4.01 INTERLUDE – GNAWING

Sol’othuan, Fourth Herald to the Devourer—or as Sol called her, Mother—strolled the vine-encrusted hallways of crumbling stone, intrigued at the novelty of the world her people had invaded.

She had always been curious—her people called it ‘sentimental’—for her kind. Even the lesser worlds they conquered were fascinating. This one? Unique even to that standard. Fractured, with such curious, artificial structure imposed onto it. Workings of a Prime, possibly several in tandem. Fascinating.

It felt, to be honest, a transgression to be consuming such delicate designs. But food was food. And the structure thrummed with energy, so much she could eat until she was full a hundred times over. Enough energy that she was surprised her people kept themselves in check, gnawing at the edges rather than gorging themselves completely. Even Sol was tempted, and she had more restraint than most.

But Mother had commanded them not to, so they didn’t. For now, they gnawed.

Mother preferred a subtle touch. A world this powerful—inhabited by sapient races, and patroned by one or several Primes—required weakening before the Famished could lift their inhibitions. Mother was more powerful than many of her peers—the Prime, those who had ascended to divinity—but her children were not. And her children, Sol among those numbers, though in a more literal sense of ‘child’, were the invaders, not Mother. Mother was simply … their overseer. She couldn’t join in the feast directly. All Primes were bound. Near infinite in strength, but limited in scope.

Sol hadn’t explored much of this world. Mother had kept her secluded on their arrival, not allowing her to join the initial breach. She had wanted to ensure they had gone unnoticed, or at least, uncontested.

Thus far, Sol had contained herself to the deepest reaches of the fractured dimension realms that composed this strange world. She’d yet to find people down here. Real ones, at least.

She’d found the simulacrums. A few of them. These smaller realms—like she found herself in now—always had one.

For that matter, one of the simulacrums watched her now.

The perplexing half-people that championed each of these ‘shards’ were bizarre. Were they creations of the Prime? They were people … but not. False in some way. An intuition hard to describe.

They were powerful, though. Not strong enough to pose a threat to Sol—or most of the Famished—but still shockingly dense with energy. Rulers of their respective domains. ‘Bosses’ of their ‘shards’, as the local terminology went.

They shared that power with the shard itself. Which meant as Sol snacked away, she was eating the simulacrum, too, piece by piece. That probably explained the horrified, curious gaze.

‘Gaze’. Not quite right. It could see her—sense her—but not directly. The simulacrum had an awareness of its shard, but Sol could elude it physically. They had yet to meet. She intended to keep it that way.

The lack of company—besides the watching false-eyes of the simulacrum—didn’t bother her. Sol had always found more interest in things than people. And there was so much to marvel over, here.

And so much to eat.

Sol traced a finger down a length of wood, fascinated. The power humming in the material wasn’t the only thing she marveled over. Hands … fingers … her new body. In the same way her people absorbed memories and concepts from the creations they ate, they appropriated forms. This one was comfortable, though she was still clumsy in it.

Human, the species was called. One of the sapient races inhabiting this world. Had Mother ever eaten a human world? Odds seemed high. Mother was old, even for a Prime, and the Famished had worked through many, many worlds. Most they ate didn’t have sapient life, as those were less likely to have a patron. Defending Primes. Thus, easier pickings.

But this one had been too dense with essence to resist. And … according to Mother … was seemingly abandoned. Or half-abandoned. Its patron Primes weren’t watching over it as they should. Disinterest? Its state of decay—how it had been fractured into so many pieces—even before her people had arrived, indicated something of the sort. But why? Why had such a complex creation been abandoned, left to decay?

Such intriguing questions. Sol loved questions. Frequently, more than the answers. Answers could be … disappointing.

She studied the magic imbued into the wood. Structured magic was rare. Or, she’d been told. She didn’t know first-hand. Sol was young for her kind, having only lived through two Devourings. But she’d been told stories, and had referenced the archives to confirm them.

Sometimes it felt like Sol was the only of her people to do so. Sometimes, if she were brutally honest, it felt like their people were more savage than the ones they ate. They glutted themselves but cared for little else.

Perhaps that was proof of how little ‘sophistication’ mattered. If savagery triumphed, wasn’t that the trait worth celebrating?

Survival—that which persisted—was holy, and little else.

