They escape through the convenient portal just in time to dodge a knife in the back.
Kult lands in a crouch against lush blades of uniform grass. His right hand falls in a fist against the earth, balancing his weight before he can topple forward from the momentum. The rise and fall of his chest brings oxygen in long pulls to his lungs, a welcome strain from their run. He can barely help the crooked grin that seems to plaster itself against his (now human) jaw in triumph. They had escaped the madman Jack, no thanks to Peter of course. The young man was about as useless as tits on a turtle, and just as ugly.
Long strands of greasy, brown hair fall away from his eyes as he looks to see just where they have ended up now. Peter is still with him, trembling terribly and fussing with his soiled clothing. His shirt is askew, the boy seems to have trouble tucking it back in just right. Kult had shoved the sorry sap through the door in hopes to be rid of him. Fall to his death, be sucked into a black hole- no such luck.
His own attire is a bit worse for wear, but nothing that would cause him a second thought. Appearance did not matter all that much to Kult. Usually, the only reason he kept half way decent, was because of Kirin. It made him cross, and Kult had no desire to upset his brother-or any of his siblings really. His trousers are torn on one leg, just at the knee. Likely the material had ripped against the cobbled street when he and Jack had it out with their fists. His coat is crusted with blood along the left side of his collar, along with twists of his lackluster hair. His ear (the left one) hangs limply against the side of his head, the smallest bit of flesh keeping the flopping appendage in place. No matter, the fold of skin was unimportant, even if he lost some clarity to sound in that side.
He brings himself to standing position in one fluid movement, watching Peter fidget and taking in their new surroundings. A voice speaks, amplified as if from some megaphone. Megaphone. He grimaced each time a strange word wound its way into his thoughts, and again when he understood its meaning. The woman’s voice tells him about her maze, the surprises within(but not what they are), and how he will be transformed (but not what he will be transformed into) . Another game. Well, that is just fine with him, he thinks; lacing his fingers together to crack his knuckles. The maze he can see, or parts of it at least. Huge, towering hedges of close growing shrubs rise before them. The evening sun settles in the sky, soon they would be faced with navigating in the dark. He grabs Peter by the sleeve, dragging him forward to what he thinks is the entrance. “Come.” He says simply to the shell shocked boy, surprised with how easily his captive submits.
His new friend advances with a heartless pace, mechanically moving his limbs. Kult is not the only one who wishes that Peter was any other place. He decides he will keep the boy alive, for now, he may end up coming in handy for whatever awaits them in this emerald garden. The first thing he notices are the watchful pixies, tiny things, none of them taller than a ruler. Their pointed ears and eyes give them an alien appearance, but their features are soft-childlike even, in all their strangeness. They pace the tops of the hedgerows, looking down at the them with their odd, tapered eyes while carrying empty lanterns. As benign as they seem at first glance, one catches Peter staring and gives him a wide smile. Their mouths are full of pointed teeth-the better to eat you with my dears. Kult looks on through dark, narrowed eyes before smacking Peter upside his head with his palm. He would need to keep a careful eye on his companion. Hell, he would need to take care to keep an eye on their route as well.
He pats at his jacket, Peter giving him a questioning sideways glance. “Trail” he grunts, continuing to check his pockets. Peter arches an eyebrow, “Trail? Whot you mean trail?” he questions. Finally finding something useful, Kult pulls a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket, smashing the material into Peter’s nose. “Trail.” Again a single word explanation before he tears the material, tying a sliver of cloth on the nearest bush. “O-o-oh. A trail. Right, I’ve got just the fing in me pocket.” He displays his own blue square of cloth, which Kult deftly snatches from his possession, his solid glare waiting for the idiot to protest. His companion instead gulps loudly, shoving his hands in his pockets before speaking, “Right, whot’s mine is yours” His eyes find the ground, a good place for them.
