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willpapilio · 19 days

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Punative Feast

Oh my god, he writes his own shit! Here's a little story I wrote, it's mostly just worldbuilding stuff from a project I was working on for a while. If it doesn't make sense, I didn't do a good job of explaining things. It focuses on a couple important people, one of which I already wrote about, and his secretary.

Ifrinn was walking around his office, aimlessly. In truth, there was much he could have been doing, but writing his signature on paper for most of the day rapidly gets dull. He had managed to get through most of the work, but of course, there's always more to be done. In theory, he should have been signing off on building permissions, birth certificates and crime reports. Instead, he was pacing around the office, putting dust lice down on shelves, in corners, and anywhere else they could get a good meal.

It was always quite relaxing, watching the scuttly little things doing their work, leaving shiny tracks through thin dust. Ifrinn was so entranced by the display he only just registered the sound of the elevator ascending up the shaft. Milis was coming up, and Ifrinn practically vaulted over his desk to maintain some illusion of dignity.

When the moth arrived at the top floor, Ifrinn was dutifully signing papers at his desk, as if he weren't slacking off mere seconds ago. In Milis' hands was another small stack of papers. When delivering messages to the Lord, many people rely on the employ of carrier bugs to deliver messages straight to Ifrinn, which he sends back from their roosts atop Erus Tower once he has signed off or replied. Owing to their refined sense of smell, they almost never get lost, and their flight makes them highly efficient couriers. However, most people, and anyone with a large stack of messages, hand-delivers them to Milis on the ground floor, who shortly brings them up to Ifrinn. The papers she held today were, no doubt, much the same, because the work is simply not allowed to end.

"What brings you up today, Milis?" Ifrinn asked, barely looking up from his work.

"Looks like..." She started flicking through the papers. "They'd like to open a library in the Coleopteran District," she offered.

"Well, that's pleasant."

"Buuut it looks like they want to build it over a cemetery."

"Oh."

“And it seems that an aqueduct in the Dipteran District has been repaired, they'd like you to have a look."

"Knowing full well that I trust them entirely and neither want nor need to go, of course."

"And..." Milis paused to read the letter. "You've been invited to dinner by the Mantitaean Tumarch!"

Ifrinn gagged upon hearing this, and quickly composed himself. "Does it say anything about an alternative menu?"

Milis skimmed through, looking for that phrase and nothing more. "Uhhhhhyes! Yes it does. Here, first page," she said, handing it to him, "Maybe you should have a look."

"Thank you." Ifrinn held the letter in front of him, trying his best to read the requisite Tumarch cursive. Ifrinn sighed, "Well, I suppose I ought to. I can't well refuse four times in a row, they might bother a fifth time," he moaned, throwing the letter to the side casually.

"What's so bad about dinner?" Milis asked, carefully adding the new papers to the stack on his desk. "Maybe I'm missing something, but free food is a good thing where I come from."

"I'm afraid you're missing something indeed," Ifrinn explained. "What do you know about the Mantidae?"

"Um... About as much as you might expect a moth to know."

"This isn't a regular dinner. It is a Punitive Feast."

"Punishment for dinner?"

"Dinner for punishment," he corrected. "The Mantidae, according to traditions dating back to before the creation of Insecta, when the species were still separate tribes, practice ritualistic cannibalism."

The room was silent for a moment.

"It's... People, they want you to eat people?" Milis snatched the letter from Ifrinn's unresisting hands.

"Well, only one person," he laughed.

"Oh yeah, that makes it entirely ok, sure." She set the letter down on Ifrinn's desk, somehow more pale in the face than usual.

"I get the distinct impression that it's not ok."

"There's probably a reason for that, yeah."

Ifrinn stood up from the desk and looked out of the circular window behind, arms clasped behind his back. The Erus Tower's most striking feature is that it slowly, ever so slowly, rotates. It takes a full eight days for the tower to finish its spin, and as luck would have it, Ifrinn's window was overlooking the Mandidae District.

"I'll probably go."

Milis walked up beside him, and leaned on the railing in front of the window.

"I know that the Lord should take great effort to understand his people, but I'm not sure how necessary it is to know how they taste," she laughed.

"I couldn't agree more, which is why I asked about the alternative menu. Macabre as it is, it's not a tradition that can easily be excised, hence I am obliged to abide by its existence. That doesn't mean I am obliged to partake, however."

"And it's not going to bother you that there's just gonna be a dead guy on the table?"

"It wouldn't be the first time I've seen a corpse," Ifrinn said, flatly.

"But for dinner? At the table?" Milis asked, head tilted knowingly.

"Point taken. On a related note, would you accompany me?"

"Eh?"

"For dinner," Ifrinn clarified. "The option to not partake of Mantidaean flesh extends to you, of course."

"Uh, sure?"

"You don't sound very certain."

