Chapter Text
Dusts bellows over the arid steppe, blowing swathes of dust upwards through the titanic ridges of what must be the edge of Pharloom. Leaping from ridge to ridge, scaling walls with ease, the red-cloaked huntress ascends above the churning sands, the bronze glint of Citadel architecture above subtly piercing the veil of dust.
Catching her sleek needle as it returns to her hand on a spool of silk, Hornet watches as yet another of this step’s guardians falls to her needle, rusted armor collapsing in a pile around the dead bug, freed from its duty upon this step. Feeling the cut it inflicted in her side, she spools silk around her in a flash, binding her shallow wounds together with interlocked threads.
Continuing her advance, she leaps over one of the red cone-headed creatures, piercing its eye socket with her needle as she flies past, preventing it from following her. Spinning vertically in the air, she lands on the next ledge at full sprint, leaving only footprints in the coarse sand, which are quickly hidden by a gust of wind.
The huntress wonders if Shakra had passed through here yet. Her taller friend had a habit of showing up ahead of her on the path, however they hadn’t crossed since Shellwood, where the wasp had claimed she was turning back, that this road only led to the Citadel. She surely must have already passed through here, then, if she knows that for sure.
A shame, Shakra had not seemed enthusiastic about even going near to the gate to the Citadel, so their paths seem to diverge. After the weaver reaches the peak of Pharloom and discovers why she was brought here, she should make an effort to meet with the bug again. It has been a while since the solitary hunter had felt a friendship bloom with another bug, and although it would be ultimately fruitless, it would be a comfort to her.
A comfort that would be well-received in this strange land. The strange bug, Erick would likely hold the same opinion, being possibly the only thing more foreign than Hornet to this grey kingdom. She can’t deny that meeting him again on this road would be interesting, to discover more of his homeland, however she is a solitary being. The silence of Hallownest’s decay had made sure of that fact. The hunter seemed similar. What must his homeland have been like?
Bringing her hands up to block the resounding noise of the bell-bearing structure, Hornet waits with anticipation for the melodramatic Citadel structure to reveal its bench. When it finally does, she sits on it, the cold brass against her back as she takes a rare moment of rest. Closing her eyes, sleep threatens to take her, but she cannot afford it. Pale blood runs through her veins, she doesn’t need sleep, although it is a comforting feeling.
Observing her needle, she wipes some maroon chitin off of the blade, stuck to the edge of the fine weapon by thick hemolymph. With a slight shimmer of disgust, she wipes the silver edge clean, knowing full-well that the blade would be dirtied by blood and sand soon enough. At least she closes on her goal, the Citadel nearly within reach now.
Whoever you are who brought me here, I will know why.
Determination fills her. She is Deepnest royalty, daughter of beast and higher being. And she will know who had the power to bind her, the audacity to bring her to this twilight kingdom. Standing, after her brief rest, she walks onwards, seeing the twinkle of light reflecting off of bronze columns just above.
Breaking into a run, the huntress leaps up to the next handhold, grabbing the top of the ledge by the tip of her claws. Kicking the ledge, she jumps up, landing on the rough sand. Almost as soon as she lands, another of the sentinel bugs in their brass raiment shrugs off a coat of sand to the ground, rearing its blade. Before it can make a move, Hornet is already running at it. It tries to slash at her, but she’s already behind it, needle leaving a deep cut by its leg. As it spins to face her, she’s above it, kiting its slow movement as her needle pierces some soft flesh between where its helm connects to breastplate.
Its sound of pain is barely audible over the blowing wind, as it tries to swing back with an overhead swing. Parrying the strike to the side with her needle, Hornet closes while its guard is out, needle entering through the gap by its neck again, and emerging again on the other side. As the creature’s arm falls limp, Hornet retracts her needle, letting the bug find rest on the sand.
The huntress continues her climb, passing by another statue, this one stuck in place by sand, the bug inside likely dead and decaying from its long wait. Just above it sits a bronze structure, built from flowing curves, light emanating from inside. Latching herself to a broken pillar, Hornet leaps, hovering by way of her cloak, paired with wind buffeting behind her.