For a while they walk in silence, Kult marking the way when he finds necessity, mood on edge. They have yet to encounter one of the woman’s ’surprises’, and it does not sit well. Not well at all, especially when travelling with a most undesirable partner. They round the next right corner, a giggle from one of many fiendish pixies, and find an unexpected obstacle. The path is forward only, there is no way to turn left, nor can they accomplish much by backtracking. Ahead are panes of windows? No, mirrors. Mirrors . His mind provides the word and he is reminded of the first one he encountered, back inside the mansion. The one he had left in a million shattered pieces against the wooden floor. Here there are many panes of the reflective material, all of them seem to be woven together, framed in white trim. Walking forward to what he believes to be the entrance, Kult collides with a clear pane of thin plexiglass, his own nose flattening comically against it. He could not differentiate between the clear material and the illusion, that it too was reflective, from the mirror behind it.
He frowns, the corners of his mouth pulling downward, forehead creasing in concentration. He reaches a knuckle forward, rapping on the material, testing each slender rectangle until he finds a void in the pattern. “Here.” Announcing that this space is open, before grabbing Peter and progressing into the puzzle. How ridiculous, a maze within a maze.
For some time they both tap at sheets of plastic, reflective panes of mirror, sometimes finding a path forward. Other times, blank spaces simply lead into a small corridor, forcing them to turn around and try again. At others, there is some form of trap awaiting their incorrect choices. Peter finds several such places. The fifth time, Kult grabs the boy’s right hand, crushing the fingers until he cries for him to stop-buckling at the knee from the pressure. He had just had to save Peter’s ass from falling into a pit at the end of a false hall. Before that, they had pushed on a rotating mirror that triggered an explosion. Kult was still sore about his singed eyebrows. “Try harder” he growls, a menacing stare to match the hostility in his commands. His companion whimpers, rubbing his purple ring finger gingerly; it is very much broken now.
Turning on his heels Kult leads their small party back the way they came, stopping as a thick fog steadily creeps over the grasses. Clouds roll in, thick puffs of grey and black, blotting out the evening sun. They threaten rain and bring a chill to the air, so much for using the stars to navigate later. From overhead tiny pinpricks of haunting blue light emerge, along with the chatter of tiny voices. So that was why the little bastards held lanterns, he squinted ahead, their task becoming much more difficult. On top of being inside a mirror maze, the glow of lantern light is most mesmerizing, several times he must redirect Peter from wandering off. The little fuckers were trying to lead them astray, whispering into the half light for them to follow. Taking the shreds of handkerchief from his pocket he hands a few strips to Peter, and shoves what he can into his own ears. Nothing seems to stay in his left, so he gives up on that side, stowing the bloody material back in his coat.
It’s slow progress forward, the work is tedious, tap here, no. Tap there, no, not it. Tap, tap, tap. Kult is too wrapped up in leading them out of this god forsaken fun house, to notice that Peter is no longer behind him. After a particularly difficult series of mirrors, he finally finds an opening, grunting a deep ” come on” to the boy. It’s only then that he turns to find no one there, strips of blue cloth are held aloft in twisting spirals by a hovering, green pixie. A malicious smile on its face as it waves the cloth at Kult, indicating that they have managed to deter his friend. He makes to grab the little shit, missing and catching a handful of air-sending the creature into a fit of throaty laughter. He is going to need to be much quicker, tapping furiously against glass after glass, keeping an eye out for any particularly bright glow of blue. He spots it, just barely against the dense fog, but it is there no doubt.
A cluster of a haunting lantern light hovers over a particularly stupid, brown-haired boy. Closing in he takes note of what exactly his assistant is being led to. One rather wide pane shimmers, even with no light cast against it. A rainbow of swirls and white mist, against what appears to be an otherwise empty frame. “Can you hear it Kult? The voices, they’re so wonderful. They know the way out.” He speaks with a hollow tone, a sleepy, unconscious voice.
Kult reaches him just as he presses his right hand into the cloudy mists, his flesh burning and falling away as if dipped in acid. Luckily Kult pulls him back, with angry yells from several pixies following the rescue. Peter’s screams are atrocious. Bits of flesh are burned away, sliding to the grass in chunks, causing the boy to continuously cry. Kult tears the bottom of the boys shirt, ripping the material and quickly wrapping the mangled claw. From then on, he leads the boy by the elbow, and eventually they emerge back into the garden maze.