"N-no, it's just surprising is all. I'd be happy to go with you," Milis smiled.

The feast wasn't for a few days, which gave the two plenty of time to get their affairs in order, of which there were few. Insectan clothing is more often than not limited to armour for venturing into the Underweb or outside of the wall, most Insectans live their entire lives without so much as touching a robe. Most Insectans have large wings, so it's rather challenging to create an article of clothing that isn't needlessly restrictive or uncomfortable, and the climate of the city is mostly mild, further removing the necessity of any covering besides one's own chitin. That said, both Ifrinn and Milis thought it best to at least put in some effort for the night.

Ifrinn did some digging in his seldom-used chambers, and managed to dig up a pair of pauldrons he hadn't worn since his first speech as Lord, having decided they were about as comfortable as they were practical: Not. They were, however, quite eye-catching; from two iridescent pads, made from the treated shell of an ancient earthlouse, curtains of black cloth that almost reached the floor flowed. The soft fabric was hemmed with gold thread, and woven with eight delicate tapestries depicting a small landscape of each District. The curtains covered his arms like a blanket, but didn't so much as touch his wings. Seeing himself in it, he thought he ought to wear it more than he did. It still wasn't particularly comfortable, but it certainly looked "lordly".

Milis, however, didn't possess any regal hand-me-downs. She brought up a letter to Ifrinn's office, asking for a day off so that she could buy something nice to wear. He brought the letter back down the same hour to remind her that she could more or less just go whenever she wanted. A relatively quick journey on a millipede cart took her home to the Lepidopteran District; she felt something nice and silken would be appropriate. Eventually, she managed to settle on a delicate waistcloth, cascading over her legs and almost entirely covering up her posterior abdomen, secured around her middle with an ornate silver pin. Milis admired the garment in the shop's mirror, how light and floaty the fabric was, until she realised that it looked a little bit like a lesser slug, at which she stopped looking in the mirror. She still bought it, though.

The last uneventful day passed, and the day of the Feast finally bothered to show up. Ifrinn had rented a millipede cart just for the two of them, after much confused back-and-forth about payment exemption. He didn't understand why people seemed so eager to refuse his money, but he did eventually walk away with an empty wallet. The carriage driver, an Odonatan, waited as patiently as a dragonfly could outside Erus Tower.

"Good morning sir!" He cheerily chirped to the Lord, "And good morning ma'am! Ready to hit the road?"

"At long last, yes," Ifrinn answered as he and his attaché approached the cart.

Normally, millipede carriages can hold a number of carts at once owing to the length of the beast, so that it might carry as many people as possible at once. However, being rented privately the carriage today only had the one cart, plus a segment for the driver, of course. The millipede runs underneath the carts, which are strapped to its back, and rest against the ground on wheels attached to legs on each corner of the cart, to bear the weight of the passengers. The cart was open-roofed, chosen for the price and for the good weather. The morning sun beaming down would lend itself nicely to a relaxing journey to the Feast.

Ifrinn hopped up onto the platform with a beat of his wings, with Milis following shortly behind. They sat on opposite sides on velvety benches, and with a blowing of a whistle the millipede started to run.

Insecta is believed to have originally been planned around the creation of the grand aqueducts, with the architecture of each district bending and moulding around them. Records have long since been lost of course, but the aqueducts cut through the city like a web, which is visible on most any map. This does, however, mean that fast, public and private transport was more of an afterthought. Around the pillars of the great aqueducts, and along the inside of newer roads, are the myriaways, sections of the pavements used specifically for carriages, which are driven on the left side, of course. The myriaways are crossed by pedestrians over bridges, and are embarked and disembarked on platforms, normally, save for private functions and the like. Today, naturally, the millipede will split off from the myriaway so that it can be safely disembarked at the Mantidean Tumarch's doorstep.

The unmistakable pitter-patter of millipede legs on the road drowned out most of the sounds of the city around them, muffled by a constant rhythm of not-quite-one-thousand footfalls. Shopfronts and houses were little more than smudges unless you focused, which Ifrinn had mastered the art of not doing, lest he strain his eyes. Milis, either less able to turn off her eyes or of a less delicate constitution was eagerly drinking in every ephemeral sight she could, the edges of the blurry tapestry sharpening and dulling in milliseconds as her eyes darted hither and thither.

"Bountiful Sun, I don't think I've ever been down this way before!" she said in awe.

"The Consociat District is too often overlooked, I feel," said Ifrinn, almost regretful. "Not long ago we passed the Thorn District, believe it or not."

"The who?"

"Never mind, a story for another time. We're almost out of the Consociat, now," he added, changing the subject quickly.

