Chapter Text
It's been around a week since the bishop of Chaos came by for a visit, and that was the only amount of excitement that has happened. Alair was slightly concerned for Death, as he did not visit them as promised.
They sat at the fireplace, the velvet sofa sinking under their weight. They held a book. It was open. They were not reading it. They were thinking . Thinking about the god, and considering that his kindness was short lived.
Maybe he just took pity on me , they thought bitterly, anxiety being replaced by irritation. They snapped the book shut, making Ratau jump in his seat.
“Excuse me,” he sighed sarcastically. He was crocheting something, it was looking suspiciously like a sweater. It used red, white and gold yarn, the pattern was pretty as well. The sheep looked down in embarrassment, they completely forgot he was there.
“Sorry, I'm just… bored.” not entirely a lie. They had reorganized the bookshelves multiple times, they have made many pastries, hell if they had the patience they would have read every damn book on every damn shelf. They basically wore the same three nightgowns everyday, mostly reds and whites.
Ratau hummed in interest, wrapping up the yarn and putting the project on the old end table beside him. He stood up and walked to the six-sided table, opening a box on top of it.
“Come here.” he waved the Lamb over, piquing their interest. On the table was a game board, three columns for each person. And each person had nine dice. Alair cocked their head in confusion, their wool hitting their cheek. They noted how long it was getting in such a short time span, was it almost winter?
“What is it?” “It's a game me and my… friends, yes, friends used to play.” the old man looked off wistfully, looking like he was reminiscing about a better time. “It's called knucklebones. This is how you play.” he scooped up his dice, and started to explain.
Knucklebones play as so. Two people roll their die, and the one with the highest number goes first. You roll your die, and place it into a column. Three dice can fit into one column. The higher score wins. If you have more than one of the same number, you multiply that number by two then multiply that number by the amount of dice of the same number down in that column. You can also get rid of the opposing person's dice by placing the same rolled number in the same column.
The lambs head was spinning with all of the math going around, but the old rat took pity on them and gave them a spreadsheet.
“ 1 = 1, 4, 9 2 = 2, 8, 18 3 = 3 , 12, 27 4 = 4, 16, 36 5 = 5, 20, 45 6 = 6, 24, 54 ” the bottom of the parchment had some erase marks and some more math, more like addition rather than the crazy multiplication. There was also something crossed out in ink.
“Ready?” Alair nodded, dice in hand. Ratau rolled, and got a 3. The lamb rolled a four, narrowly getting the lead. They then rolled a five, placing it in the middle column.
Ratau nodded, rolling a two. He sighed, sort of defeated as he placed it in his right column (for Alair, it's on their left). The younger person rolls a six, hissing a “yes!” under their breath. They put it in their left column (Ratau’s right).
Ratau rolled a three, groaning and putting it in his left column (Alair’s right). The lamb rolled a four, wordlessly putting it in the middle.
After a few rounds, Ratau ended up winning with fifty three points, one point above the lamb. They groaned at it, but Ratau just laughed.
“This game is half luck, and then deciding what to do with said luck.” He redistributed the dice and rolled again (house rules say that the winner goes first the next round). “We used to gamble so much when playing… I always ended up with less by the end of it.”
“Who would you play with?” Alair asked, straightening the board. “Who would I play with?” the old rat sighed, perching his head on his hand with his elbow on the table. His mouth was slightly quirked up in a smile.
“Flinky, Klunko and Shrumy.” his smile wavered when he said Shrumy’s name, like there was something preventing him from saying that he was his friend. “All fine lads. Except for…” he lingered there for a moment, then gestured for the lamb to roll the die.
They played again, and again, and again. Progressively Alair was getting better, winning a few games. And, at the same time, Ratau’s memories started to flood back to him.
Soon, they started to gamble with berries, even if they knew they were both going to eat them together at the end.
Back in Shamura’s library, everything was pure chaos. Except Leshy didn't cause it. In fact, he was cocooned in a silk hammock above the library (it made him feel like a caterpillar). Either Heket or Narinder would check on him every few hours, most of the time he was trying to sleep, pretending that he wasn't crying. It's not like he was allowed to help.
“This was clearly a threat. And now the Witch has both Shamura and some rando, and we have absolutely no idea where they are!” Heket roared, her voice filling the room. Death could see the silk makeshift cocoon quiver out of the corner of his eye.
“We’ve contacted Kudaai, and he agreed to come to a meeting,” Narinder snarled, catching the attention of his older siblings. “He says he’ll meet us at the entrance of Silk Cradle. Any objections?” no one says anything.
“W–Well then! I gu-guess I wasn't needed here!” Kallamar stated, getting up from his chair. Most of the conversation was a furious Narinder trying to calm down an enraged Heket, so really he didn't need to be there. His own crown seemed to be dozing off, very close to falling off Plague’s head.
“Actually, you will be needed.” Narinder stood tall, almost distinguished. Famine scoffed, plopping back down in her seat. She glanced over at the cocoon, which rustled around a bit.
“Kudaai came on two requests,” Heket said blankly, “he is injured, badly. He isn't dying per say, but he is hurt. He is also missing his sibling. So, in turn, he wants to be healed as well as helping with finding both Shamura and his sibling.” Her speech was snappy, fast and barely pausing. Not to mention her crown was more focused on the ball of Chaos above them. His own crown was on a shelf, looking back sympathetically.
“So… you want me to cure him,” Plague started, “and then we’ll get help with finding ‘Mura?” Heket and Narinder nod at the same time. It almost scared Kallamar how often they did that type of thing. Sure, they argued constantly, but they were alike in so many ways. Maybe that's why they fight so much, their personalities are not compatible because they just have the same one.