The chamber is large, built from sturdy columns patterned with interlocked curved lines, forming complex sigils that make the ornate pillars of the White Palace look bland in the face of the exaggerated sigils and statues that only begin to rise from the shadows more and more as the room seems to glow more and more as the huntress walks into the chamber. Bells of incense hang from the ceiling, burning a mist, coating the ceiling of the chamber in a thin fog.
At the far end of the chamber, a small gathering of pilgrims seem to pray to a great gate, minds and bodies taken in song. Stepping forward, she hears one’s prayers.
“The gate... the gate! O, the Grand Gate to the Citadel stands before us!” The pilgrim hardly seems to notice her staring at them. “We are so close! O mighty ones beyond the gate, we beg you! Open the way and let we poor, insignificant little pilgrims crawl into the light…”
“I see no gatekeepers to heed your plea, pilgrim, though I too would benefit from its opening.” Hornet interrupts the pilgrim’s pleas, the bug giving a noticeable jump before turning to her. “Have you heard of a means to pass through?”
Revenant aspect not lost, the pilgrim responds “Ahh... Weapons blunt it not. No holes for keys. 'Tis the bells, they say! The holy bells upon the path that open the way!”
Thinking of her path up to this shrine, Hornet considers the numerous shrines she had passed through to make her way to this place. “On my journey up, I passed many large bells housed in old shrines. Each I have struck awake, yet still this gate stays closed. What other task must be done to see us pass beyond?”
Seemingly shocked at this knowledge, a wide smile dares make its way to the pilgrim’s thin mouth “The bells are rung? Then this sacred threshold may now be crossed, for the final task is simple! Only music, played fair and true. Music shall attune the bells, and see the gate descend.
It must be you to lead us, sister! You, who brought this blessing! Play or sing, and we shall follow.”
Did they really need her to do this service for them? The bells had been rung for some time now, they could have crossed the threshold already if it were not for their blind prayer. The thought is wasted, Hornet realizes as the pilgrim rouses the other pilgrims huddled at the gate, all of them staring at her unexpectedly.
Raising her needle vertically, she pulls threads of silk from the tip to the guide, the needolin prepared. Delicately, she plucks one thread with the tip of her claw, a light sound resonating through the empty chamber. Continuing the song, the weaver plays the melody of her homeland, taught to her by her mother, passed down from weaver to weaver for generations. The pilgrims add their song as a chorus to her subtle tune, surprisingly on-tune given their dilapidated bodies.
To their song, great, golden bells in the gate ahead of them add to their chorus, great resounding clashes harmonizing with the existing chorus. Their collective song echoes through the great hall, the chamber lightening at the sound filling every crevice, likely audible from the rest of the coarse plateaus leading to this gateway.
On the far side of the chamber, Hornet sees movement. Dropping the silk from her needle, her focus becomes pin-point on the movement in the shadows of the chamber. A loud cry silences the pilgrim’s chorus, filling the chamber with a deafening announcement of arrival. One of the far statues steps down from its pedestal on the far end of the chamber. As it steps into the light, the weaver sees the familiar face of one of the sentinels outside, however it is placed on a significantly larger frame. Armed with a great flail, it walks forward in silence, its steps shaking the floor beneath Hornet as she assumes a defensive stance.
Now, the pilgrims are silent, staring reverently at the great form. As one falls to its knees, inciting some form of prayer, the bug throws forward its flail with no warning. Jumping over the large ball, Hornet avoids the aggression, however the pilgrims at her back are not as lucky, hemolymph splattering the gate they were praying to only moments ago.
As the large bug begins to pull on its chain, the huntress realizes what’s happening too late. Trying to jump to the side, the flail head still brushes her side, sending her spinning to the floor. Before it can capitalize, Hornet enters a forward roll, landing on her feet mid-dash as she slices a shallow cut in the side of the large bug.
Seemingly unaffected, the bug spins its flail around itself in a wide arc, to which Hornet responds to by jumping, trying to slice at the bug’s neck. Finding no weak point in the armor, Hornet’s strike seemingly only angers the bug, as it retaliates by jumping. The bulk of the bug narrowly misses the huntress, the flail’s slam landing wide, giving Hornet another chance to try to find a weak point. A slash between the arm and breastplate yields nothing, the sentinel turning to face her again as she lands on the ground. Knowing she’s out of position, the huntress only barely manages to slide backwards before being caught in a vertical spin of the flail.
