Chapter Text
Narinder very quickly realized just how long healing was going to take.
For some odd reason, he had the thought process that it would take no longer than a day or two at most. If he was being honest, his current situation still hadn’t quite sunk in yet. The realization of just how powerless he was and would continue to be was something he couldn’t wrap his mind around. And when that second day passed and his hands and arms were still no better than before, he decided to accept his fate.
It was humiliating. A week had passed now, and the Lamb was still insistent on him remaining inside the tent. After the little stunt he had pulled with the raccoon, they hadn’t been too fond of letting him free roam. Especially not with the cover on his eye off. Speaking of, he still had to wear it. Even when he was inside of the tent he had deemed his new prison.
The only other people he saw were the damned lamb, Ratau, and Feson. Those three, and only those three. It was beginning to bother him. He knew that the Followers were aware of his presence (not because of the kid he had scared, but rather because Feson had mentioned it in passing). They’d all seen Lambert bring in a rather injured looking cat.
“And is it not raising suspicion that they haven’t seen me since?” Narinder had asked one day when Feson was reapplying the bandages. The elderly stag had merely chuckled at that, nodding a lot. “Most of the young folk find it a bit peculiar… The kits like to talk about sneaking over here during the night to investigate.”
Narinder had rolled his eyes at that, wincing at a sting of pain. “And why haven’t they yet? Kids have a tendency to be mischievous… I’m surprised none have snuck in yet.”
“How do you know they haven’t?” Feson had asked, stopping to apply more poultice. And Narinder had laughed in response. “I don’t sleep. I’d know.” It hadn’t been a lie, and it still was not a lie. He did not sleep. While he still felt exhausted, he didn’t sleep. Clearly, it wasn’t that bad. Feson had given him a strange look at that, but he had brushed past it with a shrug. “The Lamb has also given strict orders not to bother you… No one wants to break the rules.”
It was simple small talk. He didn’t enjoy having the bandages fixed, but he preferred the stag and rat over the lamb. He’d even had some… admittedly nice conversations with Ratau. All while he was teased for wincing in pain at every tug of the bandages. He didn’t necessarily hate their company, but he’d be found dead before admitting that it was nice to not be alone all the time.
And then there was the Lamb. The Vessel. The traitor. Lambert. They visited a lot. They came with Ratau and Feson whenever his bandages needed to be changed before leaving, as if just checking in on him. Not only that, but they had a tendency to sit outside the tent and ramble about news around the Cult. Something about telling him what was happening since he wasn’t able to see himself.
And the food. They had a terrible tendency of bringing him food every night. He didn’t eat it. He didn’t care to or need to (seeing as he hadn’t withered away just yet). Every time a bowl had been left out, he hadn’t touched it. And every morning, he’d listen to them sigh defeatedly as they took the bowl away.
But he was beginning to grow tired of waiting. Healing was a slow, slow process. Not to mention that the hand the lamb had supposedly made better hurt far more than before. The first day afterwards was bearable. After that, however, the pain grew and grew. It was a tight, sharp pressure centered in the palm of his hand. Not only that, but it was spreading up his arm from the inside. He was almost certain there was some sort of infection, but he didn’t bother to pester or bring it up. He’d be damned if he lost the last of his remaining dignity by doing such a thing.
But then, the Lamb didn’t show up one night. And then the next. And the next. Narinder’s first thought was that they had finally given up on trying to win him over. But that didn’t seem right. It didn’t settle in his head. So, when Ratau came to fix his bandages, he decided to ask about it.
“Where is the Lamb?”
It had been silent up until the question. A comfortable silence. Upon Narinder breaking that silence, Ratau stilled for a moment. Then, he relaxed and laughed a little. “Lambert? The kid went on a crusade.” He explained, grabbing the bowl of freshly ground poultice before gently taking some out to apply to Narinder’s arm. The cat hissed a little at the contact, biting his bottom lip. “What for?” He muttered.
Ratau gestured to the top of his head where a replica crown sat. “They’re looking for the shards.” Simple question. Simple answer. But Narinder bristled all the same. “They said they’d give me back some of my powers.” He spat out, tail lashing. Ratau scoffed a little, tugging a bandage tighter. “And they’re still going to uphold that deal. But rumors have been saying that there’s been quite a few disturbances. And those disturbances have, coincidentally, lined up with where the shards are.”
Narinder didn’t respond. Rather, he turned his head away and rolled his eyes. His tail flicked once. Twice. “Can I leave this wretched thing?”
