Venmortuis

“Meum Numen, obsecro te, fac mea bellator a mortuis, et nunquam sit eos incidunt.”

There was a warm, inviting voice echoing in the inky blackness, calling together minds and thoughts to gather and awaken. It was as though the concept of existence had been returned to a half a dozen or so who had left that idea behind, creating confusion and panic among them. Their thoughts muddled together, and not one could identify themselves among the crowd.

Who am I?




"Are...are you okay?"

There it was again, that warm voice, leading the collective towards something brighter than the void they screamed into. There was an occasional murmur of worry, of a lack of identity, but the vast majority shooed the thought away. Prioritize. There must be Prioritization.

Some remembered how to function when trapped in a vessel, urging eyelids to open, and eyes to move. A few focused on breathing, on heartbeats, ignoring the rest who watched the world with a plethora of emotions. Voices called out observations as they saw them, and slowly the group began to take stock of their recently returned existence. One dragon. Two legs, two arms, two wings… a tail… a sense of life and growth… a Wildclaw, someone offers. A blue one, another notes.

There was something in the room with them, they who inhabited one body. Again, the observations came one at a time, yet somehow still making a quiet cacophony. Small. Purple. Concerned. Regal. Regal? Yes, look at its clothes. A Fae dragon? Ice in its eyes. How are those candles floating? His scales shine brightly…

"Hello? Do you understand me?"

A question. It needs a response. They have many responses to choose from. They? We? Focus. There’s a memory of a ruleset, a demand. Something about responding, lest this existence be forfeit. A few are panicked, others are irked. One mentioned quieting down, they can’t quite get the heart going on its own yet, and need to concentrate.

“I caN hEar YOu.”

I? Me? Us? Them? There’s a sense of confusion, of bickering and semantics. Attention turns inwards, and the world outside becomes background noise. Something mentions a grievance with this introspection after debate turns to shouting, and cites a growing pain in the body’s head. A few agree to table the discussion for later.

Eyes refocus on the surroundings. The purple fae looks taken aback. Does he? Yes, his fins are flared. Does that mean something? Surprise, actually- Focus. Focus. Focus. Stand up. Stand. There are legs to be used, but there isn’t an agreed upon method on using them. Someone tries to balance, another overcorrects. A third whispers about identity again, only to be hushed. No need to start that argument again. Focus. There’s a triumphant cheer when an upright posture is achieved. Or perhaps a triumphant feeling? Did it have a voice? There are a lot of voices.

"Wow, that spell backfired." The purple fae mutters. His fins go back, and the left ones tilt downwards. What does that mean? He’s going to ask a question. "Are you in pain?"

"PaiN? nO, i doNT tHinK So?" Was that true? No, there was a headache a bit ago, someone mentioned it. I didn’t feel it. But I did? I? You? No, no more semantics.

"I’m not sure how much I believe that," He began. "I definitely didn’t mean to put so many souls in one body. How many of you are there?”

Souls? Ah, that makes more sense. No it doesn't. Quiet. Someone do a headcount. There aren’t any heads! Do it anyway!

“...EiGHt?”

The purple creature looks horrified, but in a fascinated way. "8?! Dear eleven... Do you know who any of them are?"

Who are they? Who are you? Who am I? Species? Age? "No… NoThINg cOMes tO MiNd." Eight little voices mumbling amongst themselves. One suggests we. Another seconds the motion. A third grumbles about hierarchy and other such nonsense. It is not nonsense! It is. Another argument…

The purple creature interrupts us, much to the relief of everyone. "Venmortuis." He states flatly. "I... wanted to call you Venmortuis. Although if you can remember any of the spirits names, feel free to use that one."
Venmortuis? Can anyone remember their names? There’s a sense of mild panic, of melancholy, of indifference. “...STilL No…” Again, the 8 souls turn inwards to discuss the issues at hand. One mentions a passing interest in the lack of a perceivable, physical space they inhabit when they do this. The rest comment on this, creating a noise similar to the din of a crowded room.

Slowly, voices start to become easier to identify.

---

This is fun, says a small, light voice. It carries the shadows of naivety and youth. There’s a fear of swimming, of drowning, of the sea. It likes the arguments, although it itself doesn’t participate.

It is more confusing than anything, says a more gruff, grumbly voice. There’s a memory of metal, the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer and the smell of a forge. It possesses a wariness towards improper safety techniques.

Spoilsport, says the Youth.

Childish whelp, says the Metalworker.