With one more turn down the myriaway, the busy wall-like streets gave way to an open circus, the internal walls of the Districts mocking the pedestrians and passengers with their monolithic stature. The great gates of the eight Districts remain more-or-less permanently open, but for most Insectans this does little to make them feel more welcome. The carriage continued its march toward the Mantidean district, through a set of giant doors tinted a dark, secretive green. Passing through the gates felt like travelling to another planet, as the architecture starkly changed from fungaltimber and plaster to sheer walls of giant brick and twisting spires. The carriage slowed down to a crawl, the driver making sure to respect the strictly enforced speed limit.

Prying eyes watched from every angle, monitoring the Lord's party and each other; in the Mantidean District, nobody was spared from following the social mores on which society balanced. This District was rather quiet, as one may imagine, keeping your voice down was paramount here. Only the sounds of the millipede's footfalls registered on Milis and Ifrinn's ears.

Milis took note of the relative silence immediately: Having lived within the busy Consociat District for the last few years had left her accustomed to the nigh constant talking and shouting of the outside world. Seeing Ifrinn, evidently unbothered by the drastic shift in mood, did little to ease her nerves. It felt as if one were visiting a new world upon entering the gates, sure, but it was upon hearing the silence that it became apparent how alien this District could feel.

With time-earned precision, the Dragonfly at the carriage's helm navigated the twisting paths of the ever-quiet District. It wouldn't be long until they arrived at the Tumarch's doorstep, now. The driver kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead, suppressing his natural instinct to make small-talk, lest he cause a scene and embarrass the very master of the city, not to mention draw the ire of the inhabitants of this District.

"Ifrinn," Milis whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Why is it so quiet?"

"The Mantidean culture is strict adherence to customs," he explained, no louder than a breeze, "It is unacceptable to be inappropriately loud, therefore the Mantidae are quiet. It follows that we must be, too."

"Merciful Moon, is there anything else I should know?" Milis asked, almost begging for guidance.

"Just be polite," Ifrinn said softly, "As polite as you can possibly be. They demand compliance, but they know that outsiders won't be so well versed."

The carriage stopped abruptly. "We're here," said the driver, being careful not to shout. Now that the cart had stopped, the millipede standing motionless, the air was now truly deathly still.

Ifrinn stood up, bowed to the driver, and hopped off of the platform onto the pavement below. Milis replicated his gesturing, following his example as gospel. While the driver explained to Ifrinn where he would be waiting for the two of them, Milis took in the spectacle that was the Tumarch's Palace. The cubiform bastion stood stalwart in the centre of the District, foreboding and mighty, towering well above the rest of the buildings and towers here. Four spires jutted out of each corner of the palace, topping it with a simple yet intimidating crown. It looked more like the head of a warhammer, or perhaps a cruel judge's gavel, than a castle.

She jumped a little when Ifrinn tapped her on the shoulder, utterly entranced by the fortress before her. "It's time, Milis," he said, walking ahead.

"Right! Right..."

The atmosphere around the building was heavy, like something was pulling down on the pair's shoulders as they approached the palace. Walking up the cold, stone steps, drawing nearer the doors, the feeling of dread grew heavier and heavier still. Milis was close to losing her nerve, and Ifrinn wasn't faring much better, gritting his chelicerae together to steel himself. Suddenly, the doors creaked open, and the two stopped dead in their tracks. A small mantis stood in the door frame, looking rather unintimidating.

"Welcome, Lord Ifrinn," she said, bowing deeply, "Your arrival was anticipated, and your punctuality is appreciated."

"The pleasure is mine. Thank you for opening the door for us."

Milis smiled, deciding to not risk talking.

"Please, follow me to the dining hall. The Tumarch is waiting for you there."

"Thank you. Please, lead on."

Ifrinn and Milis were ushered inside, but were suddenly stopped again by the mantis.

"Ah, my sincere apologies, I forgot to mention; it would be greatly appreciated if you were to sign the visitor's book, especially your companion," she explained.

"You are forgiven, we would be happy to sign in," said Ifrinn.

"Yeah, no worries!" Milis added with a smile.

Apparently, she failed to read the room correctly, as the mantis scowled at her. She disappeared to retrieve the visitor's book, allowing Ifrinn and Milis a second to appreciate the atrium of the Palace. It was, as one may expect, brutal in construction. Angular stone pillars held up the sky-light ceiling, and a staircase in front of the main entrance led up to the first floor. Even a simple rug would have brought a sense of warmth to the almost crypt-like castle, but the only creature comforts to be found within were the leafy potted plants in the corners, admittedly well cared-for.

The mantis returned with a large book, held in her double-jointed arms as if she were a living lecturn. Milis wondered for a second if she might have had help picking up the book.

"Sign in on this page, please: Full name, occupation, date and time, in that order," she ordered.

Ifrinn thought she was remarkably authoritative for such a small bug, and Milis had a similar idea in much less kind language. A small pen was attached to the spine of the book by a thin string, and Ifrinn signed in for the two of them:

Ifrinn Papil, Lord of Insecta, 32nd of Spider's March, Fifth Light's middle.

