Imago Prologue: The Ebony WIlds (Patreon)

The white stag steps into the meadow, nestled below a rare break in the trees. The clearing is lit by the glow of a pool, clear and cold, shot through with a golden current. Water and magical aether, bleeding together. The stag has come for both.

And what a magnificent creature the stag is, with his glittering coat and jewelled eyes. He’s freshly come into his own, having survived the dangers of his birthright in this eternally dark wood. His mother raised him and his brothers well. Soon he’ll seek his own partner, to pass on those lessons himself.

He checks the trees - once, twice, thrice.  He searches the branches and gnarled roots. Nothing but grey bark and mottled growths. The stag steps carefully through soft pale grasses, picking his way down to the water’s edge. Even as his hooves ripple through the gold, he stands and waits patiently.

At last, he bends his neck to drink.

The weight on his back is jarring and immediate. Teeth bury themselves in his neck and claws in his sides, rending and tearing. Blood sprays, raining across the water’s surface. The stag lets out one trumpeting call, crashing through the shoreline reeds and alive in sudden agonised shock. The sound echoes through the forest, ghosts of gold and silver flaring in the wood as the trees respond in a silent light display.

The hunter digs in tighter.

He bucks to throw it off, lifeblood flooding down his neck. Even as he feels himself growing colder, as his heart pounds harder, he doesn't understand he’s already dead. He thinks he can survive it. His antlers catch - an impact, a shriek. He’s gored it. He twists, blood flowing faster now, flings the predator into the bough of a tree. With a snort, the stag whirls, searching for his attacker.

It’s already gone, half-hidden in a thicket. Blood flecked along the grasses. He watches, waits, heart pounding.  Something catches his eye. Two long grey limbs - one ending in a delicate hand, the other in a sharp, barbed talon, punctured and bleeding freely -  reach from the undergrowth to clutch at the nearest tree.

Blind fear overtakes him. He tears away into the unfurling fronds and clusters of mushrooms.

It whirrs, erupting out of the grasses with wings blurred in a haze of white and grey. Springs horizontally from root, to treetrunk, to him. The impact sends him sprawling, golden foam froths from his muzzle as he crashes to the earth.

And just like that
it’s over.

The stag breathes raggedly. Golden blood flows sluggishly onto the forest floor, taking the fear with it. He’s getting colder. All he wants to do is sleep.  His eyes begin their death glaze, but he is able to catch one glimpse… his first and last clear view of the one who took his life.

The hunter is slight, her limbs taut and tense. Her wings fold back as she withdraws, white and grey and smeared with golden blood hovering a few paces away. Hard amber eyes meet his gaze, a pair of thin, feather-like antennae quivering in the air.  He realises in his final moments, on some instinctive level…

…she’s waiting for him to die.

She hasn't managed a successful kill since the last full eclipse of the trees. Nothing this size, anyway. Nothing that can sustain her the way a fresh deer can.

Not that there aren't risks. The nymph draws her wounded talon against herself, checking to make sure it's not broken, before approaching.  She runs her hands over the stag's neck, prodding the ragged wound her teeth had torn. No movement, no response. No longer able to threaten her.

Turning her head, the nymph watches the light echoes fading into the Wilds, wayward will o' the wisps spinning into nothing. Noise is always a danger. Light doubly so. She holds her breath, her antennae and ears straining. All she can detect is the faint breeze and the tang of blood.

Blood.  Her stomach growls. The nymph is cautious, but impatient. Gripping the stag’s haunch, she tears into her kill.

Something snaps.

The nymph freezes, her eyes flickering up, her mouth full of meat and fur.

An enormous clawed hand crashes through the thicket, wraps itself around her and the deer and the underbrush and earth, and lifts. Wriggling pointlessly, she rises up and away from the forest floor. The deer’s carcass is half-crushed against her, one sightless eye regarding her with what could almost be morbid humour.

Two golden, porcine eyes blink into existence, looking curiously down at the messy handful. The nymph can see rolls of fat and patchy hair and spines straggling from an unwashed, towering chest. Acrid wind heats her face in a hot blast as the monstrous ogre snorts, then inhales, stealing the breath from her lungs. She bares her fangs, hisses in rage and fear.