“The Cult?” Ratau glanced up, raising an eyebrow. Narinder laughed a little. “As much as I’d love to do that, I’m sure you wouldn’t allow me.” He sighed. “No… I mean the tent. I tire of sitting here all the time. What harm will there be if I walk around? My hood will be up. My eye will be covered.” He looked back over at Ratau.
For a moment, the rat seemed to contemplate. And then, to Narinder’s surprise, the rat heaved a sigh. “Lambert doesn’t want you interacting with any of the flock. And they have a reason to be worried about it.” He carefully tilted Narinder’s hand in his own, weaving the bandages between his fingers with precision and thought. “And if anything were to happen…” He trailed off, nose twitching.
Narinder grumbled something incoherent, slumping down slightly. It took him a moment or two to realize that Ratau had stopped wrapping the bandages. With an annoyed sigh, he carefully straightened up. “What is it? Having second thoughts?”
“No… something smells off.” Ratau squinted a little before blinking down at Narinder’s arm. Without bothering to explain what he did next, the rat carefully lifted Narinder’s hand up to his nose and began to smell it. Narinder bristled and tugged his hand away. “What are you doing?” He hissed out.
“Just gimme your hand.” Ratau ordered, holding his hands out expectantly. Narinder sneered at him. “If you think for a moment that I’m going to–” He cut himself off with a little yelp of pain as Ratau smacked his cane against the cat’s shin. He let out a quiet growl in response, but, hesitantly, extended his hand back towards Ratau.
The other greedily took hold, pulling it back towards his nose. A few awkward moments passed where Narinder found himself awkwardly waiting. The only sound (aside from his shaky breathing) was the sound of Ratau inhaling and exhaling rapidly. But eventually, to Narinder’s relief, Ratau let go of his hand and leaned away.
“Well?” Narinder demanded, raising an eyebrow.
“You smell of rot.”
“How flattering.”
“Your hand. It smells of rot and decay.” Ratau rephrased, his nicked ear twitching a little. “People don’t tend to come back from injuries such as those without losing something.” He muttered, eyes flicking towards Narinder’s arm before returning to his face. Narinder scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not just anyone, Ratau. You know this.”
“You’re not a god anymore, either, though.” Ratau remarked. “You forget that you can get hurt more easily now.” As if to make a point, Ratau gestured to his scarred eye. “You can scar. For all we know, you can very well die.” He added. Narinder snorted, shaking his head. “I was the God of Death. I can’t die, rat.” He grumbled.
Ratau made a face, but he didn’t argue against the statement. Rather, he changed the focus. “Your right arm and hand aren’t looking good. I’m sure they don’t feel good either, no?” He raised an eyebrow. Narinder begrudgingly agreed, nodding stiffly. Ratau nodded in response, a firm agreement. “Then you know that I’m right. We can talk with Lambert about this when they return, but I find it exceedingly important that it be dealt with.”
“Or what?” Narinder sighed, pushing himself more upright. “If I were any other mortal, I would’ve been dead by now. No?” He looked at Ratau expectantly. When the rat shook his head, he continued. “It is exceedingly clear to me that things work differently for me. Would you not agree?” Once again, Ratau nodded. Narinder continued once more. “I don’t know what you are suggesting, but if it’s what I think you are, I have no doubt in my mind that I will recover just fine.”
“It’s been a week, my lord.” Ratau argued. “While it is admittedly early to decide, the fact that it has gotten worse is sign enough, no?”
“You were always worried about everything, Rat.” Narinder sneered. “That’s what made you weak. Too worried and frightened. Too cowardly.” He shook his head, and Ratau’s eyes darkened. With a sharp inhale, the rat rose to his feet before turning and marching out. Narinder snarled after him. “Even now, you walk away from opposition! You haven’t changed!”
No response sounded from Ratau. Narinder listened quietly as his footsteps faded away before sighing and slumping down. His gaze drifted over to his arm tiredly. Ratau hadn’t finished bandaging it up. Parts of his arm were still uncovered. Charred black and angry red glared back at him, pulsing with heat and pain. He heaved a sigh, shaking his head before leaning forward to grab the abandoned mortar.
“Fine.. I’ll do it myself.” He muttered, carefully setting the mortar down in his lap before attempting to apply some of the poultice. It was a messy process, and he could’ve sworn it burned more when he was doing it himself. At the first contact, he jerked, legs bouncing up and knocking the mortar off his lap onto the ground. He grimaced at the sound of the contents spilling.
