Prologue: The Death of One
The inky rain swelled into fat little beads before they dripped down the sides of the buildings to join the procession of black water rushing along the streets and into the culverts. A flood of people crowded the streets. The ramble swaying in lazy saunters, their umbrellas blending together to make the daily migration of the unbothered humans mindlessly herding themselves daily to their next destination.
None of them would see him.
The wool over their eyes kept them blind to the creatures that lurked beyond the Fabric and in the Shadow Weave where wolves in sheep’s clothing stalked along the edges of the seams, waiting in patient civility for a tear within the Fabric. Tailuur existed in the Fabric itself, not a creature of the Shadow Weave or the Material, a transient entity in the between. A prophet who stitched the Fabric, mending the frail veil with the spirits that all living things left behind. He stood tall over their umbrellas, only seeing them through the haze that separated his world from theirs. His four slender arms sat in starched fabrics in stiff, fitted sleeves. A large, structured hat with a wide and ostentatious brim shadowed his features. Beads of onyx crystal lined the brim, the black rain kissing each beaded tassel before plummeting to the stones below.
He felt the uncomfortable tear of a seam, each snap of coiled thread making frayed ends at the edges of his sensory essence. A primal essence, he could feel changes in the Fabric as entities came and went, just as all prophets, like Tailuur, could. Corval appeared beside the prophet, closing the seam behind him. The man was young in features, a strong face structure, crowned in a halo of brilliant blond hair and cold steel eyes. His eye color had changed dramatically since he first became a threadbearer, an indication he given himself fully. The link between prophet and threadbearer was now complete and their power woven together.
Rich velvet adorned Corval’s crimson suit, lined with the fluidity of silk, giving him the essences to move with graceful ease and change his solid form to bend and slip unnaturally. He did not enrich the fit with hardened jewels like that of his prophet, instead he layered silk flowers that traced up his arms and gauzier vines that embroidered the lush fabrics before flowing off his dress in long drifting strands, giving him the essence of speed over strength. He liked the freedom too much to follow the trend set by Tailuur’s stiffened robes.
“She’s faded between the weaves. Traversing the Fabric without the use of seams. I tracked her through half the city. She might be vexim.” Corval pulled his sleeve up. The sigils of his inkwell churned with motion as he commanded new links to form and others to diffuse, reorganizing his abilities to consider high maneuverability, replacing his velvet essences with more silk. Tailuur turned to his threadbearer, his gaze narrowing in curiosity. The appearance of a vexim was an omen of difficult times to come, as they often clung to areas of concentrated Fabric tears for their illusory tricks. These people would not be safe for much longer.
“Fading through the Fabric.” He chewed on the notion, his charcoal eyes scanning the surrounding area. Vexims didn’t truly fade, they had to traverse the seams like everything else, but their illusions gave truth to that sort of trickery.
Tailuur had heard rumor of a fading serpent making its way through the taut threads that spanned from city to city. They had a mindless hunger for the leeched power that gathered at a significant tear. The beast didn’t take the form of a woman, though. Tailuur didn’t like this. He hummed when he realized the migration of people had dispersed without notice. The quiet of the street sunk into his ears. Rays of sun piercing through the indigo clouds, bursting into a kaleidoscope of vibrant purple, blues, and pinks.
Tailuur twisted towards Corval when he realized the shadows no longer moved, and the black rain gathered on the ground but ceased to fall around them. He felt the Fabric thin the Shadow Weave was growing closer, distorting the air in an eerie hum. The world beyond this one that was home to those without spirits. Creatures of hunger and annihilation. Tailuur felt the thrum of their power ring in his ears, their malevolence grew until it permeated the air and reached a terrifying apex. A creature of the Shadow Weave had arrived.
Moving swiftly Tailuur plunged two of his hands through Corval’s back, protruding all the ways through his chest. His long needlepoint fingers piercing flesh like a pincushion. Corval did not flinch or gasp, nor bleed, as Tailuur drew out the needles from his back, the threads of their connection pulling in gossamer ropes connecting them. Their power could now flow between them, and prophet would guide, and the threadbearer could fight. Tailuur acted first, his essence of stiff wool enrapturing Corval in black wool armor that fit with perfect form over his plush velvets.
An explosion of force hit Corval straight on, snapping some of the connective threads and throwing the threadbearer against the Fabric, his solidity melting into a fluid substance that spread the impact thin against the ground before springing back to the form of the young man. Tailuur lost his balance for a second but quickly regained his footing. Their opponent didn’t seem to have been aiming for the prophet. Tailuur reformed the protective layer over his threadbearer and began to stitch together a weapon for him.
Before them was a woman, hunched in frayed nerves. A metallic thread piercing through her skin wove long strips of gauze that hung off her body in flowing streamers. Each stripe painted harshly with pulsing sigils. She looked nothing like any demon of the Shadow Weave they had seen before. The strange patterns of the gauze extended into her inkwell, which had expanded from her forearms to encase her body in strange, malformed markings. Strings of health sigils twisted around her arms and legs in an unnatural pattern. Stitched patches of power were stamped into her body, a tapestry of deep blues and sickly purples blemishing every inch of her. Tailuur’s black eyes widened at the grotesquery that was her visage. A wool blindfold wrapped around her head, embroidered with a sigil of sight, the heavy fabric stiff with her dried blood.