“Fine, I don't know how long it should take to heal him,” he accepted, “but he can enter Anchordeep.”
“I have one more pressing matter,” Famine started, shifting in her wooden chair. “I believe the Witches domain has… moved. Moved to Anura.” her brother stared in shock, and she could see that the cocoon stopped shifting. She stood up, moving towards a bookshelf. She yanked out a purple book with a large, black eye on the cover.
“I don't think she is doing normal crown magic anymore.” she flipped through the book, stopping on a page filled with illustrations full of mutilations and dark figures. “I think she's trying to make shadow copies.”
Shamura couldn’t see anything when they woke up. There wasn't a blindfold on, but they couldn't make out the shapes of the room. They could feel hefty shackles around their neck, wrists and ankles. Ichor still dripped from their legs and head.
“Clau… Clauneck?” they pushed out the only name they could think of, still trying to feel around the room. They heard a small shuffle, maybe a few meters away from them.
“Clauneck! Is that–” “shh! Shamura, quiet.” a feathered hand covered War’s mouth, another arm wrapped around their waist to hold them up.
A heretic walked past with a crystal lamp (which irked Shamura slightly, knowing those crystals were stolen from their brother's realm) and shined light in the cramped cell. They didn't look at the two gods, instead moving on.
Shamura got a good look at Clauneck, and got incredibly worried. he didn't have the same shackles as War, but they were still bleeding. They raised shaky hands up to the prophets face, their thumb stroking their cheek. The hand Clauneck had on the spider's mouth dropped when the heretic left, plunging the room back into darkness. A small sigh left their lips (beak?), the owl hunched over and leaned their head into Shamura’s chest.
Where is their crown? War thought, panic rising in their chest. They moved a hand to the prophets back and one to their head. Their crown was gone as well.
“War… are you okay?” the owl whispered, leaning Shamura up against a cold wall. Clauneck’s hands were still on the spider's hips.
“Currently, I have no idea,” they whispered back, wincing from an injury. I don't think my legs are going to budge though , they wonder. They tried to move them, but ended up gasping in pain. The prophet moves, backing away from the spider.
“Are your arms okay? One set seems to be working…” they felt for War’s other four arms (sometimes Shamura didn't know whether having so many arms was a curse or a blessing).
“Love, I'm fine, are you okay?” One pair of their arms m0ved to the owl's face again, another pair moving to the prophet’s arms. Clauneck was really warm, going quiet all of a sudden. “Clauneck?”
“Ah ye-yes, I'm fine.” he unconsciously leaned into the spider's hands. Shamura chuckled lightly, leaning their own head into the other’s.
“Love, do you know where we are? Why am I chained up and your–” “shush!” Clauneck moved quickly, swooping up Shamura and turning around. There was a light coming from the cell bars, revealing a large blue owl.
“So! It seems like my dear sibling has… betrayed me!” Chemach sounded sickly sweet, voice laced with poisoned sugar. “Well, no matter! Now you and your lover can see the first of my successes!” The moment “lover” left her mouth, Clauneck’s arms tightened around the smaller spider. Even Shamura was slightly flustered at that.
“They arent my lover ,” the other owl grumbled, “and what do you mean success?” the witch lets out a loud cackle, throwing herself at the cell bars.
“Ohoho! Please, at least Shamura should know!” she peers in, her crown’s eyes glowing. War’s stomach sank. She better not be saying… no, she couldn't be.
“Shamura, what does she mean?” Clauneck was stern, turning the spider to look at them. “Should I be–” Shamura nods furiously, grabbing their own shoulders like they were cold.
“Oh great! So you understand.” the blue owl sneers, snatching a lamp from one of the zombie-esk heretics. “Then I would love you both to meet a new… success.”
She moved the lamp towards a person, dark furred and cloaked in purple. Large, black horns curled around their ears, framing their perfectly cold face. They were fairly muscular, arms crossed over their chest. To top it off, they had a black crown in the shape of a snake with a purple eye.
“A goat? With a crown?” Shamura asks, pressing themselves into a trembling Clauneck.
“Yep! The opposite of the perfect, pure sheep,” Chemach explains, twirling around the goat. “Dark, mysterious, yet still obedient … the perfect shadow copy!” she cackled again, moving away from the still goat.
“I mean, I'm hurt that you really didn't expect this!” she fakes a pout, then immediately goes back to sneering. “I mean come on! I’m the bishop of Magicks for fucks sake! I invented shadow copies! Do you really think so lowly of me?”
After a few more games of knucklebones, Alair went back to being bored. They finished a few books, organized the kitchen a bit, and decided to learn to carve wood.
They sat outside, sitting in the garden. They eyed the edge of the woods, remembering how they came here.
“We'll be back in a couple of days to check on you two.”
Like hell you will , they thought bitterly, standing up. Ratau is inside, if I go in there he will suspect something … the sheep fiddled with their chest wool unconsciously, now forming a glare at seemingly no one. Well, no one that was present, at least.
They were wearing something fairly woods-safe. Some slightly oversized burgundy overalls, a loose white cotton shirt, and a white scarf. Fall was rolling in, seemingly.
They shoved off their anxiety and grabbed their bag, filled with wood carving materials, a bag of dice they made for knucklebones, and a makeshift pencil and a small pad of parchment.
They tore out a page from the pad and wrote the following, shoving it under the door; Sorry for the inconvenience Ratau, I know you can't leave but I can. Don't worry, I'm going to scold the hell out of Death. I will be right back.
Then they trotted off, not sure if they were pissed or just worried. Either way, they were going to keep their word. They were going to scold the fuck out of Narinder.