Maybe I’m the only one, but I’ve been missing Rokkoh and his world lately. A few months ago, this character idea came to me as I was trying to fall asleep. I got through the first few paragraphs but hit a roadblock and then let this story sit for a little while. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to set it in Rokkoh’s world or in a more modern setting, like a darker corner of the world seen in Incinerate. Ultimately, I chose the former because I liked the idea of Rokkoh one day possibly coming across someone like our main character below. At one time, I even considered having Rokkoh feature in this story, but decided against it in favor of something a little more emotional. As with my short story The Secret Keeper, I may return to this character down the line, but for now this is where we will leave them. Enjoy!
The room falls quiet around us once the deed is done. Remnants of his thick, chewy flesh nestle themselves in the tiny crevices between our teeth. Sick, but sweet, our tongue laps over the bits to loosen them. Our stomach makes its yearning for every last piece known in the silence. The more we take of him, the quicker and easier our form will come. Still kneeling before his exposed self, we bend again. Our jaw expands, our teeth caressing the cooling and paling skin, until we find a suitable part. And like an animal in the wild, like a predator with its prey, we consume. Our teeth sever the flesh with little resistance, our greedy mandibles clasping down on a chunk of what could be mistaken for raw pork. His blood, or at least what is left of it, trickles down our throat with the viscera. A warmth lingers in the meat, bringing our mouth to life with its flavor. Like something electric, something feral, something taboo but too damn decadent to deny.
As chest gives way to bone, that warmth trickles through our veins. The memories come first. High and dark, its monsoon waves blot out the sun and crash upon our earth. A seat on the city’s High Council, its road paved with the blood of innocents and his lesser peers. Yonder days of battlefield cowardice, crouched and hidden wherever he could find safety. Countless nights spent with streetwalkers, many ending with his hands around their throats. Was this his plan for us tonight? To squeeze out from us our breath in the midst of the carnal?
An ache grows into our muscles as they stretch and expand. Our mouth slows, taking pause after swallowing one last bite. A discomfort we have grown to tolerate, for it is necessary for the change. Still, though, it does not lessen the intensity. Flames rise and feed on our insides, sending our skin to blister and melt. Like taffy in the confectionery shops, our bones and tendons extend to fill our new form. Our vocal cords thrash in our throat, unable to keep quiet throughout the agony, and from our mouth the high scream deepens into the husky voice that had allured us hours prior.
The world surrounding our metamorphosis turns to a confining void, a cocoon, a coffin. And yet, a comfort. In the silence that befalls us after our excruciating vociferous bellow, as glimpses of secrets wash through our mind and solidify into a new set of identity, there is peace. The inferno burns itself out, the embers cool into ashes, the smoke drifts ever onward into the ether and firmament. We breathe. We blink. We become.
He had been careful with his garments as we had transitioned into undress. Folded neatly upon the surface of the wardrobe, they wait for their Master’s return. They know not the difference between him and us, only that they were tailored for this body. It is of no importance that a Canvas now assumes possession, merely that they still provide their intended function. And such a magnificent and elegant job they do. Neatly pressed pants with tall leather boots of a shadowy hue, an open-chested ivory shirt, and a crimson cloak made of fine velvet. Though he had been a whoreson, he did have impeccable style.
Gathering the few possessions we carry (an athame for vicious and hidden cuts, a journal to revisit our previous faces, and a delicate golden necklace with a diamond at the heart), we proceed out into the hall. We lock the door behind us with the man’s key. The staircase at the end of the hall winds downward, every step bringing a bounce to our new brown curly hair. At the landing below sits the reception desk, occupied by the same bald bespectacled man who had attended the station when we had first entered the hotel. His eyes only leave the book in his hands when we draw near.
“Here is my key,” we tell him. Our new voice comes with an air of pompous superiority. Perhaps once we abandon the city, we can work on necessary alterations.
“Leaving so soon, Alderman Iblis?” the man asks. “And without your… guest?”
“Business to attend to,” we toss the small metal thing onto the desk. “As for the courtesan, she deserves a nice place to sleep for the night. But feel free to toss her out come morning. Good evening.”
We stroll out the glass double doors without another word. The moonlit sky welcomes us with its endless sea of stars as we head down the promenade. The salt of the ocean calls to us, a remnant of a life long forfeited. We had been a sailor aboard a ship that often crossed the Great Sybillan Waters. Though our exterior has changed multiple times since then, the skills learned from such a trade are forever. Therein lies the true beauty of a Canvas: our potential for unlimited lives with unmatched skills for untold ages. We have naught but time, lest a menace bests us with a sharp slash of sanctified silver.