The fog lifts then, dispersing until the night is free of its veil, though the clouds still block out the sky. A consensual silence falls over them, Pete has finally learned to shut up, and Kult could not have been more grateful. He could have been less hungry though. His stomach was churning, making him feel nauseous from the emptiness. His companions stomach was just as vocal, grinding with long growls that even the pixies could hear.
Perhaps such noises are what conjures into being the next unfriendly scenario. Everything about the scene is off. Kult very quickly decides that this courtesy is not to be accepted, especially not from their host. Especially, after the types of traps they have so far witnessed, nothing good was going to come from this trick.
From several flickering candelabras, light shines on a long wooden table. On top of the table spreads a feast of great proportions, all manner of delicacies are presented in over the top ways.
A fountain of chocolate stands proudly, nestled against crystal platters of fruit, thick wedges of spongy pastries, and fine cheeses pierced by skewers. The tiers are made of solid gold that glints expensively with candle light. There are gemstone bowls filled with heaping piles of mashed potatoes, succulent buttered lobsters, strands of sausages, piles of greens sauteed in onions, bacon and healthy spoonfuls of butter.
Boats of gravy hold ladles as big as a fist, even still dishes of meat are swimming in the same rich sauce. Crystal cups of caviar, cakes, cookies, even ice cream. A roasted boar is the main dish, a giant, ruby-red apple stuffed in it’s jaw. Fluffy mounds of stuffing line it’s platter atop decorative leaves of cabbage. Kult can taste the smells, his mouth waters at the thought of just one bite. He doesn’t, however, miss the single seated guest- a creature that looks to be made of skin. Pale as death, with folds hanging from its thick neck, and against its flat, fleshy chest. Too much skin for a too thin body, that’s what it reminded him of. Like a small creature had crawled inside the flesh of a much bigger one, attempting to be something it was not. Before the monster, sits a single dish, with two eyes-though the threat has no sockets in which to place them. None which he could see.
Peter lingers over the table, mouth watering as he savors the smell, deeply inhaling the fragrant aroma such a feast can provide. Kult snatches the boy by his hair, yanking him away against his pleading howls. “Do not eat” he demands, his own stomach betraying him with hunger sounds. He himself would love to devour platefuls of the foreign sustenance, but he knew he could not. Not if he wanted to continue to play this game. He throws his captive forward by the head, Peter stumbles against the ground before he can stand upright. A dejected look crosses his boyish face as he gathers himself, a task proving difficult with only one good hand. Even the pixies steer clear from this aisle, their lights hovering at the far end, the direction they must go. The table sprawls the length of the path, a good 200 feet of delicious food to taunt them. All of which, Kult has never heard of before now, but he just knows somehow that each one is amazingly decadent.
He marches Peter forward, making sure his companion stays in front of him as they progress. The fool can’t help but to stare longingly at the steaming treats, walking slack-jaw across the manicured lawn. An utter fools appearance takes over the boy, the way he bobs his head around to look at the food he can not eat. His pace slows as his eyes wander, Kult muttering obscenities under his breath before he reaches to direct the lad once more. Peter points to the ground, “Shoes untied”, and indeed it is.
Kult bends to tend to his laces, looping the strings with care, it proves more difficult than he thought. Trying again, he finds the loop, just in time for Peter to sprint to the table- a fistful of whipped cream to his mouth. Within moments of consuming the whipped topping, the creature stirs, lifting clawed hands to it’s head. There, in the center of it’s ghastly palms, blink the eyes that earlier lay in a plate. They swivel side to side, both arms rising to meet the head where they rest. The creature is fantastically graceful; leaping on to the table top, closing the path to a petrified Peter. Kult sprints for his partner, the idiotic child he has spared so many times now, knocking the blibbering fool out of the way. The scream that follows is dear Peter landing on his injured hand, the ungrateful little twerp. He really needs to suck it up, a hand is nothing, he still has his pathetic life. The monster advances on Kult now, slamming a fist into his shoulder. The jolt from the blow makes his arm go numb, he stumbles back clutching it. As much as he can he tries to work the limb, rolling his shoulder and arm to send blood flow through and give life back to it. It works, but it comes with the pins and needles feeling he (for some reason) associates with his foot falling asleep.