The ogre sniffs twice more, then grins and opens his mouth, ready to devour the whole handful - deer, nymph, earth, and all. His tongue slathers over rows of yellowed grinding-stone teeth, rancid with the odour of rotten meat and stale blood.

The nymph recoils, horror in her eyes - then lashes out. She sinks her teeth and claws into the ogre's upper lip, tearing at it with the same savagery she showed the deer. The ogre howls, his grip loosening as he paws at his mouth with his free hand. It's just enough. Quick as a flash, the nymph squirms between two of the massive fingers and tumbles free. Her wings flicker desperately as she falls, head over foot, struggling to reorient herself with the forest spinning crazily around her.

The ogre roars, thrashing through the trees. Lights flash and blaze in the cacophony, traceries of veined leaves bursting into flares and flashes, temporarily blinding her.  Finally she rights herself in midair, wings humming.  It's impossible for her to see the gaps in the phosphorescent branches overhead - instead the nymph goes low, skimming the ground. She needs a thicket. A thornbush. A den she can wriggle into and bury herself in.

Then with a thunderclap, all the lights go out. She crashes into something hard but spongy, slick with rank-smelling moisture.  Flat on her back, she pushes up and looks around in the pitch darkness, trying to work out what’s happened.  Where she is.  Where the ogre is.

The nymph freezes as she realises.
She’s in the ogre’s cupped hands.

For the moment, she’s still alive.  Caught, but not crushed.  She remains unmoving, her sides rise and fall rapidly as she listens. Her captor gives out a deep, resonant belly laugh.

Silence.
The hands are rising.
She waits.

Her prison shakes up and down, trying for a reaction. The nymph’s wings twitch, but she does not cling or hover. She remains. Silent.

After what feels like an eternity, the hands move again. The palms creak open. One glowing piggy eye peers into the darkness, trying to see if he has caught the little flutter-thing. He squints, staring at the huddled shape. The ogre parts its hands a little wider.

The nymph explodes into life - hurls herself straight through the crack and up into the open air.  Even as he bellows with surprise she doesn’t glance back, her wings a blur of motion straining to take her out of the ogre's reach. Branches snap and shatter as she flies, upward and upward and upward. Behind her she can hear the tumult, knows he’s grasping clumsily after her, but she doesn’t look. Does nothing except focus on escape. Hurtles up through the thatched canopy, twigs scratching at her face as she plunges through, half-flying half-scrambling.  She can hear him climbing clumsily into the lower branches, and she strains her wings as much as she can, muscles screaming and heart racing. With a final effort, the nymph flickers free from the tangled limbs, bursting through the canopy into the chill night air.

A roaring wind fills her ears, and her eyes water as she drinks in the dark expanse of the night sky.  It’s cold, colder than the woods, enough to make her lungs burn. But bracing as well, a reminder that she is still alive.  Still wild and free and breathing, for one more moment.

A moment is all she can spare, though. She can’t linger long. She left the ogre far below, but there’s no cover up here. No leaves or burrows to hide within. Any number of horrors could spot her from miles around. She will stay just long enough to double back unseen.

She skims the treetops, her wings beating in time with her heart, as she returns to the meadow.  It isn’t hard to find.  The break in the canopy is rare, and the glow of the pond welcomes her back.  She ducks back into the branches and silently slithers down, stopping on the first branch that can hold her weight. The nymph’s eyes search the golden half-light.

There!

The mangled corpse of the stag lies discarded, smears of rot and dirt clinging to him.  She breathes in the scent of fresh blood and raw meat, even in the stench of the ogre's wake. It would be so easy to fly down, grab hold, and drag the carcass into the trees.  She could eat it all now and keep full ‘til the next eclipse. Or she could cure it, keep the meat good. Have it carry her all the way through the annual passage -

Her thoughts are cut off by a rancid wave of air. She scuttles up higher, fades into the branches.

The ogre’s towering form lumbers below her, sloshes through the pond and into the torn meadow.  She watches as he, too, spots the discarded carcass. Reaching down, he plucks her kill up and lifts it high over his head.  He drops the stag, dirt and all, into his mouth, crunching the bones and antlers into a muddy slurry before swallowing it in one tremendous gulp.

The ogre belches and pats his belly, then pushes his way into the wood.

The nymph waits a long time. Waits until the sound of broken trunks and crunching bones has long subsided. Waits until the darkness has reclaimed itself, and the silence and the cold settled in. Only then does she glide deftly to the clearing below.

