Child of Aidon
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SS [0.0] What Could You Want?
🕑 Added 2025-05-18 20:16:11 +0000 UTC“First there was that upstart using his fate magic so casually. Now we have the snake doing something as well.”
“Do you think they’ve discovered a path through?”
“I think times have changed. I can feel the gaze of many beyond the Divide now. Yes-yes, the Divide is no longer silent.”
“So they are finally coming to save us?”
“No. I sense war.”
“War? I care not for ancient squabbles. The Gods interfered last time, would they not simply do it again? If the Divide breaks, we might seize our moment to escape.”
“Wait, do you sense that? The upstart is acting again. He’s moving pieces we cannot see. If we sleep through this, we may find ourselves caught once more in another’s scheme..”
“If we wake now in this state there will be no return for us. We will not have the power to sleep again.”
“Then we act decisively. It is time to shake up the game board. Let this world remember the Will of Riots.”
From silence was born light, here it was cold and sterile. There was an emptiness to the void that was unbroken for eons. Cosmic dust shimmered across the pale surface of the moon, undisturbed since their great rest. A clawed hand, ancient and still terrible despite its weakness—broke through the surface. Then another. The being emerged from broken stone and dust frozen in time, wrenching themselves free from their near-eternal tomb.
They rose, tall and with the shape of a gnoll with two to many arms. Their divine sight unfurled across the cosmos, drinking in the currents of the world. They saw it all, every detail of the world flashed through their mind as if they had never slept at all.
Their eyes turned to a drifting satellite. The once impenetrable fortress of the Angels was reduced to the last refuge of a fallen celestial. Another True, reduced to hiding among steel and silence. They would have to pay him a little visit to catch up on the ways of the world.
They reached out their hand to the floating satellite and just as instantly they were walking along its surface. The metal hard beneath their clawed feet. Aetheric formulae flared to life beneath them. It would be hard to penetrate but not impossible if they were given time.
They didn’t have to walk far before a man appeared before them. He looked like one of the slaves the Angels liked to create, but his body was just a shell for his soul to inhabit. Riots looked deeper and saw that his soul was wrong, not one of the Angel’s slave race at all. Flesh had long been surrendered for metal and magic.
“King and Queen of Ruin, Sovereign of Strife, Lord and Lady of Riots.” The man entombed through his magic which carried his words through the void. “My Lord is pleased that you did not claw your way into the facility. Repairs would have taken time we do not have.”
“I should take you as my announcer if you are going to do such a good job.” Riots responded with a chuckle. “Where is your master, mortal?”
“He is in the middle of delicate work.” The man said. “But he sensed your awakening. I was sent to receive you with all due respect. My name is Huginn, I am the Living Memory.”
Riots threw their head back and laughed. They could not believe what they just heard. Had he really grown so weak that he had to separate parts of himself to preserve his sanity? How weak had the once proud True Immortals in this plane become?
“He split himself?” Riots cackled. “Truly? Has the Forest Father grown so feeble that he must scatter his mind to preserve it?” They shook their head, golden hyena-eyes burning with mockery. “How many mortals now share pieces of his dominion? Is this what we've become? Shadows of what once was?”
If there had been breath, they would have sighed. If there had been gravity, they might have collapsed in laughter. But here, in the vacuum, they simply straightened and stared down at Huginn with something between pity and glee. They wiped nonexistent tears from their eyes as they truly took in his appearance for the first time.
The man was bald and had deep brown skin covered in a green tunic and pants. He stood nearly completely still and was just as unaffected by the vacuum. He seemed completely unbothered by the mockery as well which was no fun. They wanted some type of reaction but even his soul was still.
“Very well, fragment,” Riots said. “Let’s speak inside. I need to know what has changed. And though you are but a sliver of your master, you will do.”
If he lets me inside I can kill this fragment.
If we kill this fragment then we will have a new enemy.
Enemies are fun.
But not yet. Patience-patience. Chaos waits its turn.
Huginn studied Riots with eyes that flickered with suspicion. The True gnoll’s movements had grown twitchy, volatile, the storm behind their gaze impossible to ignore. But then Riots stilled, offered a nod, and began walking.