“What is she?” Corval could not snuff the astonishment in his voice as he looked upon the abomination. He looked at his own inkwell, gauging his health sigils, considering hers were much longer and seemed to have no end as they coiled around her body. His inkwell itched as it moved beneath his skin, warning him that he had been afflicted with Fear. He felt the debuff claw its way into his heart and plant itself, the subtle tingle of hesitation now dictated his movements.
“Trouble.” Tailuur yanked at their connection. Corval felt Tailuur’s pull on and so he pushed the graceful fluidity of his steps to Tailuur. In exchange, Tailuur’s defenses erupted through the Fabric through Corval’s wielding of it and blocked off the woman’s fading attempt. She screeched in anger as she found herself rebounding backwards and unable to enter the Material.
Corval slipped loose from the wool and through a seam to the Material to hasten his travel. Tailuur could feel his passage, the power draining on both their reserves. The threadbearer then appeared back into the Fabric, on the other side of the street behind the woman. She spun unnaturally towards the threadbearer, facing him head on. Tailuur couldn’t ignore her uncanny ability to sense changes in the Fabric. She wore gauze; none of the more expensive Fabric essences appeared on her. She shouldn’t have been able to sense Corval, the sight sigil on her blindfold was primitive.
Tailuur continued to work on the hardened stitches along the weapon, a large sweeping scythe. His fingers worked with rapid, mechanical speed as he embroidered the blade from hardened Fabric essences, he kept stored away for just such a use. Meanwhile, Corval engaged the woman. She stood facing him, her hands splaying outwards as sharp blades protruded from her wrists, doubling her reach. She enclosed her hands around each once they had hit a roughly equal length to her arm and then advanced with a practiced fluidity towards Corval. The threadbearer countered her, using the hardened woolen armor to deflect the strikes as he danced around her. He encased his feet with silk, leaving a trail of silk flowers behind him. This was how the young man would dominate the battlefield. The more the ground bloomed with the rich flowers, the faster he could move around his target and in turn the slower it made them as they tried to traverse the silk garden.
Tailuur felt the need to rush the process of creating the scythe, but crafting one so powerful always took longer and he hadn’t the time to prepare it beforehand. As Corval fought with the woman, Tailuur could feel his power draining through the strings that connected the two.
Corval tore a strip of wool from his armor. He had little practice with manipulating wool, but he needed to slow this woman down. Silk flowers bloomed along his chest, the silk essence allowing him the power to malform his body and encircle her. He stitched the wool around her, wrapping it up and cinching it closed like a corset and pinning her arms to her sides. She tried to bite him, and he punished the attempt with a quick strike to her face, landing with a crack to her jaw. For a moment he looked at her terrifying visage, the Fear daring him to flee, gripping his heart in its clenched fist. He saw the sigils pulse on her blindfold. Whether it was stupidity or bravery that dictated him, he grabbed the blindfold and pulled.
She resisted, spinning her blade towards him with an ear-piercing scream, ripping at the wool corset he wrapped around her. Corval kicked at her blades, but he couldn’t relieve her of the weapons. She shrieked and wrestled with the wool bindings while he laced her shut, her frantic and feral movements tearing and warping the surrounding Fabric. The thrum became ceaseless as it grew in their minds. Corval couldn’t fight the Fear off any longer and he pulled his connection to Tailuur and slipped with ease back to him, feeling the relief wash over him as he was no longer within the aura of her Fear.
“It’s ready.” Tailuur offered the large scythe to his threadbearer. “Careful, it could attract more attention than we want.” The enchantment pulsed in Corval’s hands, it was meant to melt away the fear and add strength to his attacks. The threadbearer prodded the power of the Fabric enchanted weapon, but to his disappointment the Fear still gripped him, his inkwell didn’t change. Corval’s gray eyes met Tailuur’s, Fear’s grasp clench firmly around the young man’s heart.
Corval terrified gaze widened with a guttural choke, blood erupting from his chest. Tailuur felt his semblance of humanity clench the empty cavern where a human would keep their heart. He had no heart, no mind, and no soul. He was, is, and always will be a servant of the souls that passed into the Fabric. Facilitating death, for as long as the threads of time stretched into infinity. Grief and pain were terrible things, all-consuming. Without them, though, he would not care that he was watching Corval bleed like a man and die like one too. Humans were fragile things. The threadbearer slumped on the twin blades that protruded from his chest, the threads that connected the threadbearer to his prophet snapped with a pitched ting that coursed through Tailuur. He felt the hollow tear of losing his Material connection.
It happened in an instant, before he could think. Wrapped in yards of tulle, translucent fabric entrapping him and pulling him through the Fabric as though he was transparent.
“I’m sorry.” Loomia’s feminine voice whispered in the Prophet’s mind. She must have done this. Pulled Tailuur from the battle and plunged him into the abyssal travel.
“He knew the costs.” Tailuur replied dryly. “Where are you taking me?”
“To find another. You are not the only one who has lost this day. Morgan is dead.” The voice was flat and unemotional, even as she spoke of her own threadbearers’ death. Tailuur could feel her pain as she wrapped him in her protective tulle. “Something is moving, Tailuur. It’s killing the threadbearers, even before they come to know the Fabric. We cannot wait.”
“Take me to Reeth. I have something for him.” Tailuur clutched the blindfold of bloody wool, the strange sight sigils twitched along the threads.