Sting and Sear

Chapter Twenty-Five: Broken Branches without Burial Grounds

(See the End of the Chapter for Author's Notes.)

(WARNING! This chapter includes brief mentions of self-harm. Although they are not ultra-descriptive, please skip the second POV {Pure's first part in this chapter.} if this is triggering or harmful to you in any way. Feel free to skip it if it simply makes you uncomfortable as well, as the scene is fairly grim and somber. One does not need to read this scene in order to understand what happens later in the story.)

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"'Blood is thicker than Water. Ink is thicker than both."

- Wanderer

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The Grimm Troupe was a deadly, fierce predator to kingdoms and wastelands alike. The Troupe was the reaper of dying sparks, the ender of dreams, and the ignition of nightmares. They served their god devoutly and loyally, for even they had no control over the whims of the Nightmare Heart.

Hollow stood at the entrance of the Grimm Troupe's Hall of Performance, which was a grand name for a red tent with holes torn into it. They certainly added to the ominous flavors bursting from the scene, and Hollow felt himself tense with nervousness.

(...) Hollow rubbed his hands together. He wasn't sure he was ready to be in such an unwelcoming space, but he didn't feel there was a choice. Hesitantly, the vessel walked through the archway and down the long hall inside the tent.

Hollow wasn't sure what to expect inside. There had been no bugs outside the tent like the last time the Troupe had arrived, nor was Divine's Tent anywhere to be found. Hollow tried to avoid assuming the worst.

He could hear mumbling up ahead, though the hall was dark and devoid of light. The sounds of conversation seemed to build with the volume of the Troupe's music. The only thing visible through the hall of shadow was the scarlet light emanating from the cloth cover at the end, where Hollow assumed would be the main theater of this tent. His nervousness continued to build, his footfalls somehow echoing louder as he approached the end of the hall. Hollow tenderly reached over his shoulder, drawing his nail from his back in preparation.

"Feed the father. Feed the father." The conversation became clear as a chant, a monotonous song of ritual.

(I don't have a good feeling about this.)

Hollow could hear pounding in his head, along with the noises coming from the hall exit, which he was fast approaching. The clinking of glasses and sinister crunches were to be the fanfare for the vessel's arrival. Hollow's mind tortured him with the possibilities of what lay beyond the veil of crimson silk blocking his view to the room ahead, red glow pulsing from beyond it.

Hollow took a deep breath, using his nail to part the fabric acting as a barrier to his vision.

Beyond the veil stood a long, dark table. It was adorned with food of plentiful variety, be it bug or fruit or fungus, and large glass gourds of what Hollow prayed to be red wine. Cultists of all sizes sat beside the table, gorging on the feast with large fangs, tearing apart the food with ease.

Hollow wasn't expecting this, but it didn't cause him more alarm than the Grimmkin seated at the head of the long table, it's blazing eyes boring into his with ferocity unmatched. The Grimmchild had certainly grown since Hollow had last seen them, their wings large and intimidating. They seemed to have also finally grown their other appendages, with their long sharp horns almost the spitting image of their parent's.