“Fantastic…” He hissed out, leaning forward over himself to pick up the mortar. To his disappointment, it lay just outside of his reach. He groaned, a hollow, defeated sound. For a moment, he let himself sit there hunched over with his head resting on his knees. Then, with a new determination, he raised his head and continued to lean forward, reaching out with his right hand.
No matter how hard he tried, however, he couldn’t quite reach. He’d just have to get up and–
Something moved.
It moved forth from his palm, snaking through the air before clasping onto the mortar. He stilled abruptly, the fur on the back of his neck slowly standing up. It was a black, tendril like substance. It looked like liquid and webbing. It was coming from his palm. He could feel it moving. He shuddered.
And then, slowly, he straightened up. He watched as the mortar was raised up by whatever was extending from his hand. He held it there in the air for a moment or two, mesmerized, before the shape began to tremble and waver. Not a moment later, it seemed to disappear, dropping the mortar down onto his lap.
He rotated his hand carefully in front of him, inspecting it carefully. Ratau hadn’t exactly been wrong about how it looked. While the Lamb had healed it to some degree, practically all of that progress had slowly deteriorated over the last week. The same ugly hole was back in the palm of his hand. And now, it was getting worse.
Several smaller holes had begun to form over his hand. They were beginning to trail up his arm, now. While they weren’t nearly as deep or horrid looking, Narinder could only assume that they would soon become worse. As much as he had denied it, Narinder knew he was not immune to injuries such as this. He hadn’t even been immune while he was a God. The damage had just been lessened, and his healing had been greater. Now, he was stuck with this body (horrible, putrid, weak body).
There was only so much more that could be done. He was no fool. He may have denied it, but he was not delusional. His hand was as good as gone, and his arm was sure to follow. The burns had charred and burnt away too much. When he had grasped the blade in a last ditch effort, he had felt it slice into his hand. He had felt it wedge itself deep into his body and bone. Perhaps that had been the start of it.
Perhaps that was why he had been able to do what he just did.
“Narinder.”
Narinder snapped out of his thoughts with a blink. He raised his head to look to the entrance of his tent, and was met with the sight of Feson. The stag looked disappointed and worried. “Ratau told me you weren’t cooperating.” He murmured. Narinder scoffed, shaking his head. “Foolish rat was making decisions without thinking.” He spat, leaning back.
Feson sighed, carefully treading into the tent. He paused for a moment when he stepped on the spilt poultice before shaking his head. He sat down where Ratau had been seated moments before and held out his hand. Narinder hesitated for a moment before sighing and carefully lending his own hand over.
While it had gotten worse, that meant his nerves had been… well… fried. There wasn’t much to feel anymore. Not in his hand, at the very least. He could still feel the faintest ghost of touches, and he could still curl his fingers in the slightest, but it took effort. More effort than it should have.
“You know he’s right.”
Narinder sighed, looking away. He could just barely feel Feson examining his hand. Feson laughed a little at his response. “You’re going to give me more grey hairs if you keep acting like a child…” He joked. Narinder turned back to glare at him, ears pinned back. “You don’t have any grey hairs.” He argued. Feson sighed a little, nodding in agreement. “It’s true… you caught me.”
Narinder rolled his eyes, looking away from him once more. His fur was brown, not grey. Sure, a lighter brown, but not grey.
“Do you mind if I try to make a guess here? Just… shooting in the dark, here.” Feson stopped for a moment, and Narinder could feel the elder’s eyes boring into him. He waved at the other dismissively with his other hand. “Go on.” He mumbled, trying to seem disinterested.
“I believe you don’t want to see the Lamb… which is why you are so adamant about not having this taken care of by them, or acknowledging that it is getting worse.” Narinder stilled a little. He could feel the way Feson beamed. “Am I right?”
“That damned Lamb is a traitor and a thief. I don’t want them bothering to take care of anything related to me.” Narinder growled out. Feson made a little noise. “But you two are going to work together, no? To get your Crown back, right?” He tilted his head. Narinder glanced back at him, nodding slowly. “Right…” He confirmed. Feson frowned a little. “Then why hold off? It would be better to work past your sour feelings now. Sooner than later… if something were to happen out there, it could put the both of you in danger.”
Narinder frowned a little. He had a point. His tail flicked irritatedly behind him. Feson spoke up again. “I could tell them for you.” He offered quietly. “About the condition of your arm. If you want.” He spoke with genuine sincerity. Not in a way that made Narinder feel small. Not in a way that humiliated him. His ears flattened down even further against his skull. Begrudgingly, he nodded.
