Applying Exotic Metaphysics (Changes, 20.4)

The earth was alive. I could feel it shifting and moving, the trees pushing themselves aside as we moved. It was like a pocket of the Warp in the West was still warping. The terrain was alive. It was following the Witch’s will. She stepped through the vines and undergrowth as it moved aside. The breton behind her kept glaring at me, prowling like some kind of cat.

The snow howled above, but we were nestled in the valleys. It was unseasonably warm, and the canopy was thick enough that barely anything came down.

It felt like I was entering someone else’s territory. Wolves edging in around the corners. The crows and birds. A bear, black as night. Their animas were too active, meridian lines buzzing through their bodies. The animals either weren’t animals, or had been trained to use magic.

I sprung from rock to rock myself, even as the vines and moss tried to get in my way. I didn’t let myself fall behind.

The breton moved behind a tree, and then was a wildcat. Some sinuous, dark-furred mountain lion.

She glared at me with the same eyes.

It only encouraged me to push forward.

Eventually, the old crone stopped at the crest of a hill. The trees were so tightly packed, the living land so cluttered, that I couldn’t see past her. She turned to face me, crow’s eyes locking with mine.

“You step on our land, beastkin, with gift from neither our lord nor lady, from the guidance of a heretic.” She says. “It is a foolish thing you’re doing. You step into a wolf’s den as a hare.”

“The strong do as they will, and the weak must either cower, die, or flee.” I said. "Isn't that your belief?"

She smiled.

Then a crow was in her place, flying off- into the clearing behind her, cawing as she went.

I crested over the hill, and looked down. The clearing at the bottom of the valley was low, nestled between the mountains. The snow from above seemed to blow over, not a single flake even touching the inside of the clearing. Flowers scattered across the clearing floor. They dug their roots and vines into the skeletons. Bone crunched under my talons as I made my way toward the center of the clearing. A tree stood there, ancient and grey, but it had been carved into a spiral, even though branches still hung from the carvings. 

Carved in the wood were motifs of women in flowers riding beasts, iconography of flowers, of hearts. Glyphs and runes that were ancient in nature, but my gift with languages told me all I needed to know. Hunting, sacrifice, fertility. Jephre and Dibella. Hearts, extracted from the chests of men, fed to the plants as the rest was butchered and eaten. Love and murder entwined. Their son, Hircine.

“God of the Green, and the Goddess of Flowers.” I said. “Mother and Father.”

“The Hunting Prince is their gift to our world,” A woman said. “There is beauty in the hunt. The stretch of muscle, the scent in your teeth.”

She was old. Older than the crone… but her body was young. Untouched by time, would be more accurate. She didn’t wear a scrap of clothing… But her nails were long and sharp. Black, like ebony, and just as sharp. Almost like my own claws. It was evidence that she had what I needed.

“Would you be the Beldam of the Tamarilyn?”

“You would be Winged Witch.” She responded. “Intruder and Invader. Pretty… little.. meddler.”

Standing at the edges of the clearing, I could see the eyes of beasts… and the standing dead. Not skeletons, like before, but men. Bretons, redguards, even a few nords. They stood with their chests open, hearts replaced with briarhearts. Stone-still, weapons in hand. 

“I’m here to take your secrets.” I told her.

I wasn’t about to play around with negotiation. I didn’t think they would appreciate it. After all… they seemed pretty direct.

“A knowledge seeker.” The beldam trailed off. “You think our secrets are trinkets to be stolen? They must be earned.”

“I’m not coming empty-handed,” I said. I reached onto my back- and wrapped in the cloth there was something I’d asked Kirat for. From her adventures in Solstheim, something she’d taken from one of Hircine’s own aspects.

I pulled the cloth off of the Spear of the Hunter-

And there was nothing underneath. No spear under the wrappings.

Damn it. This is why I hated the artifacts that had minds of their own.

The Beldam laughed- a high cackle.

“Our Lord of the Hunt watches. Did you think you could simply steal his favor? Give it away as if it was your own?”

“... I’d hoped.” I hissed, before glancing back at her. “... I suppose I am coming empty-handed. But I need to know the secrets behind your transformation. I need to know the magic… for a hunt of my own.”

