The forest was cloaked in a pale, hazy morning light, beams of gold slipping through the thick canopy above. The Sloth camp lay still, its eerie silence broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant caw of a crow. Mist still clung to the undergrowth, curling around roots and stones like spectral smoke.
Aira lay unconscious on the damp earth, her body limp beneath Bjorn's protective weight. His chest rose and fell unevenly, eyes sharp despite the fatigue in his bruised frame. He stood guard over her with a feral protectiveness, gaze flicking between the Sloth leader and the woman of Lust.
The Lust leader stood opposite, her presence like a blade cutting into the morning calm. Her lips curled faintly, half a smirk, half a threat, and in her hands were the twin hammers she had been ready to swing. Behind her, her members lingered in silence — young men and women with predatory eyes, watching the standoff with a mixture of bloodlust and unease. Their breaths came heavy, but none dared move until their leader commanded it.
The Sloth leader, towering but slouched, seemed almost disinterested. His half-lidded eyes had been locked on the Lust leader just moments ago, brimming with a rare intent to fight. But Bjorn's interruption — his sharp, reckless words that had cut into the rising tension — shifted everything.
The Sloth leader sighed heavily, shoulders sinking. "What a drag…" he muttered lazily, the sound carried in the morning stillness. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he raised his head and opened his eyes fully. For once, the lazy veil was gone — his gaze was sharp, burning as it locked directly onto the Lust leader's.
"You will let me take my faction member," his voice rumbled, heavier than before, "and get the hell out of my territory!"
There was anger in his face now — not wild, but smoldering, controlled. Enough to make the air feel heavier.
The Lust leader's smirk faltered, though only slightly. With a faint grunt of irritation, she returned her hammers to the holsters strapped at her thighs, the dull thud of iron against leather echoing in the quiet.
Her eyes narrowed. Tch. He's serious this time… That lazy bastard… The thought gnawed at her. She hated giving ground, hated retreating. But the way he looked at her now — there was no doubt in her instincts. One wrong step, and he would crush her. Not because he wanted to fight, but because she had forced him to.
Still, she straightened her back, tilting her chin with pride. "Hmph. You're lucky I'm not in the mood to waste my time," she said, her tone sharp, carrying no hint of defeat. "Enjoy your little forest, Sloth. Next time, I won't walk away."
Behind her, the Lust members shifted, some exchanging tense glances, others clenching their fists in frustration at being denied a battle. Bjorn's eyes stayed locked on her, unblinking, the hostility radiating off him even as his body shielded Aira.
The Sloth leader didn't move. He simply exhaled, long and slow, as if already bored of the exchange.
She motioned for her members to remain still, keeping her posture tall and confident, her tone dripping with disdain rather than concession.
The Sloth leader bent lazily, hoisting Aira onto his back with surprising ease. Her unconscious form looked small against his broad shoulders. He turned slowly, and before stepping away, his gaze locked with Bjorn.
Bjorn's teeth clenched, his bloodied lips twisting.
Bjorn (thoughts):
What the hell does this fool want now...?
The Lust leader caught the exchange immediately, her eyes narrowing.
Lust leader:
"If you want me to leave peacefully... you'll let me have him."
A murmur rippled through the Lust faction members—some smirking at the prospect, others visibly nervous at the demand.
The Sloth leader smirked faintly, his eyes still locked with Bjorn.
Sloth leader (calm, almost teasing):
"You really should start thinking before acting. You'll die one of these days if not."
Bjorn's face twisted, his body straining against the ropes as rage surged through him.
Bjorn (shouting):
"Shut the hell up, you lazy bastard—!"
Before the fury could spill further, the Sloth leader stepped forward, almost casually, and stroked the side of Bjorn's neck. In an instant, Bjorn's body went slack, unconscious.
Gasps escaped from some of the Lust members.
Lust leader (in her thoughts, eyes narrowing):
As expected... he's strong. Too strong for his laziness to be a façade.
Her voice, however, was sharp and loud.
Lust leader:
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
The Sloth leader's expression remained unbothered.
Sloth leader (lazily, with a faint shrug):
"Just thought I'd make things easier for you."