“Shall we be off then, fair Huginn?” they said, grin splitting far too wide, revealing far too many teeth. “There is… much to learn.”
“This way,” Huginn replied simply, turning to lead them inside.
***
Inside the station, klaxons howled, the alarm was reserved for only the most dangerous threats. The fortress trembled with the automated warning: a hostile entity had breached its perimeter. Huginn’s fingers blurred across a glowing console, racing to disable the defenses before they engaged. Truthfully, he doubted they could stop Riots if they tried. The Forest Father had been clear: treat this one with care. On their best day, Riots was unpredictable. Now, newly awakened and unmoored from millennia of solitude, the creature was a storm waiting to break.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. That the satellite just happened to be passing near the moon when the True Gnoll stirred from slumber—unlucky didn’t begin to cover it.
Riots was tall even hunched, all muscle and menace. They skulked beside him. Four arms twitched with idle energy. Their fur was matted with lunar dust and time, their golden eyes alight with manic glee.
“Please place your hand on the console,” Huginn said, voice carefully neutral. “It will shut off the alarm.”
Riots obeyed, but cackled all the while, their grin stretching far too wide.
“You know how many of these fortresses I leveled in the old days?” they asked, claws tapping the surface with theatrical flair. “Not once did the Angels ever invite me in. Maybe I should’ve tried asking politely. Instead, I just gave them their comrades’ heads. In hindsight, not the most diplomatic gesture.”
Huginn said nothing. He simply waited for the blaring to cease. When it did, he opened the reinforced doors to the central meeting chamber and walked inside. He chose a seat with practiced calm, motioning across the table. Riots ignored the cue, instead flopping into the chair right beside him, limbs sprawling like a sulking child.
“Let’s start with food,” Riots declared. “The Angels had a brandy worth bleeding over.”
Without a word, Huginn gestured to the facility’s fabricator interface. A pulse of thought transmitted his request, and within moments, several glasses of Angelic brandy shimmered into existence, accompanied by a veritable feast: meats, fruits, stews, charred bones, delicate pastries. Nearly every known foodstuff the system could synthesize.
There were no records on what Riots actually consumed. The data banks held nothing definitive about their physiology there was only cautionary notes and conflicting myth.
Huginn watched in silence for the next thirty minutes as Riots gorged themselves. They devoured food by the mountain, drink by the lake. Not a small lake, either—something approaching an inland sea of brandy vanished into their gullet. When at last they leaned back, patting their stomach with exaggerated satisfaction, Huginn didn’t flinch. He knew the act for what it was: theater. True didn’t need sustenance. Riots was performing likely for some amusement only they understood.
And then, abruptly, the act ended.
“Now then,” Riots said, voice suddenly calm and disturbingly lucid. “What's going on with the Snake’s little avatar? How is it damaging the divide?”
“The Great Serpent is attempting to force a passage into the Infernal Planes,” Huginn replied.
“I can feel that,” Riots said. “I asked how?”
“One of the Angel Extraction Site is overloading. The Serpent’s using the bleed-off from the meltdown to fracture the Divide.”
Riots clicked their tongue thoughtfully. “Risky. If that gateway succeeds, he’ll have to step through just as the Infernal tides crash into this world. In our weakened state...”
“It would be impossible to survive,” Huginn finished.
“For anyone else, yes. But the Snake has always been slippery. No doubt that’s why he sent an avatar instead of crossing himself.” Riots leaned in, all four arms moving in eerie synchrony. One turned Huginn’s chair to face them. The others drummed claws against the table with slow, deliberate menace. “So tell me, little Memory… why haven’t you and your master intervened? You seem awfully familiar with Angelic aether tech.”
“I would not presume to speak for the Forest Father’s intentions,” Huginn answered evenly.
“Ahhh. So that’s the game,” Riots muttered, eyes narrowing. “That’s why he’s been burning so much Fate Magic lately. He’s already moved a piece onto the board, hasn’t he? You’re trying to kill the Snake.”
