FFM4: Journey To Fields Of Bones
Etna had lost control of her life. She had taken the wrong turn between inappropriate behavior and spear wielding hawks- straight into a realm where bones grew. Sure, the daemon had always known that the demand for bones was far higher than the production of dead, but the image before her was more concerning than anything else.
It seemed the realm itself didn't know more than her. Stars of different sizes and colors punctured the sky. Bones grew in the same unsupervised way that plants did, with spines and phalanges curling and attaching themselves to every surface. Between that, and the concerning amount of summer butterflies swarming in every puddle that could be found- Etna did not have any good feelings about this place.
But, in all, Etna did not leave herself much of a choice. She had traveled to the eternally ominous summertime realm of her own accord. Her darling niece had become insistent on the subject of myrrh. Not the plant based myrrh, Deceit had explained later, but the one from refining a thousand willfully gained souls of the living. Neither Etna nor Deceit could produce a logical explanation for the child's sudden need for such an object. Deceit had vetoed the purchase right off, stating danger.
She was, in all technicalities, directly disobeying that decision. Etna had agreed not to buy myrrh for Merci, on the grounds that it was always from questionable sources. Much like other items bordering legality, myrrh had a cult following. It took months to create a batch from raw ingredients- often utilizing stillborn souls from Hell's boundaries. Anything larger than a liquid ounce often burned straight through steel, an explosive mess that ultimately had to be restarted from scratch.
Those souls would never return to the cycle. Etna sidestepped a manticore skull- easily recognizable from the bits of rust colored skin and slightly darkened fur clinging to bone, unwilling to let go. A jackalope wheezed and gurgled intermittent just within sight. Etna started towards the wounded animal, as a wet, rasping sound became its last.
She knelt by the now cooling carcass, ignoring the sticky-sweet earth reaching up to cling to her skin. The jackalope’s skin began to tighten as the air around them heat up. Etna noticed a collar, only as the leather began to crackle in an unsightly way. She pulled it from the body before it could dry to dust. As if the spell had been lifted, a step back and the realm's magic wanted nothing to do with her.
Etna watched in awe as the dead quickly became a leathered cadaver, a nesting ground for both hordes of butterflies and fungus as the remains were decomposed. She looked down to the collar, now mainly dust and worn copper. Her fingers fought to make sense of the slightly darkened insets, with partial success. AG. Meade.
Etna hoped that, somewhere, that name would be remembered fondly and without grief. She shook her head, and focused on her elected task ahead.
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