much a Mori. And so, they watched, assuming they were alone, assuming they themselves were not being observed.

 

It was the seventh month since their change of routine, seven months where they hunted during the day for the challenge, they would say, for the sake of being fair, they would go on to rehearse for once they would come back to their life as it was, was when they noticed. Something had gone wrong, taloned digits that used to be so precise with that needle seemed to miss their marks, drawing ichorous purple from their palms during repairs. The already measly field of view that they held during the day had shrunk considerably, they found themselves surprised by running into things they could have sworn were further away, or had not seen at all.

 

 

And yet, the Mori’Quessir reasoned, and denied as they always had, this was temporary, their vision was not failing them, they had simply grown so fatigued of routine that they had grown reckless, each excuse was laced with the expected dose of pride from one hailing from the underground, it was one of the very pillars of who they were, independent, fiercely so, they had gotten so far, they had managed to write down points of reference, memorized where those traps had been all along, they knew how to set them up, they had done so for months.

Hiraeth watched, with growing dismay and apprehension, as the portions they ate became ever smaller, as their clothes grew raggedy, the repairs declining in quality as their vision slipped between their talons, their tent had become a refuge they would rely on for most of their time, and yet each time dusk painted itself across the horizon they would find no improvement, no respite from the fall that they started before they even realized what was happening, perhaps their first mistake had been leaving their home at all, or maybe it was heading north, maybe it had been here, or there. No matter, they thought, scolding their mind away from the pit of despair that had settled in their stomach. They would prevail, they told themselves.

Their head steered to one side of the makeshift bed they had lined with furs, lichen and moss, it was meticulous work, they had always been a perfectionist, had always been too proud to genuinely ask for information they did not absolutely need, too proud to admit that they should have headed back to what they knew, too proud to refuse themselves the chance to step into the open outside of the stone confines they called home.

 

 

And what had this earned them? When they stared at the opposite side of the tent’s threshold, they saw naught, when they waved their own hand in front of their face, they could no longer differentiate between colors, there were no more blurry shapes, no more pretense to hold, no more light or shadow to dictate if they were alive or dead. They simply saw nothingness, their eyes, once burning a rich amber now had shifted to a dull white as if bleached by the sun, for that was very much what had happened, eyes that had not been built to see, much less withstand the sun had such reflected back at them, each day, without pause by the snow, by the sky, each flake of snow spelling white death.

 

 

Each day would blur into the next, little more than a simple repetition of stumbling outside of their tent, checking snare traps by scrounging through the snow to find the cold, stiff bodies, to bring them back into the tent to eat little more than cold, or poorly cooked scraps. Hiraeth knew they had lost weight, they knew their appearance had fallen into disrepair despite their lack of sight, repairs would no longer happen upon their clothes, the fur-lining peeled from the waxed leather in hopes of fashioning a cloak to keep themselves from freezing, it worked, it did indeed work, though it was little more than temporary relief.

One day too many scrounging, struggling, all that they used to do beneath the surface, frustration blistered between the Mori’Quessir’s teeth, talons drew black-purple ichor from their own shoulders, a habit they had thought themselves scolded free of in childhood, in truth, very few things would earn them such turmoil, and even fewer situations would be the time and place to show it, but they were alone, alone and cold, and starving, how could they not feel regret squeezing their trachea much like the snares they had placed upon the snow? How could they not have considered such? How, how? Why? 

Crying for help had been something they had quickly been taught away from in childhood, and yet, once their thoughts had been splintered and broken away from what was proper, what was polite, what would keep a pride shattered so long ago, all they could hear themselves uttering were pleas for aid. Hiraeth dared not name a single thing outloud, though their intent, their despair had been clear as the daylight that had been their folly.

No immediate answer would come, of course, no one person would come to save them, they had neglected to tell a single soul they were making this effort to complete an objective that sounded so far away as of now, the stale taste of meat that has been preserved by being buried in snow, sleep was something the ‘Quessir did not seem to quite appreciate as much anymore, and so when it did happen, they would be met with the disappointment that their eyes would no longer work solidifying itself each day they were lucky enough to wake up.

And yet exhaustion would come to collect its debt after much time passed, it was not as if they knew the time of day they had fallen asleep in, or if it was daytime at all, it did not matter anymore.

 

 

Their perception of nothingness seemed to warble, as if their vision had been water with stone was cast upon it, it warped and shuddered, at least they assume it shuddered at first, Hiraeth’s gaze, at first only capable of fuzzy, faint outlines could make out a growing pool of ichorous black they stood upon, they could see themselves in it, a furrow marred their brow, as a gurgled choke broke them away from their thoughts, drawing their gaze towards its source, they were met with a familiar face, they had been raised by said face, and yet they could only see startled surprise across those eyes, it was all they could remember, the blade in their hand had not faltered, and had found itself within the neck of the person that looked upon them with waning strength.

Hiraeth realized that it was not their vision that had shuddered, it was merely the stutter of their breath as they were met with such a sight, the hammering of their heart against their ears were all they could truly hear at first, then the death-throws of their kin, their gaze diverted to the rest of the ornate space, well-crafted silk and jewelry lining the hearth. They remembered why they had done so, the single strike to the jugular had not come from a place of emotion, no, it had not been personal, as startling as it might have been to recall such a thing while watching it happen again. 

Surprise and fear seemed to ease into understanding, at least it was how Hiraeth recalled it, in his last moments, the ‘Quessir’s father met their eyes with nothing but pride behind his own, it was not expected, and that was the exact reason for the admiration within those last few moments, betrayal, a pillar of their very household, of the way that each one Mori’Quessir is meant and made to act as, had been executed in that very day, when it did truly matter, for the last sputter of ichor left the man’s throat, and his expression fell into nothingness, did Hiraeth’s gaze part ways with their father’s face, onto the blackened pool at their feet, something within it called to the Mori within this memory. 

 

 

A figure, its face obscured, and yet Hiraeth understood it was grinning at them, they understood that every single eye present upon it was locked upon their frame, from that reflexion offered by carnage, did it appear as if that thing, that spider-like spectre , stood directly behind them, the ‘Quessir shouted, and turned around with haste, to be met with nothingness, not a single presence behind them outside that pool. Once they did turn back, they would find that not it, but she, was closer than they remembered, she still grinned, though soundless, Hiraeth saw her jaw move, not in any way a person, Mori’Quessir or otherwise would be able to contort their face in, alas, did a single, spindly hand raise, coming to hover before their eyes, the blade held between their taloned digits clattered to the floor. They understood who this was only when she covered their eyes with her hand, the message clear without a single word uttered.

 

“I Understand.”

 

Would be all that they managed to stammer, or assumed they had, for the blood rushing, drumming against their ears was simply too loud for them to hear themselves, let alone hear their own thoughts, the hand upon their face soon wrapped around their entire head, having emerged from the pool of ichor to grasp upon Hiraeth’s skull, only to pull Hiraeth into the depths of the pool of their own making. 

 

The ‘Quessir thrashed awake with a simple, dreadful feeling dropped onto their stomach like a ball of lead.

 

Debt.