“Fight back!” Kult yells, desperately trying to keep the monster off himself. For such an awkwardly made being, it was strong, and it was agile. On top of these already sufficient aspects, the ends of its splayed fingers are razor-like claws. They have no issue finding the soft meat of Kult’s forearm right through the coat. It’s a clean cut that makes him wince, but he will not satisfy the savage with his screams. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, a tried and true method. Peter finally starts to use his brain, dumping a golden platter of food, and raising it high over the beast’s head with his uninjured arm.
Kult can almost not believe that the idiot manages to make contact with the head, knocking the critter out. He shoves with a grunt, straining to toss the limp skin-man off. They are both heavily breathing, Peter from fright, Kult from barely escaping a fate of becoming the next main dish. Finding his feet, the long haired young man walks to the table, shoving his fist into the meat of the boar. He tears at the skin and muscle until he reaches the inside, snapping the bones for a makeshift shank. This shank he uses to plunge into the breast of the skin walker, the creature gasps and grabs at Kult’s throat in vain. Thick black blood flows from its body as it goes limp for good, the wound sends dark veins of infection or poison along the caracass.
He rises in rage, pulling his weapon from the skin-creature with his good arm. He presses the sharp bone against Peter’s neck, a threat and a promise to the words he speaks. “Get your shit together, or I will end you boy.” Peter makes no protest, utterly taken aback by the use of a sentence. There is simply no arguing with that.
Kult lowers the bone dagger, wiping the coagulating goo against his trousers. The clean end of his shirt gets ripped to form a bandage, just like he had done for Peter. He shakes his head when he finishes, still dripping with sweat, his vision momentarily becomes fuzzy. Peter leans in to ask after his health, but he waves him away, muttering a “fine.” He gathers himself, wiping his forehead with the back of his coat sleeve, and stalking forward. Peter lingers a while before he grabs a few loaves of bread, jogging to meet up with his goaler. Kult accepts the food in silence, taking the larger lump of cooked dough, despite being offered the smallest.
The rich starch feels heavy on his stomach, making him bend at the waist and grab his knees. He dry heaves several times, spitting stomach fluid at the lawn. Peter again asks after his health, “You sure you all right then? Sumfing ain’t seem right wit you.” Kult takes his sickness in silence, aside from the retching noises. Above them the sky begins to clear, the dark clouds float away as stars dot the navy expanse. Finally the blanket exposes the moon, sitting full and proud against the night sky. The moonlight touches Kults skin, causing him to jerk in response, and his whole body begins to shake. Peter stutters, slowly backing away, “I-I-I think you had a b-b-bad bit of rye.” He stumbles, falling with a thud against the earth, unable to catch himself with one good arm. The noise brings an immediate head lift from Kult, his once black eyes, now an illuminated shade of yellow.
He groans several times. Growls with unearthly, beastial noises. His body twists until his back his arched - thrusting his chest towards the sky. He moans loudly, a guttural growl bubbling up his throat and after, a piercing howl breaches the quiet. Hands find his face, he tears at his flesh, ripping his hanging ear from his head and throwing it to the ground. Bright blood flows from his self inflicted wound, splattering the grass in a happy holidays sort of way. This is followed by the tearing of chunks of flesh from his body. His hands and fingers curl into sharp, hairy claws, his build elongates and forms thick muscles. Each loss of human skin is replaced with shaggy, brown fur with grey peppered throughout. Soon his face stretches too, forming a broad snout, widening and on his forehead forms a striking white letter ‘X’. His back curves again, his spine jutting out from his hairy torso, each vertebra easily pinpointed. He turns to face Peter with a snarl, letting all the anger for the boy overtake him. No longer is Kult a horse turned man. Now he is a man turned werewolf- dark fur covering him entirely. His eyes reflect the moonlight, neon tape against his dark pelt. His jaw, full of sharp fangs, drips with hot saliva-his jaw has grown along with his teeth. He is much bigger now than he was as a human, easily 9 ft tall. He walks on all fours, his limbs long and toned, but he too can rise to stand on two legs. A small homage to the man he once was.
Peter soon finds this out for himself, failing terribly at a backwards, crab-walk scramble. Kult lifts himself to his back legs, swiping forward with a clawed hand, narrowly missing Peter’s face. Somehow the boy manages to gain his feet, sprinting down the pathway, turning whenever he can and with no sense of direction. Kult turns his head, lifting his injured arm and licking the wound. Something told him he should do that and as the cut fuses back together, he is glad it did. The Kult-wolf follows, snarling with laughter as he pursues his prey.