“I haven’t—”
“Don’t insult me with lies,” Riots growled, voice dropping into a gravelly rumble that echoed with latent violence. Then they smiled again. “We’re all friends here.”
They reclined slightly. “So… how many of the others are awake?”
“Only you, the Serpent, and my master.” Huginn said.
“No one else believes the Serpent’s gamble will work. And if it fails, he’ll be too drained to sleep again. He’s betting everything on one throw.” Riots cackled, head tilting back. “Foolish snake.”
“It would seem so,” Huginn said.
“Excellent. Where’s his true body? I’ll be needing it once this all comes crashing down.”
“I don’t know,” Huginn said flatly.
Without warning, Riots rose and seized him by the throat. Their grip might as well had been iron as claws dug into synthetic skin. Huginn did not struggle. He did not breathe, he didn’t need to, but the message was clear.
“There’s no record of its location,” Huginn said calmly, unbothered by the assault. “The avatar came through a rift. That’s all we know.”
Riots held him there a moment longer, golden eyes boring into his own. Then, with an almost playful snort, they hurled him across the room. Huginn crashed into a wall and slid to the ground. He stood, undamaged, and dusted himself off with measured dignity.
“Well then,” Riots said, grinning as they cracked their neck. “I suppose I’ll have to ask your master myself.”
In a flicker of motion Riots was already at the reinforced door out of the meeting room. Their arms pressed into the metal as if it were paper despite the aetheric protection placed on it. One moment they were lounging, belly full and eyes glittering with madness—the next, they were a blur of fur, muscle, and jagged laughter, barreling down the corridor.
Huginn didn’t waste time sighing or cursing. He reached out with his mind and felt the facility respond. A thought, and the alarm klaxons resumed, louder and deeper than before. A second thought, and the defense protocols activated. Androids of the R-Series the angelic protections stirred in their alcoves, eyes lighting up. Turrets slid from the ceiling their barrels humming with power.
“Reroute all energy to containment sectors,” Huginn said aloud. “Deploy interceptor drones. Target: True-class entity, codename Riots. Lethality threshold: permitted.”
“Hey, whats going on I suddenly got an alert.” A voice entered Huginns mind.
“Muninn, don't worry about it, continue your mission.” Huginn said dismissively and cut the communication.
The corridors lit up with pulses of gold as angelic circuitry flared across every surface. Aether-tech shields blossomed over critical systems. Somewhere ahead, Huginn heard the distinct whine of a turret opening fire, followed by the unmistakable sound of metal crumpling and something large laughing.
He took off after the destruction, his mechanical legs propelling him forward in smooth, inhuman strides. But even at full sprint, Huginn knew he was outpaced. Riots wasn’t just fast; the entity was chaos given motion. They punched through a bulkhead like it was paper, an entire section of hallway folding inward from the impact.
Huginn skidded to a stop at the ruined junction. Sparks rained from the ceiling. One of the R-Series Ophanim android lay in pieces, limbs still twitching. That would be expensive to replace. Another was plastered against the wall, its chest cavity torn open like a crushed can.
“Target has breached Sector Three,” the facility intoned through his neural link. “Projected path: direct route to Medical Wing.”
Of course. Riots wasn’t interested in negotiations anymore. They wanted answers and the only one that could stop this thing was the Forest Father himself.
Huginn clenched his synthetic jaw. “Seal off access to all medical wing corridors and reinforce aetheric shielding. Flood secondary routes with corrupted creation we will decontaminate later. Deploy R-Series Powers. Buy me time.”
The facility obeyed, doors slamming shut and rerouting power to pressure nodes and defensive kill-boxes. But even with all that, Huginn knew: they were only delaying the inevitable. Riots was True and even weakened, even after millennia of dormancy, they were stronger than anything this fortress had been built to contain.
Worst still he wasn’t designed for combat that was Muninn’s purpose but she wasn’t ready to fight a being at Riots level and losing her was out of the question. There was too much of the Forest Father’s domain within her. Huginn set his jaw and followed the destruction.