“A hunt.” She says, a raised eyebrow. “And what do you hunt? Your form is already a hunter’s body. You have tooth and claw. Scale and gill. Why is your form not perfect?”

“Disguise. For my hunt… I can’t resemble myself.”

“A better reason than most,” The beldam hissed. “But with your stolen favor missing, and nothing to grant in exchange…  we will have you hunt with us. Sup of our power, taste the first blood along your gullet, and bring their flesh for our lady’s flowers. If you show our lord and lady this respect, you will already have grasped our secrets.”

I glanced at her for a long, quiet moment. I’d never been one for religion- much less the Daedric Princes. But Fleshcrafting alone wouldn’t do.

“Fine.”

Her grin widened.

Witches stepped out in their human forms. Clay jugs and bowls came out of nowhere.

Right. Of course.

I’d be drinking weird shit.

====

My mind was wavering. The heat and warmth pressed against my face. It was too stuffy, too hot.

I was dancing. So were they. So were the stars. They spun dizzily around us, singing magick down to the earth. The flowers bloomed. They opened and closed around us. Someone was beating on drums.

The blood in my mouth, in the bowl in my hands, dripping down my chest... It wasn’t just blood. It was Belladonna, Canis Root. Wolfsbane. A tea, a potent brew. It shouldn’t have affected me- us- like this. It was the heat. The pressure. The magic. All of the coven were just as intoxicated. The breton from before- the one I’d been fighting. It was hers, wrist bleeding out over the bowl. Her form shifted, shimmering from breton to cougar and back. A boar-man took the bowl from me, his tusks in the way as he drank deep. He laughed, the fire glinting against oiled skin.

“Japhre brings us back. Back to before we had form." He said.

My vision swam. I could feel the heat, the animalistic frenzy building. Magicka rushed through the air. People’s forms were blending together.  I could feel our Lord, our Lady. They were close, so close we could just touch them.

The witches were shifting now. Their forms twisting, reorienting themselves into something else they could have been, something their souls had once been, before blackened by the struggles of life and death.

A detached, distant part of me registered the magic and focus. It recognized the mysticism element, the altered mindset- based on faith and belief- needed to cast the magic properly. Needed to create a new form.

If this is how Emylee learned- and later lost- her form… I could understand why she’s so used to learning through feeling.

“Listen,” the Beldam said, suddenly in my face. Her bronzed, freckled skin seemed so soft. Was she a nymph? “Are you a beast? A man? A mer?”

No. We're all spirits. I shook my head. The world swam as I did- I couldn't talk.

She grabbed it, holding my head in place. Shark’s teeth were thick in her jaw, and her hands were pale.

“We’re all spirits,” She said. “A form is temporary. A form is a gift from our patrons. A piece on the arena for us to struggle through. To live and die and enjoy.”

Slowly, carefully, she started to sing. Not in common, but in Ehlnofex. My focus was shot- but I could barely understand the meaning. It was a song about the emergence of life and love through the struggle of living. It was a birthday celebration. A giving of thanks from the people of this world to the creators- For the paver of the road. The blooming of the amaranth. The forging of the wheel that spins straw to gold, soul to man, and man to god.

“Wriggling bug. Chrysalis.” She hissed. “Bloom. Become your newer self, your hungrier self.”

Mawaleel’s work- her carefully designed, carefully fleshcrafted body dissolved.

I remembered that day in the Temple of One, when I overdosed on potions- when I took care of the An’Xileel with nothing but tooth and claw.

My claws became sharper. My teeth grew, large and fanged. Scales shuddered up and down my body- my tail hooked.

The witches- the pack, a swarm of beasts- began to spread out into the forest, hunting. Off to draw blood.

I had to join them.

My shadow expanded. I had choices. So many choices. At this time, at this moment, I could become anything.

I kept that moment in my shadow, stored it away for later, when I was sober.

My two legs dug furrowed claws into the earth. My hardened crest took shape over my head. And my tusks- they were narrow, tight together, ready to penetrate anything I charged.

Hard-headed. Stubborn to the point of madness, and painfully direct.

Powerful legs threw me forward, a crazed, frothing rush to catch up. All sly trickery and cunning replaced with strength and speed.

The bellow of a full-grown Kagouti made the birds fly from the trees…

And we hunted, our breaths and claws as one.