The promenade comes alive the further we trek. Nighttime storefronts offering liquor or unorthodox wares open their doors to wandering patrons. The shops entice the citizenry with concoctions and oddities that might help with any and all insecurities and uncertainties. While we have no use for such potions or salves, the trinkets and other curiosities do their best to allure us inside. No matter what face we may claim, our deep inner self cannot deny this summoning.
The air is acrid with lit incense, yet there is an odd comfort in the smell. Another past life, one where we had peddled similar scented sticks along the roadside with who we at the time called family. Though we dwell on such memories on rare occasions, we do wonder sometimes what Fate had planned for the troupe after our departure. Did they end up opening a brick-and-mortar such as this one, or did they continue down the roads as they had before? Did an encounter with a tribe of bandits cut their story short, or did they ripen and gray with age until they went back to the weeds? Did they look for us upon our disappearance, or did they say their graces and move on without a glance back?
“Need help looking for anything?”
A voice like silk draws our attention. Near the back of the space, beyond tables of assorted knick-knacks, a being watches us with bright yellow eyes. Covered from head to toe in fine black fur and its head topped by short pointed ears, an intrigued smile plays on a whiskered mouth sitting below a flat nose. A tail, long and just as black, waves back and forth behind the figure. A Felyndi, we think its kind are called, or the more common colloquial “feline folk.”
“No, thank you,” we say, mindlessly picking up a smooth round ball of jade. The little placard accompanying it claims it to be a Stone of Soothing, meant to aid in meditation. An intriguing little peace, though likely just a placebo. Fools are wont to believe anything if they so desire. But we are no such fool.
“Very well,” the Felyndi purrs. “You are welcome to peruse my offerings as you please. If you need assistance or have any questions, do not be afraid to ask.”
With a curt nod, continuing our browsing. Shiny baubles and backwoods totems mix with the occasional weathered tome and lush velvet-lined cases neatly filled with immaculate silverware. Our current form would balk at such things, would never allow himself to be seen in such a place for the commoners, yet we relish in these delights. So many stories housed here, so many lives that have come and gone which once held these items with precious care. It had been in a secondhand shop like this where we had found the trusted little dagger that now sits sheathed on our hip, as well the aged leather-bound journal in which we keep track of our past faces. Our diamond-inlaid golden necklace remains our only true heirloom, a gift from our birth mother. A Canvas like us, they taught us the way of our kind. They had been a member of our old caravan of traveling merchants, one of the many we had left behind to find a new life.
“I know your face,” the Felyndi’s voice comes closer, lower, out of nowhere.
“Beg your pardon, sir?” we say to keep our frantic surprised heartbeat under control.
“You sit on the High Council.” He steps closer, his sleek pitch frame moving in delicate yet graceful motion. His tail waves slower now, and his yellow eyes watch with narrow danger. “Alderman Iblis. Champion of the Western Isles. Protector of Affluent Children. Scourge of the Wildefolk.”
Memories of the bastard’s tirades against those of bestial races present themselves in all their horror. Though none of his laws ever came to pass, the Alderman had his fair share of allies in his unrighteous cause. Stories of bloodthirsty mobs congregating under ill met moonlight with whips and nooses churns our stomach and boils until its contents melt into acidic bile. We have long adored and respected the Wildefolk; we have often found ourselves pondering the possibility of taking one’s form since they seem humanoid enough. Alas, no opportunity has yet arisen for us to behold such knowledge.
“Many of my kinsmen have bled because of your ideologies,” he growls. He bares his claws, beautiful and lethal, as he stares us down. Our own hand hovers over the hilt of our weapon. “Perhaps now it is time for you to bleed because of them as well.”
“Mind your vile tongue, wretch,” we warn him. “You know to whom you speak, yet you forget or care not of what power this name holds within these city walls.”
The words, so condescending and arrogant, make us sick. Just more reason for us to move on from this city as quickly as possible. Lecherous faces we take can often lead to dangerous encounters as this. But once we are free and beyond the enclosing walls, we can become whomever we desire. As long as we can survive.
The jingle of small bells sounds from the door. There freezes a woman of warm complexion and a head full of innumerous minute ringlets. Wide dazzling eyes like peridot gemstones catch our scene, confused and startled, looking from the Felyndi to us and back again.
“Hello,” she says in a small voice.
“Good evening, madam,” the Felyndi straightens, putting away his talons and putting on his salesman charm. “How may I assist you, dear?”
“Do you happen to sell fine jewelry?” the woman asks.