Milis Esole, Secretary to the Lord, 32nd of Spider’s March, Fifth Light’s middle.

The mantis shut the book, almost dropping it in the process. She bowed to Ifrinn, and walked away again. Once she returned bookless, she pointed up the stairs; “The dining hall is this way.” She marched up the stairs, Ifrinn and Milis in tow. Continuing down a similarly austere hallway, the trio eventually came to a large set of doors, which the mantis opened for them. Holding the door open, she took a deep bow, to signal them through.

The hall was surprisingly ornate, at least compared to the rest of the castle. The walls were still little more than pillared stone faces, however in the spaces between the pillars great tapestries were hung, depicting scenes of noble Mantideans from days gone by. The room was lit by a massive chandelier, covered in small, luminous crystals looted from Insecta’s Underweb. The floor was a chessboard pattern of large tiles, polished to a reflective sheen. At the centre of the dining hall was a large, U-shaped table, with a small, circular table contained within its cup. The smaller table was empty except for a white cloth, and the U-shaped table was set with typical Mantidean tableware at each of the twelve seats: Napkins, small bowls of water, cups, and pairs of meat shears. The Tumarch, Patriarch Beraht and Matriarch Linza, were sat at the bow of the table, furthest away from Ifrinn and Milis. Upon seeing their esteemed guests, the Tumarch stood up, and bowed respectfully.

“Lord Ifrinn, it is good to see you,” said Beraht, walking over to Ifrinn. “I trust you are keeping well?”

“As well as one may be,” he said with a smile and a shallow bow.

“And who might this be?” Linza asked, clearly half-interested.

Milis glanced at Ifrinn, expecting him to reply for her. He nudged her with his elbow, shocking her back to autonomy. “Ah! My name is Milis, I’m Ifrinn’s secretary.” Linza, Beraht and Ifrinn stared at her expectantly. Milis’ eyes widened in panic before she gave a small curtsey.

Linza huffed, then said; “Well, Ifrinn, I’m glad you invited a plus one to this occasion,” trying to distract herself from Milis’ appalling manners.

“Of course. If given the chance, why would one not bring their most trusted friend?”

Linza rolled her eyes and walked back to her seat.

“Ah, please, follow me, my Lord. And our guest,” Beraht said with a friendly smile. The Patriarch quickly paced to his wife, and Ifrinn and Milis followed behind at a leisurely pace.

“She’s a little…” Milis whispered, “Mean?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Ifrinn whispered back, “Linza is especially easily upset. Plus, it doesn’t help her mood that I killed her ex-husband.”

Milis stared wide-eyed in shock at the smugly-smiling Ifrinn, before they took their seats beside the Tumarch. Milis sat to Ifrinn’s left, Ifrinn to Beraht’s left, and Linza beside Beraht. Despite the table being set for twelve, only the four of them were present so far. Before anyone got too twitchy, another mantis, a servant, arrived with a large, green-glazed clay bottle.

“May I offer you and your guests some wine, venerable Tumarch?” he asked, offering the bottle label-first to the Tumarch.

“You may, and please, what can you tell us about this wine?” Beraht asked.

“This one was bottled fifty years ago,” the servant replied, “In the Odonatan District. It’s a full-bodied, dark wine, best paired with rich, fatty meat. The sommelier personally recommended it for tonight.”

“Perfect, by my reckoning,” Linza commented, “Thank you, deiner.”

The servant stepped back and after placing the bottle on the ground, carefully removed the plug with a resonant pop. One by one, the party leaned aside for the servant to fill their cups. The deep, brownish liquid filled Milis’ nostrils with a pungent, burning smell, and she wondered for a moment if there was perhaps a mixup between the wine cellar and the cleaning room.

The Patriarch raised his cup, and offered a “Cheers,” to the party, who all raised their glasses in kind. Milis took an experimental sip, and almost spat it right back up. She managed to restrain herself, and forced the ghastly fluid down her throat.

"S-sorry, just cho- *cough* choking a little," she managed to spit out with a cough and a sputter.

Beraht chuckled and Linza scoffed at Milis' attempts. Ifrinn patted her on the back. "It's an acquired taste," he muttered, knowingly.

The door across the room opened up, the same mantis who greeted them propping it open, bowing. One by one, more guests entered the hall. The first among them was the Arachnidaean Tumarch: Patriarch Prokhor 'Sekarik' and Matriarch Evpraksiya 'Kuruurk'. Ifrinn wasn't too surprised to see them, knowing their penchant for exotic dining. What was surprising was the sheer quantity of people he did not recognise. There was another Mantidean, who Ifrinn took to be Leutgar, the Patriarch's brother, but the remaining Insectans were a mystery to him. The Coleopteran, the Acri Hymenopteran and the other Mantideans remained nameless, which meant a slew of introductions for Ifrinn to stomach.