Feson smiled.
___
“Almost there… just a bit further.”
Lambert heaved a sigh of relief as they wiped their fleece off. The crusade they had been on had been longer than they expected. They had one simple goal in mind, and that was to find the shard they were currently tracking. They figured it would only take a few days, but here they were on day five of the crusade. They hadn’t intended on being away from the Cult this long. They were worried about anything bad happening.
Ratau was there to help run things, but there was only so much Ratau could do in place of them. The flock had been informed of their departure, of course, and that Ratau would be in charge for the time being. But they knew that it would only be so long until the Cult began to grow restless and weary for their return.
The heretics were still relatively easy to blow through. Even if they only had two shards of the Crown, they were able to defend themself relatively well. Their sword still struck hard and managed to get the job done. And their curses, even if slightly weaker, still managed to deal enough damage to let them land the finishing blow. With everything that was happening, it didn’t feel as though much had changed.
The first shard they had found had been relatively easy to retrieve. Well, relatively easy aside from the fact that it had been moving all over the place. It wasn’t necessarily hostile, but it had been making a mess of things. It hadn’t been the easiest to grab onto, but once they had, it had stopped. They were just hoping it was the same for this one.
They heaved out another heavy sigh, carefully pushing through a bush before stilling.
Another clearing stretched out in front of them, except it wasn’t originally a clearing. It seemed like a field of tall grass and bushes that had been chopped short. On the other end, he could make out the shape of a spiky, black, liquid-like object darting around. A single, glaring red eye was patched onto its mass. It hadn’t noticed them yet.
Alright… Shard number three. They nodded to themself, slowly creeping forward. The last one hadn’t been hostile, and while they were making a mess of the place it was in, it hadn’t lashed out at them. They just had to sneak up on it, pounce, and grab it. If all went well, they would succeed on their first attempt. If not, then they would just play a game of cat and mouse.
The shard made a warbling sound, arching through the air with a bounce as it moved to the left. It seemed to be inspecting something. It was occupied. Now was their chance.
They bunched their legs up, tensed, and launched themself forward soundlessly. They were on trajectory, and the shard seemingly hadn’t noticed them. It was going perfectly. But then, the shard seemed to stiffen. The eye on its body moved through its liquidy form to its back, locking onto Lambert. With a shrill shriek, one of the many spikes protruding from its body suddenly stiffened and shot forward.
Lambert narrowly avoided the attack, twisting midair to land by the shard’s side with a stuttering gasp. Just hold still! They lurched forward, hands outstretched to try and grab its form. However, to their dismay, the shards body moved around their hand, creating a curved shape to keep itself from making contact. Their momentum left the lamb stumbling forward before they face planted on the ground.
A warbling sound came from the shard. It bounced up and down, its body waving as the eye lit up with glee. Lambert carefully raised their face from the ground, jaw gaping. “Are you… laughing at me?” They breathed out. The noises simply increased, and the eye squeezed itself shut. Lambert’s jaw dropped even further.
“You little–”
They reached behind them in one swift motion, grasping the shards and focusing. Within a split second, their own sword emerged forth and extended, plunging straight into the mass. The noises abruptly stopped, and the eye shot open with an almost shocked look. Then, it grew half-lidded with defeat before it was slowly absorbed into their sword.
“Hah! Yes! Finally!”
Lambert cheered, relaxing their focus. Now that they were looking at the current shape of the Crown, they quickly realized that this was a much smaller shard. It was almost crumb-like. They sighed a little, shaking their head softly. “Well… it’s better than nothing, I suppose… I’ll just give you to Narinder.” They tapped the shards gently, smiling before pocketing them once more. “Now to head back…”
They closed their eyes for a moment, focusing before a red glow slowly begins to light up the area. Within the next moment, they blink and they are back on the Cult grounds. Lambert lets out a relieved sigh, shoulders slouching as they slowly waltz towards the main grounds of the site.
It’s been five days since they were last here, so it’s good to check in on things from where everyone usually resides. They are immediately greeted upon their return, to which they offer a few tired waves back. No sign of Ratau or Feson yet. The slightest pang of worry worms its way into their chest, but they quickly shove it down.
“Yes, yes… I am back!” They announce, waving their hands a little. “Let’s all calm ourselves! I had a very rough journey!” Thankfully, that seems to calm the crowd for now. At the very least, most begin to disperse and go back to whatever it is they were doing before. Once the crowd clears up a bit, they’re finally able to spot Ratau.