He was done keeping the boy alive, the wolf demands his blood, and Kult is happy to oblige. He’s much faster now, barrelling along the path with an unsettling swiftness. He swipes at the fleeing boys heels, falling short several times before he tears the target. Peter collapses with a scream, tumbling forward in a summersault, spinning out of control against the damp grass. He clutches the back of his foot, the wound bleeding profusely. Kult circles, snapping at the cowering child, taking delight in each flinch, each screaming sob. “Please, you dun haveta do this. Please, spare me, have mercy.” Yellow were-eyes squint, corners creasing with amusement. ”No.” Kult growls in response, leaping on top of his captive, sinking his new fangs into the flesh of his side. Peter makes feeble attempts to escape, grabbing at the earth, trying desperately to dig his fingertips into the ground.
The screams come from a raw throat, but not for long. Kult crunches into the neck, ripping the throat with his large jaws. Peter’s screams cease, turning into a blood filled gurgle. Blood bubbles at his parted lips, choking any chance at breathing or survival. The were-Kult throws the boy around, whipping his own head back and forth to toss the body like a rag doll. Once dead, Kult finds the man-smell simply irresistible, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh. Each piece rips so easily, like a carving knife in a Thanksgiving turkey. When he is satisfied, he circles to the side of the remaining carcass to heist his leg. Something inside told him he needed to mark this as his kill, to make sure no others would touch it. This was his territory.
Once that is finished he serenades the moon with his call, throwing his head back in song before darting off through the twisting paths of the hedges. After all, wasn’t it customary to thank the moon for the kill? His senses feel heightened ten fold, especially his sense of smell which he uses to trace his way along the twisting paths. Everything is driven by the beast, all he can think is, I’ve got to eat, I’ve got to hunt. It’s this that overtakes him as he inhales a peculiar scent, something that screams prey to his brain. What he finds first is the cause of the overlapping smell, one of rubbish and mold. Kult looks around at a makeshift camp, odds and ends of trash are gathered together to form slums of various materials. Milling about the dirt covered shanty are creatures-as wide as they are tall. Their skin is green, like jars of pickled olives, with coarse hair running up their bulging stomachs. Each one sports overlong arms that curve, ape-like against the ground into clawed fingers. A flat face holds two small watery eyes, a smashed snout with huge nostrils, and their bald heads host two oversized bat ears. Dretch.
They smell him upon his entry, wide snouts sniffing into the air. There are all of 6 creatures that meander about their run down camp, every one of them charges him. There is no doubt in his mind that these ape-like demons are stupid, they dogpile him (literally) and slash furiously with their sharp claws. They do not take special care to aim, their efforts focus on subduing him until they can claw their way to victory. A poor battle strategy, even if they are fat little fuckers. It’s tooth and nail for a while, each time he manages to toss one from his back, another lunges upwards to take its place. Only when Kult manages to grab hold of one of the slippery snots, does the tide turn. With a crunch, he sinks his teeth into the green monster- red globs of blood spill from its insides. The gang freezes, the animal noises cease, and their scratches end. In their sudden adversity they flee, scattering around the compound. Five run scared, until six lay beheaded across their dump. The first creatures head he shoves onto a metal pipe, before driving it into the ground. This will serve as his claim flag.
He deserts the dretch camp and tracks his way to a clearing filled with silver light, tongue lolling out the side of his fanged jaw. He was so very thirsty, especially after all that blood. In the center is a wide but shallow stone basin, filled with clear liquid. It looks like the freshest water he has ever seen, it smells like melted snow from the coldest mountain top. Greedily he laps the liquid, not bothering to stop until he reaches the dry bottom. Again he finds himself shaking, falling to his side in what could be mistaken for a seizure. His were-form ripples, a million disturbances on a windless lake, until he is again releasing the contents of his stomach. Everything that rises from his belly is either chunks of flesh, or red liquid. Only once his insides are empty, does he find the basin full, reflecting his human form to his disappointed, flat black eyes.