Enough, says a third, older voice. It is soft, yet has an authority to it. It remembers little more than the smell of an apple pie, and the faint laughter of children. It seems more at peace than most, and is the only one who is a little irked to be back. Someone’s memory ascribes the voice to a grandmotherly figure, and the other 7 agree on the assessment.

Venmortuis sounds like a good book villain name, says a boisterous, bright voice. It fondly remembers the smell of a new book, and - perhaps not so fondly - the crushing weight of a bookshelf. It tries to remember the stories it had read, but only comes up with fragments of plotlines and bookmarked page numbers.

I refuse to be a villain, says the Metalworker.

Agreed, says the Grandmother.

They were only drawing comparisons, says a low, snide voice. It remembers little other than the sound of an angry protest, though no chants or shouts it can recall come with recognizable words. It’s all muddled together in a buzz of righteous fury. A protective consciousness, it is quick to fight with anyone it thinks is being unjust.

No need to be combative, a sixth voice groans. It turns its attention back to reconnecting the brain back to the heart, so it can finally stop manually pumping blood. Its tired, and memories of grueling office work float around it. The Worker remembers the most out of the eight, grumbling about how it doesn’t want to die due to stress-related heart conditions again, and something about wanting a nap.

The seventh voice tries to speak, but is interrupted by the Youth whining about naps and how they are a pestilence. It keeps trying, but its voice is barely a whisper, and it keeps getting talked over. It carries a memory of a nest, and of a failure to keep something safe, and the metallic scent of blood pooling on cold rock. There is grief fighting to silence every word.

Let them speak, says the Grandmother

Thank you, whispers the Quiet. It murmurs about how it had been keeping an eye on the outside, and that they were missing a fairly important conversation.

Fill us in on the exposition later, sighs the Bookworm dismissively.

There’s a vague feeling of annoyance radiating from the eighth voice. It doesn’t say anything, just shifts its attention to and from the different souls. It seems to side with the Quiet on the issue.

The Metalworker makes a judgmental huffing sound. Is it even a person? It asks. The Youth and the Bookworm echo the question.

How can a soul not be a person? The Protective replies, words sharp and full of ire.

The Eighth remains silent, but there is a sense of gratitude directed at the Protective.

There's a faint feeling of frustration that few could pinpoint, but the Grandmother finds the source quickly. Could we turn our attention back to the real world? The Grandmother asks on behalf of the Quiet. The Quiet mumbles something about not wanting to repeat what the Purple dragon has been saying.

So be it, we decide.

—

---

“...should you deem it necessary, of course. I’m not sure what comes from having 8 different political views, but hopefully that doesn’t lead to too much indecision.” The purple dragon - King Raja, the Quiet says - spoke with an odd hesitance, as though he was trying to avoid offending someone.

We pause to get a response in order. Has the Quiet been speaking to him? No, only listening. Well, time to start talking, then.

“Ah… ThAt mAY BeComE An ISsue…” We answer honestly. “EvEryTHinG eLSe seeMS StRAIghT ForWarD, hOWeveR.” There is an edge of uncertainty to our voice, as nobody knows what’s going on but the Quiet. There’s a collective gratitude directed to the Quiet for electing to listen rather than participate in our bickering. The Protective suggests that the Quiet be in charge of interacting with the world from now on, and none argue. The Quiet seems uneasy with this decision, but agrees that it is the least likely to get distracted by the other seven.

King Raja nods, tilting his fins in an understanding manner. “Well, you’ll have a little time to get yourself in order before you begin training, so hopefully by the time you head out, it won’t be an issue.” He sighs, looking like he has forgotten something. His fins shoot up in realization, and he laughs awkwardly. “Ah. Before I forget completely: I release you from any requirement to follow my instructions to the letter, should doing so jeopardize your wellbeing. I never liked that part of the spell, anyways…” He continues to mumble to himself about the complexity of spell crafting while wandering off, leaving us standing in the middle of the room.

A feeling of uncertainty washes over the majority of us as we stand with nothing specific to do. We haven’t actually taken in our surroundings yet, suggests the Protective, and so we scan the room for anything of interest. There is a table with what looks like a metallic rock on it, various tools, and little else. Bored, the Youth urges us to poke our head out the door frame and see if that yields anything better. Seeing no reason not to, we do.

The room the doorframe leads to is bigger than the one we are in, with ornate wooden furniture and polished stone walls. There were two beings in the room: a white fae, and a red creature that the Worker says is a spiral, although something about it seems off. The white fae, who had been filling out a notebook with a quill in her icy claws, looked at us. Her expression was blank, although the Grandmother mentioned a slight uneasiness in her fins.

We made our way out into the room. Might as well get comfortable.