He turned, beginning his slow walk back toward his camp with Aira on his back.
The Lust leader snapped her fingers, and two of her faction members stepped forward, reluctantly piggybacking Bjorn's unconscious form. She kept her gaze fixed on Sloth, her pride refusing to falter.
As Sloth reached the edge of the mist, he paused, his voice drifting lazily over his shoulder.
Sloth leader:
"Oh... and one more thing..."
The Lust faction stopped in their tracks, eyes drawn to him. Even the Lust leader tilted her head slightly, though she masked her curiosity with irritation.
Sloth leader (without turning, but clear):
"I'd be careful around him if I were you."
The Lust leader scoffed, her lips curling into a cold smile.
Lust leader:
"Thanks... but your concern is not needed."
Then they disappeared into the morning mist .
Darkness___
The chamber was dim, lit only by crooked candles that burned with pale green flames. The air reeked of herbs and ash, the thick smoke crawling like fingers across the ceiling beams.
The old woman sat hunched on her warped chair, her shadow stretching monstrously along the wall. Her voice slithered out like a tide, half-chant, half-jest, as though speaking to the smoke itself:
Old Woman (grinning):
"Ahhh… tick-tock, my darlins'. Only one dawn more till the Walpurgis… one more day 'til the feast of sins. The pot be bubblin', the stars be leanin' close, an' the fools down below be dancin' right where I want 'em…"
The raven crone tilted her head, feathers rustling.
Raven crone, perched cross-legged on a crooked table, tilted her head, lips curling in disdain.
Parchment witch (mocking):
"Dancing? More like stumbling. The factions claw at each other like starving dogs. Pathetic. Hardly worthy of a Walpurgis."
Vine crowned ,gaunt and sharp-eyed, stirred her cauldron with slow relish, her bony fingers clinking against the iron rim.
The childlike witch twirled in her doll-like body, laughter tinkling like cracked bells.
Child Witch (mocking, sing-song):
"One more day, one more night, then the game becomes real! Will Wrath burn? Will Pride choke? Will Sloth sleep through it all? Heeheehee!"
The limping one snorted, teeth chattering as though gnawing invisible bones.
Stitched One (genderless, airy):
"Mmmm… the day comes, the veil thins, and the orb remembers. The feast is not theirs. The feast is ours."
Sharp-Eyed Witch (with sly amusement):
"Yet one mutt keeps biting harder than the rest… That boy. The Wrath-child. Bjorn."
At that name, the room quieted. The old woman's grin widened, showing teeth like cracked shells.
Old Woman (leaning forward, her tone thick with amusement and threat):
"Ayeee… that one. The pale-eyed stray, barkin' louder each night. I told ye he'd crawl 'cross me board sooner or later. And now—he bleeds, he rages, he dares. What say ye, sisters? Does the mongrel amuse ye yet?"
The mocking witch scoffed, tossing her hair, though her voice trembled with interest she tried to hide.
Mocking Witch:
"Amuse? Hmph. Perhaps. But he's still flesh and bone. He'll break soon enough."
The cauldron-stirring witch gave a crooked smile, her eyes glittering.
Sharp-Eyed Witch:
"Or perhaps he won't. Perhaps he'll keep breaking others instead."
The witches chuckled, their laughter rising and falling like a sinister chorus, until the old woman slammed her cane against the floorboards. The fire flared.
Old Woman (her tone dark, philosophical, almost a whisper):
"Whether he breaks… or whether he endures… matters not. Either way, he fattens the tale. Either way, he stirs the brew. Let the boy burn… let him bleed… but let him not be ignored. For I be smellin' the storm he carries."
The circle fell silent again, the orb's glow pulsing like a heartbeat between them.
The old woman finally leaned forward, her voice low and certain.
Old Woman (smiling, voice like dark prophecy):
"Aye… the mortals think they're climbin' a hill. But they're already slidin' down a grave. And tomorrow… when Walpurgis dawns… we'll be waitin' at the bottom."
Her laugh spread, and one by one the others joined, until the whole chamber trembled with their twisted mirth.
The orb pulsed once more, as though it too was laughing.