Quickly attaching some thread to the base of her needle, she throws the blade into the judge, the force of the throw knocking the arm holding the flail back, stopping the spin. Simultaneously reeling in her needle and closing the distance to the bug, the huntress rushes forward, leaping into the air. Catching the needle mid-air, she stabs diagonally down, her blade precisely threads one eye of the bug’s mask, a shocked sound of pain echoing from the armor.
A weak point. I can work with this.
Not overextending herself, she pulls the needle out, jumping backwards off of the armor as she throws a fan of pins at the sentinel. None seem to have a meaningful effect, but it at least distracts the armor which raises an arm to shield its mask.
It tries catching her by throwing the flail’s ball forward while she is still in the air, however she simply curls into a ball mid-air, spinning over the metal ball. As the sentinel is about to pull it back as it did before, Hornet jams her needle into its head, riding the chain as the bug pulls her closer. This time, she properly plunges her needle into the bug, feeling it cut through flesh inside the mask. She stays, gripping the head with one claw, needle with the other this time, hoping to put down the bug, but is unsuccessful, the bug shaking her off, weaver and needle thrown to the floor.
Clearly enraged now, the bronze-armored bug lets out a loud battle cry again, slamming one gauntlet into its chest as the head of its flail bristles with flame. Entering a charge, Hornet easily jumps over the creature’s sprinting form, kicking over it and landing behind, however she is quickly thrown to the ground by a pillar of flame in the bug’s wake. As it begins to enter a charge again, likely to try and finish off the huntress, she rolls to the side, quickly tying silk into her wounds to close them.
Making sure to dodge the pillars of flame erupting in its wake this time, Hornet goes on the offensive. Leaping upwards to try to find a purchase on the bug’s mask, the sentinel jumps with her, leaving her hanging. Dodging back, the huntress puffs out her cloak, hovering in the air to maybe land a strike afterwards. As the bug lands, dust falls from the ceiling, and a wave of fire roars under her, forcing her to lift her legs to not be burned, abandoning any chance to land that strike. Dropping to the ground behind the wave of fire, she is forced on the defensive when the bronze figure spins their flail in the air, breathing a wave of fire towards her. Barely managing to dodge to the side of it by leaping to the ground, the huntress is once again forced to fall back when the large figure throws the head of their flail out.
Standing just out of range, Hornet prepares to redo her maneuver of riding the head back to the sentinel, but is caught when a blast of fire emanating from the head of the burning flail throws her back again, scorching her mask. She quickly tries to bind silk back into her wounds, but has to forget the idea halfway, the silk around her dropping to the floor when the sentinel charges her again. Leaping up into the air, Hornet meets the bug mid-charge, grappling one of the helmet’s brass horns with her legs. This time, she holds the needle with both hands, plunging it into the eye socket once again, putting all her might into the blade, so much so that it would shatter a worse-made needle.
The sentinel tries to throw her off, and the horn she’s anchored to cuts her shell, but she keeps pushing the blade in, further and further until she hears the subtle crack of bone breaking. The needle slides in further now, meeting no resistance to her blade. The sentinel stops trying to throw her off, freezing stiff immediately as her blade pierces skull and brain.
Leaping off the head of the huge bug with her stained needle in hand, Hornet lands in a roll, watching silently as the huge figure wobbles slightly, before falling, mask flat to the floor. Breathing heavily, the huntress backs up from the fallen figure as the mace heats up, glowing brighter, fire breaching containment, before the energy is released in a single blast of flame, blowing apart the armor of the hulking sentinel.
Drained, but still alive, Hornet turns to the great gate. Slowly, the doors part, opening inwards, and revealing a great, golden light, illuminating the wounded weaver’s mask. A great, golden Citadel lies before her, the yellow light reflecting off of golden towers. Majestic, yet the silence is unnerving.
Her legs barely holding her weight, the huntress steps over the threshold, determined for her answers.