City of Sinister Angles

Ruminations On One's Place In The Universe

The interior of the hut was a nest of clutter, the individual elements of which were mostly horrific to behold. Tossing the head to one side, Annis began to dig through the piles. She examined a used monkey's paw for a moment before discarding it in disgust. She was equally unimpressed with a canopic jar full of liquefied king guts, a taxidermied black swan, and a rusted iron sword whose blade ended in a claw. None of this junk would do, Annis decided. She would need fresh junk.

It was easy enough to catch the strange wing. After all, she had the majority of a freshly killed human body to use as bait. The cat was more difficult; cats had guile. It took three days to accumulate the appropriate junk. Batilde's head spent this time lying in Annis's horde, still living, and slowly going mad.

Once she had gathered everything she needed Annis carried the supplies to the tallest point of the crumbling tower she lived beneath and got to work. Mindful of freshness Annis tore the front paws from the cat while the animal still lived. It made more of a racket than her old ears could take so she reached out sideways and snatched its voice away. Annis looked around for a place to put the voice before sighing and placing it in her cloak pocket where she knew she'd forget about it.

Taking the still-dripping limbs in one hand, Annis used the long nails of her other hand to scratch a large gash in the side of Batilde's chin. She held the bloody end of the cat's leg to the gash and the two wounds began to heal together. Annis repeated this process with the other leg, and the result was a set of two cat's legs protruding from the side of Batilde's head.

Batilde was only dimly aware of what was happening. The cat's legs began to spasm and grasp aimlessly like the limbs of a newborn child.

Annis next removed the wings of the strange wing, and attached them to the base of Batilde's skull using the same method as before. The addition of the wings to the legs gave Batilde's head the appearance of some grotesque nightmare bird.

Annis picked up Batilde's head and grabbed the dangling vocal chord. She bit it off. She then began to violently shake the head.

"Time tae wake up," said Annis "Ye need tae decide if yoo're a human ur beastie. Follaw yer new instincts an' ye will fin' th' power ye seek. If ye can retain yer min' 'en ye will be able tae resume yer auld f'rm ance yoo're powerful enaw. If ye cannae... ye will hae failed. An' ye will remain th' beastie ye ur."

Annis laughed again, cackled if you backed her into a corner about it, and threw the head-monster up into the air. The wings began to flap and, heedless of the impossible weight to wingspan ratio, the head took off into the pitch black afternoon.

* * *

Batilde could smell the weak, oily puissance of verminous rabble by the thousands. They would make poor meals. She glided just above the miasma line, sniffing the air for power. At last she caught the scent of a worthy morsel. It was raw and uncultivated but it would make the blood as sweet as a dripping peach. She dipped down into the lower levels in search of her prey, flapping wildly.

* * *

Gringoire had successfully completed a rather legendary drunkenness. That is, if his judgement on the matter could be entirely trusted. He was, after all, very drunk. He had been quite rudely run out of the Unpainted Dog by that witch who always made him leave when it closed. This left him with the unfortunate prospect of navigating himself somewhere where he could either pass out or continue drinking.

Gringoire knew it was important to keep his spirits up, so he began to sing. Mindful that he was in a residential neighborhood he did so loudly enough for everyone to enjoy, and selected an especially bawdy tune he thought would be well received.