He’s staring off in the direction of the tent Narinder is in with an unreadable expression on his face. Worrying, but they decide to wait until they hear any news. With a skip to their step, they prance over to the other.
“Ratau! How have things been?”
The rat startles at the sudden voice, jerking around to look at Lambert with his eye blown wide. “Gods! You scared me half to death! Don’t do that, kid!” He scolds, shaking his head with a hand over his chest. Lambert smiles in response, shrugging their shoulders. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best!”
“I take it your crusade was a success?” Ratau asks after he’s regained his composure. Lambert nods, fishing the shards out of their pocket and pointing to the small piece they’ve recently gathered. “Got this one just now… it was pretty feisty. It actually tried fighting me.” They frown. “And then it laughed at me.”
“Laughed at you?” Ratau asks, incredulous. “What for?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
Ratau snickers a little, and Lambert tilts their head. “Have things been well here? The place isn’t burnt to the ground, so I assume so.” They tease, smiling at the other. Ratau sighs, shaking his head. “Your flock is fine and dandy. They aren’t as helpless as you make them out to be, you know.” Gods they wished it was like that for them.
“And Narinder?”
Ratau’s face falls. The pang of worry sharpens in their chest. “Did something happen?” They press. Ratau reaches a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, turning to start walking in the direction of the tent. “Feson said he wanted to tell you.” He mutters. Lambert’s frown deepens.
The walk to the tent is quiet for the rest of the duration. Ratau doesn’t make any jokes or small talk. Which is… worrying. They knew that the wounds were bad, but they had healed them somewhat. Narinder’s left arm was doing fine. He wasn’t sure what was causing such an issue in the right arm.
Infection was always a risk, sure, but they figured there would be more signs. Maybe a blister filled with pus or a bad smell. The last time they had been here, there hadn’t been any of that. They figured there would have also been a fever, or maybe an even worse appearance to the injury. But there hadn’t been anything of the sort. Or maybe they’d missed it.
“Feson! The kid is back!”
Lambert blinks and they’re outside the tent. Some shuffling sounds from the inside before the elderly stag pokes their head out, soon followed by the rest of their body. They smile. “I assume you were successful in your crusade?” He asks, and Lambert nods. “Yes, I was– but… what happened?”
Feson sighs a little, shaking his head. “Don’t sound so grave. Nobody died, and nobody is at risk of dying.” He looks towards Ratau. “I’m not sure what he said, but I assure you that all is as well as it can be.” As well as it can be. The phrasing throws them off. They feel a pit start to form in their stomach. “So what is it?”
“The arm and hand have gotten worse. The hand is well beyond recovery at this point. He may be somebody of interest with a unique body, but it’s no good to keep a hand that keeps deteriorating.” Feson explains. “And judging by what Ratau smelled, it’s spreading up his arm. More holes have been appearing. His arm is being eaten away.”
It’s not good. It’s not dying, but it’s not good. Lambert nods slowly, taking it in. Feson continues. “He’s not in any pain. We’re not sure if it’s from his nerves dying or the fact that he’s… different. But either way, Ratau and I have agreed that there’s one solution to this.”
Lambert blinks, looking up. “You don’t want the infection to spread to his body…”
“We don’t want the infection to spread by any means.” Feson sighs. “It’s a miracle that it hasn’t somehow gotten into his bloodstream yet. Or, if it has, it’s a miracle he’s not sick. If it gets to his torso, things could get worse. Fast. Not only that, but if it gets to his head…” He trails off, looking at Lambert. “I believe it’s what is best. And he does too.”
Lambert blinks again. “He does?” They echo, disbelief coating their voice. Ratau snorts from their side. “He didn’t like it very much when I said it…” He grumbles. It almost sounds like a complaint. Feson shakes his head a little. “He may be stubborn and argumentative, but he isn’t delusional. He understands what is at risk and what can happen. Even if he does function differently.”
And the realization suddenly hits them. Narinder was the God of Death. Past tense. They weren’t sure what he would be able to endure now. And after that, they weren’t sure what would happen if the damage became too extensive. For that matter, they didn’t know about themself. Narinder had been the one resurrecting them all those times.
But Narinder wasn’t the God of Death anymore.
They shake their head, drawing in a careful breath. They can focus on that later. “Okay… When–”
Something painful and sharp wrenches through the air. It’s a sound that is wrong. Unwelcome. Lambert can feel their body tensing. And the sound resonated from inside the tent.
Ratau is already pushing his way inside when Lambert finally moves.