The Tumarch stood up, and Ifrinn shortly followed. "Ah, please, my Lord," Beraht said, while his wife left him in the dust, "Trouble not yourself with such pleasantries. Stay seated, they shall follow."

"Nonsense. My people are my equals: If they are to stand, so am I."

Milis stood up as well, trying her best to catch up on all the intricacies of Mantidean manners.

"We're saying hi?" she asked Ifrinn.

"We're saying hi, loath as I am to do so," he sighed.

Reluctantly, the two approached the small crowd of allegedly important Insectans. Almost dazed by the sight of so much silk and shiny metals, Milis turned to Ifrinn for social guidance, only to find he had been swept away in the sea of mingling, leaving her to swim alone.

Ifrinn, ever the socialite, went directly for the only people he recognised, the Arachnidan Tumarch.

"Patriarch, Matriarch, always a pleasure," he said with a bow.

"Please, my Lord, you know our names," Prokhor assured.

"And yet my linguistic talents fail me," replied Ifrinn, to an understanding chuckle.

"It's good to see you, my Lord, though I must admit I am surprised," Evpraksiya mentioned, "I haven't seen you at one of these dinners before, have I?"

"No, you've not, you're quite right. It took me some time to work up the stomach, I'm ashamed to admit," Ifrinn explained, shamelessly.

"Well, they're hardly for everyone, are they my love?" Evpraksiya asked Prokhor.

"No, one should think not. Prey's prey in my mind, though," the Patriarch laughed, "Whether a hunter catches it or a judge."

Milis, however, was left rather beside herself. That was, of course, until social obligations kicked in, and the unfamiliar beetle approached her.

"Greetings, noble one," she said, bowing deeply, "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"Uh, hi!" Milis managed with a curtsey. "My name's Milis, I'm Ifrinn's secretary."

"A privilage to meet you, Milis. Gytha, Master Leutgar's... Assistant."

A quick glance at the beetle told Milis all she needed to know. She was an impassable wall of chipped, topaz carapace and powerful muscle, and she was, notably, the only person in attendance with a weapon; a flanged cudgel, tied to her hip. 'Assistant' was merely a soft way of saying bodyguard. Or enforcer.

"The privilege is mine, I'm sure."

"Gytha," a mantis, draped in blackened silk, called, "You were asked to leave your proclivities at home. You're here on business, remember?"

"Of course, Master. I was merely introducing myself to another guest," she said, winking conspicuously at Milis. "I didn't realise you had forbidden me from doing so."

Leutgar scoffed, and joined the conversation with the rest of the Mantises, who had congregated into a little circle.

"Ignore him," she said, "I always manage."

Gytha left Milis' side to return to Leutgar, being his guard forced certain expectations upon her, it seemed. Milis heard her name called, and looked around to see Ifrinn beckoning her over. She scurried over quickly to see what he needed.

"What's up?"

"The Tumarch was asking about the library. Given that it's your kingdom, I thought it best for you to explain."

"O-oh! I'd be happy to, your Highnesses."

As Milis began discussing her duties as Librarian of Erus tower to the curious Tumarch, Ifrinn quietly slipped off to poke his nose into another conversation. Leutgar and Gytha had left the conversation with the mantis and the wasp, which Ifrinn took as an invitation.

"Greetings, my lord," said the wasp.

"It is good to see you, Lord Ifrinn," the mantis offered, extending her hand to Ifrinn. "I'm glad you decided to come."

"Of course." Ifrinn stared at the mantis' outstretched hand. "Apologies, I'm afraid contact is beyond me."

"Ah, of course, my Lord." The mantis retracted her hand.

"I must apologise again, I didn't see your names in the guest book. What might your names be?"

"My name is Noemi, Director of Gilthand Bank," the mantis said, half extending a hand before thinking better of it.

"Juste, Noemi's personal guard," the wasp grumbled.

"Pleasure to meet the two of you. Forgive me, but I must say that I'm surprised to see a Hymenopteran in your employ.

"You are forgiven. And yes, so I'm told," Noemi sighed, "But he was highly recommended."

Juste nodded, smiling a little.

"I mean no disrespect, of course. You must imagine my delight, seeing the tribes mingle."

"Of course, my Lord," Juste assured, "Not all Insectans are so reluctant to mix."

"And that, that is what brings me hope," Ifrinn said beaming.

Ifrinn allowed himself a moment of pride, before rescuing the conversation from certain death. "So, honourable Director, I take it you must be close to the Tumarch?"

"Oh yes, my Lord, very close indeed. I've known Linza since we were just girls."

"Quite the time, I imagine."

Noemi hummed in agreement. "It's funny how things change. It feels like only a day ago we were in school, and now I run a bank and she runs a whole district!"