“Only the finest,” he grins to her before heading back to his station. “Please, step up to the counter and I will show you what I have.”
“Oh, but you seem to be with a customer already,” she drifts further inside with caution. “Don’t want to interrupt.”
“Worry not,” we tell her, crossing past the tables and towards the door. “There is nothing of value or worth here, only overpriced junk.”
Back out into the night, we set on our trek to the home of Alderman Iblis. Too close to danger we have flown, and now we must make haste. With a hurried walk we retreat from the promenade, sparing the occasional glance over our shoulder in fresh paranoia. The farther we go, with each look finding no trailing shadows, the more our heart slows in its rhythm. That fear of a pursuer dissipates, and less frequently do we cast our eyes behind us. Returning to a less lively street, but one still with its own nocturnal wanderers, an ease of relief sets in and calms our nerves for good. The gates of Alderman Iblis’s estate come into view at the far end of the street, the mansion waiting beyond wrought iron bars.
Something sharp sinks into our shoulder as a hand clenches tight over our mouth. The handful of claws dig deep and yank us from the sidewalk, ripping us into the seclusion of an alleyway. Our hands fumble along our belt for our athame, but fail to find its hilt. The assailant releases us with a hard spin that sends us to the stone ground. Turning onto our back, our fingers finally clutching our weapon, the figure looms over us. While it is of no surprise to see the black-furred Felyndi’s claws dripping our crimson, we are struck with a bewilderment regarding his solidarity. Has he no comrades to back him up on tonight’s little crusade? Or did he have no time to round up his posse? Who now mans his shop in his predatory absence?
A long and thin tongue reaches out as bloody claws rise near his mouth. He gives a pause after the first taste, but then shoots us a wicked grin. “Your blood tastes different than that of other men,” he sneers through his teeth. “Let’s see if you die different, too.”
He pounces, claws outstretched for our throat, but our legs rise and toss him over our body. An agile thing, he lands on his feet with minimal effort. We spring up and meet him in a crouched stance, our blade free of its sheath. Like our feline opponent, it is ready to shed blood. Through lunges and slashes, the two of us exchange attempts in our deadly dance. A gash here, a slice there, yet neither of us are able to land vicious lethal blows. Scarlet droplets decorate our surroundings, creating an immaculate masterpiece of violent art. Every too-close pass adds another splash, another line of distant red stars in the gray of this stoney firmament.
Our free hand reaches out as the Felyndi dashes around us. A tight pull, and his back slams into our chest. His wounds there meet ours, no doubt exchanging a drop or two of blood. The wet metal in our hand acts quickly, making its own little sprint across the Felyndi’s neck. In our hold, his muscles tauten and fight to keep his precious lifesource where it belongs. But in the frenzy, we cannot deny our sharp little friend its vicious hunger. Over and over it bites and stings wherever it can on the Felyndi’s torso until he becomes heavy in our arms with unwilling defeat. His mass crumples on the ground as we let go and adds a statue to the speckled composition.
We fall against a wall and lower to the ground in much-need respite. Our wounds close on their own in short time, faster to heal than it takes our heartbeat to calm once more. A gift bestowed upon our kind from whatever deity created us, for which our gratitude will never deplete. We need to, however, consult a book about the divines to remind ourself of who to properly thank; it has been far too long since we last prayed to any of the Novhina.
“Good fight,” a voice coos from some secret crevice.
We raise our blade to the darkness of the alleyway and hurry to our feet. A laugh, low and feminine, bounces off the brick walls of the tall buildings around us. Spinning in circles to locate the source, we come up empty. It isn’t until she reveals herself, materializing out of the shadows, that our eyes find her form. Despite our brief earlier exchange, her warm skin and head of dark ringlets are familiar.
“Easy,” she says, her hands raised in casual forfeiture. “We mean you no harm.”
“We?” the word repeats from our lips. “There are others shrouded in the dark?”
“No, child,” she steps closer. “It is only you and we.”
The simple plural rings in our ears once again, turning the key of our mind and unlocking the puzzle with the obvious answer. We lower our athame and put it to sleep.
“You are a Canvas.”
“You were always a clever one,” she smiles as her steps bring her only inches from me. A necklace, one she had not worn at our previous crossing, shines like emeralds in the moonlight. Her hand, gentle and warm like morning sunlight, cradles our cheek. Her touch, such a simple yet magical thing, brings to the surface memories of a long-gone childhood full of important teachings and unconditional love.
“Mother?” we breathe, and our eyes well up with blissful tears.
“Let’s get you home and cleaned up,” she softly insists. “We have many stories to share.”
Tyler Gohde 