She brushed away her wandering thoughts, focusing on the curious object in front of her. Her hand rested on a wooden box, the item which she’d been tracing a finger across, admiring, and inspecting. Its cover was discarded, tossed to the side, its securing nails ripped out. Some crusted substance pooled at the bottom, dried, which her nose—alien senses were always intriguing—protested at being exposed to.

Curious, she broke off a chunk of the coffin—(Coffin. That was the word that had evaded her. It took time for an alien lexicon to digest)—and inspected it. She was tempted, like usual, to bite into the object, to eat the delicate workings imbued into it.

For some reason, this coffin was special compared to the three others in the room. Imbued more heavily. Sol couldn’t begin to guess why. Likely, it served some essential purpose to the shard. Hence, why she resisted the urge to eat it. She would feast on less important-looking workings, as to not break the system so carefully designed. She would rather not the shard break entirely.

Others of her kind wouldn’t have been so discretionary. But Sol didn’t want to disturb the complex magic that kept this pocket dimension functioning. She wanted to study it. Some of the others cared little for that sort of thing. Apparently, even, their indiscreet gnawing had sent some shards haywire, enough to cause a buzz among the locals. They obviously didn’t know the Famished were here—or presumably what the Famished even were—but her sibling’s brutish methodology meant their secret wouldn’t be kept long.

Unless Mother intervened and suggested a defter hand, at least. But she hadn’t yet, so Sol didn’t think she would. Again, despite being patroned—and intricately created—this world was in a surprising state of decay. A defter touch likely wasn’t necessary. It was a discarded belonging. The perfect food for scavengers.

For a moment longer, Sol lingered there, poring over the complex magic comprising the coffin. She let the piece of coffin clatter to the floor, satisfied—though having gleaned little—then turned and left.

She walked through the corridors of the stone structure. Vines shied from her. Bizarre creatures—even less ‘real’ than the simulacrum—scampered away. Sol observed all this with fascination. Were her siblings really not interested? They saw the feast and engorged, but such an odd feast, this one was. How were they so incurious?

The back of Sol’s neck itched, announcing the simulacrum’s arrival, and Sol loosened her physical form, melding into the Passage.

A second later, a creature, human looking, but made of green goo, padded into Sol’s hallway. She stood there for a moment, looking around, brow furrowed in an emotion that took Sol several seconds to place as confusion.

Alien emotions, and recognizing them … also always a novelty.

“I know you’re there,” the goo-girl called into the empty hallway. She looked straight through Sol, unable to see her, Sol having stepped almost entirely into the Passage. Though she possessed a passive awareness of her domain that meant she felt Sol, she couldn’t see her, not when she’d melded. “What are you? And … and what are you doing to  me?”

Sol briefly considered reassuring the not-really-a-person. Sol didn’t intend to eat her—yet, at least—and a conversation with a local would go a long way to understanding. But, direct interaction with sapients went against Mother’s few mandates. Better to not disobey her. Sol could patch comprehension together herself, eventually. She thought she was starting to glean the purposes of the various constructs.

“Please?” the goo-girl called into the empty hallway. “You’re … hurting me. I can’t fix what you’re doing.”

The plea—delivered so earnestly—stunned Sol, though it shouldn’t have. Briefly, Sol was frustrated with herself. This was why her people called her sentimental.

This was how her people survived. They ate. Sol needed food. It was the same cycle for all living beings. And this thing wasn’t even a real person. Whatever that meant. Its existence still perplexed her.

And in the end, their society would remain. A Devouring wasn’t a desolation. The Famished never ate to total destruction. They left an ember, which, most of the time, grew back into the blaze it had once been. It was the way of the Cycle.

When Sol still didn’t reply, the simulacrum looked around, then deflated. She continued down the intersecting hallway, disappearing into the stretching darkness. Sol felt her go, then reformed, unmelding from the Passage.

It was an odd game they were playing, both knowing of each other, but Sol refusing to meet. She had no choice. Mother mandated the Famished not to interact. Not until the world was properly weakened. At which point, the feast would begin.

Though, Sol was a favored daughter … maybe she could get away with things others couldn’t. Maybe she could have one discussion? The bizarre creature wasn’t even a real person, so perhaps Mother’s mandates didn’t apply. Flimsy reasoning, but maybe she could argue it.

Ah, but she shouldn’t.

Besides, discovery was half the fun. She didn’t want the answers handed to her.

She returned to her exploration.

A/N: Because no harem is complete without an eldritch monster.