"Time does as time does, it seems," Ifrinn chuckled, bittersweet. He noticed that Juste was idly inspecting his fingers, and decided to invite him into the so far exclusive conversation: "How long have you been working for Noemi, Juste?"

"About a halo, now," he said, bluntly.

"I see, and what about before? What sort of work did you do then?"

"I was the personal guard of the Hymenopteran Tumarch."

"Truly?" Ifrinn asked, incredulous, "I can't for the life of me remember seeing you around, my apologies."

"No need to apologise. I was hardly a public figure, that I slipped your mind only means whatever meetings you attended were important."

Milis was just discussing a book, 'The Rolling City", with Evpraksiya, when two more guests, the mantises, joined the fold. These mantises wore white, embroidered scarfs, secured with an iron pin in the shape of weighing scales.

"Greetings, your highnesses," said one of the mantises, "And you, Ifrinn's… consort?"

"C-con-WHAT?" Milis sputtered, “I think you, you’re… Ifrinn and I, we’re not…”

“I think, honoured guest, that you have assumed incorrectly,” Evpraksiya interrupted, “And have rather put the good madam on the spot.”

“I meant no offense,” he pled, “I should not have guessed. Please accept my humble apologies, the good madam…?” His apology trailed off into a question.

“The good madam Milis,” she replied, still flustered, “And I accept your apology.”

“Thank you, Milis. Please, allow me to introduce myself and my comrade, as to move past my folly.”

Milis patiently waited for the mantis to continue, and stared in confusion when he did not. Prokhor nudged her and raised his brow, as if to tell her to continue.

“Oh! Yes, you may introduce yourself.”

“My name,” he said, as if he weren’t trapped in silent supplication for a solid ten seconds, “Is Hüter Guntram, and my comrade is Hüter Lamprecht.” The other mantis, who had kept perfectly silent, gave a respectful nod. “It is us who are responsible for today’s feast.”

Prokhor and Evpraksiya quietly excused themselves, having seen Beraht beckon them over, leaving Milis alone with the cannibal constables.

“Pleased to meet you, Hüter,” Milis lied, extending a hand. Guntram eagerly accepted, shaking her hand with a firm grip. She offered her hand to Lamprecht, who might have cut her hand off with the strength of his digits.

“So,” Milis began, dreading the answer to the question that had been brewing for days, “Who…” she gestured outward, confused hands struggling to compensate for words she couldn’t find.

“The main course?” Lamprecht asked, with a voice like heavy footsteps in a crypt.

“...Yeah.”

“The one awaiting punishment was named Burkhard Leva,” he Guntram answered, solemnly. “For the crime of murder, with blatant disregard for the sanctity of the law, he was sentenced to death; execution by evisceration.”

Milis’ haemolymph ran cold. “Oh.” The nature of today’s feast suddenly dawned on her. It was an event she was nervously anticipating for the last few days, but hearing the words spill like lymph out of his mouth tied her stomach into a slip knot.

“It was Lamprecht and I who managed to apprehend the one awaiting punishment, brought him to the guard house in shackles ourselves,” Guntram said, beaming with pride.

“M-my apologies, could you repeat that for me? The one awaiting…?”

“Awaiting punishment?”

“Yeah, so he’s…?”

“Alive?” Guntram and Lamprecht laughed, “Of course he’s alive, madam,” Guntram explained, “If he were executed when he was sentenced the meat would have gone bad by now!”

The guards chuckled at a party-appropriate volume at Burkhard’s misfortune, and only just heard Milis mutter out an excuse before she quickly walked away. Past the Mantidean Tumarch and the Patriarch’s brother, past Ifrinn and Noemi, and back out the way she came in. She disappeared in a matter of moments, and was out of the palace’s front door even faster. She skittered down the steep stone steps as fast as she could manage without stumbling over, and to her fortune found a convenient little alleyway opposite the palace.

Milis booked it to the alley, managing to keep her composure long enough to not vomit in the middle of the road. Doing so is generally frowned upon, of course. She took a minute to just stand there, leaning on the wall and catching her breath. The acrid stench of the inside of her stomach did little to distract her from the reality of the feast. With great effort she pushed herself back standing by herself, still hunched over in revulsion, exhaustion and fear. She managed to straighten up, and was met with the sight of the Lord of Insecta.

“AH! Damnable fucking Sun, Ifrinn!” she shouted, “Ho-ly… I-I’m sorry…” Milis leaned up against the wall, clutching at her heart.

“There’s no cause for apology,” Ifrinn said, softly.

“For running out like a coward?”

Ifrinn sighed and walked deeper into the alleyway, standing beside Milis against the wall. “I’m going to assume that you are fortunate enough to not have seen a corpse before.”

Milis winced, but managed to grumble out a “Yes”.

“It’s only natural, then, that you guided yourself away from such a grim event.”

“Ifrinn?”

“Yes?”