Exhaustion has made Lambert weary. They’re tired, and they know it. It weighs heavily on their body. They aren’t sure what they’re looking at. They aren’t sure if they’re just seeing things. The tent isn’t incredibly well-lit, after all. But there’s a red glow, and that’s enough. A red glow that doesn’t belong. They don’t have candles that emit red light.
But the light is enough to help form shapes. The light seeping from under the tent’s flap also helps illuminate somewhat, but it isn’t enough. At first, all they can see is Narinder’s shape on the bed. And then there’s a red glow, emanating from the palm of his head. From the deep gash wound.
The shards thrum.
The room buzzes with energy. Something is about to happen. And they don’t know what. Their very first thought is to protect the elders. So they do.
Without a second of delay, Lambert lurches towards Feson and puts himself between the stag and the cat, drawing out the shards to materialize their sword. Ratau has his cane ready. They’re both prepared.
And then something bursts.
Something inky and black. Something with glowing red edges that swirls through the air, arcing around Narinder’s arm and hand. With the extra light, Lambert can see more clearly now. They can see the pained expression Narinder’s face has twisted into. They can see the remaining charred flesh around the palm of his hand peeling back and crumbling away, making way for more of the tendrils to burst and move. It’s oddly reminiscent of when they materialize the sword.
But that means it"s likely dangerous. And judging by the look on Narinder’s face, this isn’t something he’s been planning. This isn’t something he knows about. He looks just as shocked, if not concerned, as the others. But there’s also a mixture of pain etched into his features. In the way that his eyes squint and his fur bristles. In the way his tail rattles and his ears quiver. It’s painful.
And they have to cut if off at the source.
Lambert moves before anyone else can. They abandon Feson, darting forward and raising the sword up. Narinder’s expression twists again, this time into a face of confusion, and then realization. And he still has the gall to be stubborn. His lips curl back, a snarling cry leaving his mouth. “If you touch me–”
The sword slices through the air, clean and sharp. It’s like cutting through grass. There’s no resistance. As hard as the charred, burnt skin looks, it crumbles and caves beneath the pressure. Narinder’s eyes light up with a new pain, but it’s already been done.
With a hollow thud, the burnt appendage drops, and the writhing mass of black and red disappears.
They need bandages. They need bandages and a tourniquet and–
There’s another flicker of red. The light seeping in from under the tent flap seems to fade, as if a cloud has passed over the sun and blocked out its light. But there’s enough to see what is happening. There’s enough to watch. It comes in pulses, like lightning during a storm. One flash here, and another there.
Red lights up the room.
An inky, black mass of writhing tentacles seeps out from Narinder’s shoulder where his arm was connected. There’s no blood, as far as they can tell. All they can see is inky black ichor dripping from them as they pulse an angry red glow. The light fades.
Red lights up the room once more.
The tentacles are moving, now, weaving between each other almost as if braiding themselves together. The shards have stopped buzzing. The energy in the room has turned into static. Lambert can only watch as the light slowly fades out.
For one last, final time, the room lights up red.
The mass has formed an arm. It’s wraith-like in appearance, with uneven and moving edges. A red outline accompanies the look, solidifying a constant, dim red glow. Despite not being able to see much, Lambert can still make out the fact that it’s still moving. Despite having settled into a form, the stretches of black are still writhing.
They stop and stare. The arm on the ground lays long discarded, actively crumbling away. It’s almost as if it was just a hollow, flake-like shell. It’s turning to ashes and dust. Narinder is watching too. And then he’s staring at the mass on his shoulder. He’s staring, and then it’s moving.
It’s slow, but the arm lifts into the air. The hand rotates, pivoting on the wrist joint while Narinder examines it. Lambert feels their blood turn to ice in their veins. Did he have a shard this entire time? Was he just waiting?
“No, Lamb, I did not have a shard…”
They startle, eyes widening even further if possible. They can feel Feson and Ratau’s tension behind them.
Carefully, and slowly, Narinder turns to look over at the three, his two visible eyes half-lidded. They glow the same red color that outlines the new arm. “But I do seem to have a bit of my power back.” He grins, a devilish, unsettling grin.
Their sword is still drawn. “Don’t try anything.”
It’s an order. It’s supposed to be a threat. And Narinder laughs.
“Now why would I go doing that?” He tilts his head, looking back to admire the arm as it slowly changes shape. First, the form of a scythe. Then, a clawed gauntlet. Finally, it returns back to the arm form. “We had a deal, after all…” He drawls, looking back at Lambert with a gleeful look in his eyes.
“And I intend to capitalize.”