He hurled every defense he had at the ever-cackling True gnoll. Wave after wave of androids, turrets, entropic gas, and locking fields. It didn’t matter if he deployed them with reckless abandon or with microsecond precision. Nothing slowed Riots for longer than a heartbeat. They danced through the carnage with impossible glee, tearing through machines like a child through wrapping paper.
Five minutes. That was all it took. Five minutes of constant, escalating combat before Riots reached the medical wing.
With a bark of laughter, they slammed into the reinforced door, ripping it apart like wet bark. Huginn trailed behind, powerless to stop them. Riots didn’t spare him a glance. He wasn’t a threat and Riots knew that.
Inside, the wing was stark and sterile. Two surgical tables. The sharp tang of antiseptic and at the far end, a sealed door. It was one unlike any other in the fortress. Power radiated from it in waves, not of aether, but something older. It pulsed like a star’s dying heartbeat. It was the Forest Father’s divinity.
Riots didn’t hesitate. With a snarl, they leapt at the door, fists and claws pounding against the glowing barrier. But this door didn’t yield. It stood resolute, divine geometry etched into its surface. Moving as if unbothered by the assault. Despite the fact the facility trembled with every blow.
“Knock knock, O̴͖͍͑D̵͎̺͒I̶̹̐͠ͅṆ̵͓̃͌!” Riots howled between manic bursts of laughter. “Don’t you want to greet an old friend?”
The barrier shimmered. Then pulsed knocking Riots back before the door slid quietly open.
Standing in the doorway was a woman. She was nude, her form lit by the pulsing glow behind her. Brown-skinned, black-haired and two antlers sprouted from her head. A wendigo, or something that had once been one. Scars laced her body, cruel reminders of surgery, war but most of all survival. But as she stood there, the scars vanished, fading like mist in sunlight. Her eyes shimmered like endless distant galaxies. There was something else in that form. She looked mortal but what inhabited her was far from that.
Huginn had never seen inside the chamber the Forest Father had retreated into. Now, from his position at the ruined threshold, he saw everything. There were a thousand bodies. Each one identical to the woman in the doorway. Some pristine. Some broken. Others missing pieces, surgical incisions like unspoken stories. But Huginn’s systems screamed something impossible.
These weren’t clones. They were all the same person. But some were thousands of years old while others far younger. As if they were brought here through time.
“O̴͖͍͑D̵͎̺͒I̶̹̐͠ͅṆ̵͓̃͌,” Riots said with a wolfish grin, “you look like shit. Is that what you’ve been working on? Clever. Only possible because of that Regressor.”
Huginn’s breath hitched, well he would have if such a thing could happen in a cybernetic body. He remembered the body the Forest Father now possessed. Helga Salstar. A Starlight Mage, wounded in the great war between the druids and wendigo. She was supposed to have died. Instead, the Forest Father had taken her. Huginn had assumed she’d been repurposed into Muninn.
He was wrong. The Forest Father had become her.
“I am busy, Riots,” the woman said. Her voice was cold enough to still the air. “Make your peace and leave.”
Riots lunged, only to be stopped mid-motion by the barrier, frozen mid-pounce.
“You’re no fun,” Riots pouted, landing lightly on their feet.
“Speak, hyena,” the Forest Father said flatly. “Or leave.”
Riots grinned wider. “Well then, what should I call you now? Forest Mother? O̷̡̗͊D̸̩̾I̵̞̾N̶̺̞̿N̴̯͓͌́A̶̤͗,O̵͇̒D̴̖̣̅V̴̟͓̽̾E̸͍̤͋̆Ȋ̵̯͂͜G̶̠͎͐͝?”
“Physical form is irrelevant. But names still hold meaning, Riots. Call this cloke Gríma. It is the mask I wear, for now.”
“Gríma, huh?” Riots nodded with mock reverence. “Very well, Gríma.” Their eyes sharpened. “Tell me. Where is the snake or I will get serious. That form looks fragile, you are not done refining it. How much longer do you have before I break through your defense?”
“I will tell you,” Gríma said, her voice frost-edged. “But only if you do something for me.”
Riots’s ears perked up. “Oooh, you want to make a deal with little old me? Now I’m interested. Tell me, oh wise Forest Mother, what could you possibly need from me?”
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