“You… you’d never-”

“No,” Ifrinn interrupted. “Not as long as I live.”

They stood in silence for a time, trying to figure out the words to say.

“Can’t you make them stop?” Milis pleaded, “You’re the Lord for crying out loud, surely you can put a stop to this?”

“Were it so easy, I would have done so long ago.” Ifrinn looked up, thinking deeply. “This kind of event is at the heart of Mantidean society. To take a stab at it would be to take a stab at their heart. As I told you before, it’s not something I can ablate, wish though I may.”

“Then why did we come, anyway? You’ve refused them before, haven’t you?”

“To the Tumarch’s increasing disappointment. If I had continued to refuse them, they might have started to believe, rightly so, that I find their traditions disgusting. My purpose is, ultimately, to improve Insecta for the better,” he explained, placing a hand on Milis’ shoulder, “But I can only do that if my people trust me.”

“How… how many bodies have you seen?” she asked, teary-eyed.

“By my count, more than zero is too many for one life. I murdered the last Lord with my own two hands, and watched those closest to me die myself.” Ifrinn looked away from Milis. “Too many. Far too many. If you meant to ask if the sight of death becomes more tolerable, it does not.”

Milis looked back at the palace. Without looking back, she asked; “Was that Linza’s husband? The old Lord?”

“Indeed. He was even less pleasant than Linza.” He chuckled quietly and Milis let out an amused huff, before her expression faded. “You don’t need to stay,” said Ifrinn. “I understand all of this is too much for you. Merciful Moon, it’s almost too much for me. You can take the carriage back home, and I’ll return later.”

“Why did you invite me, Ifrinn? You didn’t really think that I’d be able to stomach this, right?” she asked, half-laughing.

“Shortsighted selfishness.”

Milis tilted her head in confusion.

“I think the point is clear by now that this feast is an abomination to me. I felt as though a comforting presence would go some way to ease my nerves.”

Milis looked at Ifrinn wide-eyed; “O-oh.”

Ifrinn walked past her. “I’ll be expected back. Retreat is not an option for me, unfortunately. The offer stands, however.” He turned back around to Milis. “I appreciate your company, but you’re not obliged to stay.”

She stared for a moment at Ifrinn as he walked straight back into the wretched palace but something inside of her told her to follow, and within moments Milis’ legs were moving on their own.

“I might not be the Lord,” she said, “But I am his assistant. It would reflect badly on both of us, were I to abandon you.”

“Spoken like a politician,” he laughed. “Thank you, Milis. I told the Tumarch that you had gone to get some air, so don’t worry about explaining yourself.”

Soon, they found themselves back inside the dining hall. Guntram, Lamprecht, Noemi and Juste were already sitting at the table, and the other guests were walking to their seats. The Arachnidaean Tumarch were taking their seats at the end of the table, opposite the more impatient guests. Beraht and Linza were watching the door expectantly. The Mantidean Patriarch excitedly paced to Ifrinn and Milis, as the Matriarch made herself comfortable at the head of the table.

“Ah, you’re back. Just in time for the main event,” Beraht said, smiling, “And rest assured, my Lord, the alternative dish shall be just as exquisite as the centerpiece.”

“Thank you, Patriarch,” said Ifrinn, “We look forward to it.”

The remaining diners took their seats, patiently, impatiently and stressfully. Milis took a degree of comfort in noticing Ifrinn bouncing his leg. Suddenly, one of the doors behind them, opposite the way they came in, blew open. Beraht and Linza did not turn around, but that did nothing to stop the other morbidly curious guests. Four servants, wearing white clay masks, carried something under a pale cloth like pallbearers. Another mask-clad mantis, in front of them, led their march, and a sixth behind pushed a cart, stacked with plates and other assorted implements.

The grim parade circled around the U-shaped table, passing along counter-clockwise. The sweet, salty smell of perfectly braised meat filled the guests' noses, to a chorus of expectant ‘oo’s and ‘aa’s. The leader of the pack led the pallbearers to the central table, and signalled for his followers to lay down the mass onto it. The cart stopped just short of the table, and one by one the four pallbearers carried a plate to each guest.

The plates were stacked with an assortment of roasted dirt apples and pastinacas, and dauci braised in salty louse fat. All of the vegetables were served with gravy, made with the same juices the dauci were cooked in, and generously seasoned with subtle herbs. The scent was warm and inviting, and for a moment, it was enough to distract Milis from the knotted feeling in her guts.

Milis and Ifrinn’s plates were quickly tended to by the cart-pushed, who carried to them a serving tray, replete with seared catch-of-the-day belostoma, which was generously stacked onto their plates. The meat gave off a fresh, subtle smell, with a kind of meatiness to it that makes the back of your mouth water.

“Venerable Tumarch, honoured guests, the house would ask for your attention!” the parade’s leader cried.

The table fell silent.