Her dark eyes take in the muddy wallow the ogre has made of the space.  Ruined.  Blood and mud and emptiness is all the remains, and something about that unsettles her. Burns inside her just like her hunger.

She draws in a slow breath, and holding perfectly still, hums a single, solitary note. From such a small sound, the earth and brush barely resonate, but it is light enough.   Her eyes narrow in concentration as she follows the flow of the aether, flowing through the trees and into the earth. It moves in slow waves, pulsing like blood from a wound, always drawn in the same direction. The forest will provide, as it has before.

With a hollow smile, the nymph takes to her wings, leaving the meadow behind.

Thick bark parts under the nymph’s uninjured claw. She braces herself against the trunk of a half-rotted tree, gripping at it with her hands and knees, and gives another pull. It's awkward with just one talon, but the bark tears away eventually. The nymph lets it fall and leans forward, examining the nest of wriggling orange grubs beneath. Before they can squirm away, she's gathered them all up in a handful and stuffs them into her mouth, crunching down and making a face at the bitter juice. It isn’t venison, but she won’t starve. As soon as she's swallowed the last, she scrabbles around to the other side of the tree, tapping a claw carefully and listening for the telltale sound of movement.

There's none. The trees have nothing left to give. The nymph’s wings dip, and with a sigh, she lets go and flutters to the ground. The forest is thinner here, descending down in a gentle slope. There's a glow in the distance, one that doesn't need sound to awaken it. The nymph knows what it means. She's been here before.

With one last wary look over her shoulder, she clambers up the leaning bulk of a fallen trunk, using stiff rows of fungus for handholds. One great shelf-like mushroom projects out from the side, the perfect ledge for her to sit and dangle her legs as her eyes adjust to the steady, distant light.

In the distance below her stands a great, gilded city. Terraced towers and alcoves carved of white marble intertwine with trees and leaves and foliage, woven together tighter than flesh and bone. At the centre stands an ancient tree that towers even above the canopy of the eternal forest, a great palace set into its trunk. At its roots are pools and canals of aether that course through the buildings like veins, lighting the entire city.

The nymph has never been able to understand its purpose, however many times she’s been here. Why light a beacon to invite danger? But then, the city is surrounded by tall walls, and at each of its gates a living monolith guards its entry. Things of that size in the Wilds are always hungry, always dangerous - but these rest unmoving, neither attacking nor on the hunt.

But what most captures her attention are the rows of windows and ledges near the top of the tree. She can see a small cluster of winged figures huddled around it, basking in the glow, bathing in it as if it could feed them. Nymphs, but…so entirely unlike herself as to bear no comparison. The nymph’s eyes harden as she watches their movements, and her mouth twists into a scowl.

She turns away, drawing herself up onto the ledge and sitting cross-legged. Moving with care, she draws her injured arm up, bracing it with her other talon and gently exploring the wound with both hands. It's crusted over and the bleeding has ceased, although the whole end of the limb is tender, and she can't lift it very far yet. It needs time and rest.

The nymph lowers it again and turns to the mushroom she rests on. The surface is flexible, but quite strong. She peels a thin strip of it away in a single curl, using it to bind the talon to her side in a makeshift sling. Satisfied, she settles back to watching the city.

She doesn’t know why she comes here. It must be dangerous. But something about it…

The nymph lets her attention wander, following the tiny figures walking among the interlaced trees. She traces their movements with one hand, letting the glow of the aether bathe her face. Somewhere in the city, someone strikes a bell, and a clear, wavering note echoes through the wood. The trees answer with a wave of light, rippling past her, expanding out into the Wilds. The nymph watches as the cluster of her kind swirl and fly apart, disappearing somewhere in response to the call.

She draws forward to the edge, crouching to see the figures below. One by one, the last of the shapes vanish into the light.

She blinks rapidly a few times, and before she really knows or understands what she's doing, she lets out a liquid, wordless melody. Unplanned and unfocused, so soft and unintentional that the forest barely reacts, but a song all the same. It pours out of her like aether from the wood.

It makes her ache, and she can't find the words to understand why.

Another snap.  
The nymph’s on her feet, wings flared.

"P-please…!  You don’t have to stop!" An earnest voice calls. With some effort, a glowing hand clings to the far edge of the mushroom, lifting what seems to be a puddle of aether that spills carelessly across the platform. The pool shifts and rises, pulls itself together into a form of pure white light. A pair of eyes open, a pair of arms and legs, accompanied by spiralling branches like a crown of antlers, tipped with golden leaves.

The nymph’s wings hold steady, and she balances on the edge of the shelf, her eyes wide and challenging. The light-creature is something new - not an ogre or hag or grim. But it spoke. Something from the city of light? Why is it speaking? Why is it staring at her?

"You're a nymph, right?” The creature asks. “Like... a REAL nymph. From the deep dark?"

There's a slight quaver in the light’s voice, and it’s the quaver that strikes home. Not a threat, then. Not another ogre. So what does that make the light-creature?

A deer?

It flashes through the nymph’s head in an instant. Now that the creature’s taken form, she can see the bare, unguarded throat within the light. Soft and yielding, no hide or shell to protect it. And here it was, approaching her.  she can just wait until it comes close enough to strike, and then she'd silence the hunger, silence the pain and cold and-

Silence the voice.

The light-creature has a voice of its...of her own. One with a little quaver in it, one with words for her. Questions for her.

Now there's another feeling in her stomach, less insistent than the hunger but somehow worse. Something like the ache her song had brought. The nymph clutches her hands over the pain and bobs her head, nodding.

"I've heard you out here a couple times." The glowing girl says with a soft smile. "After the first time, I kept coming out. Hoping I might one day meet you."

She moves closer. The nymph flinches and bares her teeth, wings snapping to show a flash of red underside. Her one good talon flexes. The glowing girl stops, withdrawing her hand.

"It's... it’s okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I..." She lowers her head, and her branching crown gives forth a glowing bud. It flowers and swells, growing into a small fruit. The glowing girl plucks it from her branch and kneels, splitting it open. It’s full of clusters of glowing, gem-like seeds. She leaves half on the ground, taking the other in hand and delicately biting into it.

"It's foob... fee?" She says through a mouthful, nudging the other half closer.

The nymph sniffs cautiously, then reaches out. She snatches the glowing fruit away before retreating, clutching it in both hands. She squats on the edge of the mushroom, eyes fixed on the glowing girl as she takes a big bite out of the side of the fruit. The rind is tough, but she can chew it with a little effort, and the seeds…

Oh the seeds.
Her eyes widen.
They’re the sweetest thing she's ever tasted.

Slowly, her wings relax.

"I've always wanted to meet a Wilds nymph." The glowing girl says, with a bit too much enthusiasm. The nymph gives her a confused look, then turns her attention back to the fruit. The glowing girl wiggles excitedly a second or two, turning thoughts over in her head.  "Oh...! You're hurt!" She gasps, and jerks forward to touch the nymph’s injured arm. The nymph hisses and pulls back, dropping the fruit and grabbing at the girl's wrist. The girl’s eyes flash in fear, but she doesn’t pull away.

"S-sorry..." She rasps. "... I could... heal it for you if you want..."

The nymph shakes her head viciously, staring at her in distrust. But she doesn’t let go.  She watches the glowing girl’s eyes follow the grip on her wrist, then look at her with confusion. The colour in the girl’s cheeks glow pink. The girl smiles.

"M-my name’s Astraea.
Do you... have a name?"

The nymph tilts her head, her antennae twitching. What does the change in light mean? Why is the quaver back in the glowing girl’s voice? Why is it different? Her wings lift. Flicker. Then fall again. As they go still, so does the ache within her. Something about this glowing creature, this Astraea... something about her feels...

The nymph clears her throat, and nods.
And when she speaks, it’s like remembering a song.

One she thought she’d forgotten.


continue reading ->

Hey everyone!  Heart here.  It's been a minute, hasn't it?

Welcome back to Chrysalis.  This is the start of book 2:  Imago.  This book will conclude L's story, and we hope you will enjoy taking this journey with us!

We will be returning to the post every other week format, so you can look forward to Ch1: The Mad King's release come Friday February 16th at 12p EST!

Thanks for reading, and leave a comment below if you'd like to live in the Wilds and why.   I would

Not  (´･ᴗ･ ` )

Take care, and thanks for stopping by!
-Heart