“The punished one shall now atone for his crimes. In his death, we are blessed, in his absence we are bettered. Please raise your cups for the atonement of Burkhard Leva.”

The guests and hosts did as they were told, and raised their dark wine high in honour of the execution of the punished one, and the cloth was removed from the centerpiece.

The handless corpse of a mantis, emptied of life and organs and stuffed with bread and herbs, sprawled out on a silver dish. The green insect had toasted to a golden brown, fat and juices seeping out of his carapace. That carapace, barely clinging to his roasted flesh, had crispened up into a glistening, crunchy brittle, and the scent of his rich, savoury meat filled the air of the banquet hall. His eyes had shrivelled up and burst in the heat of the oven, yet he still seemed to stare blindly at all the guests at once. The beautiful scent and horrific sight played foul tricks on those guests of weaker constitution.

Applause. The sound of modest clapping rang out through the hall, and only Milis remained silent. Ifrinn slowly clapped his hands, unwilling to break his observation of Mantidean manners. The leader of the pallbearers retrieved a knife from the cart, and the cart pusher followed shortly with an empty serving tray. Milis shut her eyes tightly, so as to not see the knife gliding through Burkhard’s flank. Her eyes remained sealed shut as the meat was stripped from his side, from his leg, anywhere the knife could tear away chunks of him, and piled up high onto the serving plate. The servant passed the meat around to the guests, stacking their plates with the profane morsels. Two of the pallbearers reached into the seemingly bottomless cart and found a violin and a bow each. With practised ease and biological awkwardness, they began to play; a somber, mellow tune. Once the guests were adequately provided with guilty flesh, the cart pusher fell into line with the other pallbearers, and the leader spoke up; “Please, venerable Tumarch, honoured guests, enjoy.”

The guests excitedly began to eat, snipping the slices into bite-sized pieces with their shears. They ate with their fingers, dunking the meat into the gravy, scooping up vegetables, any combination their hungry hearts desired, chasing it down with the powerful wine. Milis stared at her plate, feeling a combination of hunger and emptiness. Ifrinn indulged himself in the safe meat they were provided, and gave Milis a subtle nudge.

“We’re almost done.” He spoke softly, so as to not draw unnecessary attention to himself, and to make himself more comforting. “You only need to hold on a little longer.”

She only now took stock of where the other guests were sitting, still trying to not look too closely at Burkhard. Leutgar had sat next to her, and Gytha next to him, though neither seemed to have any reservations about partaking of the mantis’ flesh. Noemi and Juste sat further down on the left side. Milis took comfort in seeing Juste abstain. Guntram and Lamprecht sat on the right side, taking the honoured seats beside their Tumarch, and Prokhor and Evpraksiya further down.

“Hey, that looks pretty good,” Gytha said, still chewing. “I’d ask for some, but Master Leutgar told me that’s bad manners.”

“I’d offer you some, happily,” Milis muttered.

Ifrinn was only slightly more content, munching down on the non-sapient dish he had been served.

“So Ifrinn,” Linza began, “You refused our traditional cuisine.”

“Yes, Matriarch, I did.” “Might I ask why?” she interrogated.

“Oh, I’m afraid medium-rare doesn’t sit well with me, I much prefer well-done,” Ifrinn lied.

“And you knew that we would be cooking this way from our invitation alone?” “What can I say, Matriarch, I’m good at guessing.”

Linza scowled at Ifrinn, who continued dining as happily as he could. The dauci and pastinacas were soft and tender, and the dirt apples were light and fluffy. When soaked in the heavy gravy, the roasted meat took on an intense, melt-in-the-mouth flavour, moreish indeed. The wine, although powerful, rinsed down the buttery, salty taste with a spiced, floral sweetness. If one ignored the corpse in the centre of the room, it might almost feel like a luxurious night out.

Ifrinn was no stranger to finger-food, though it was never normally so ornate. Nor so wet. The dishes of water proved an invaluable asset; slurping at one’s fingers is generally frowned upon at the dinner table. A serviette wouldn’t have gone amiss, though.

Milis was too busy staring at her food to eat any of it, the pit in her stomach feeling as full as it did empty. Instead she turned her focus to the beetle beside her, trying to take in anything other than the smell of meat. Gytha was happily chowing down of the food in front of her with no sign of stopping, so much so that one of the masked servants had already given her a few more slices of meat.

“Gytha,” Leutgar hissed, “Control yourself.”

“Sorry master, but I can’t help it! Have you even tried it yet?” Hearing Gytha call Burkhard ‘it’ turned her stomach.

“Of course I have, it’s delicious. However, you will not forget your manners in this company, do you understand?”

Gytha swallowed another mouthful before replying; “Yes, master.” To Gytha’s credit, she did slow down. A little.

Milis stared back at her food. Somehow, it seemed much less egregious now. Gytha’s display of wanton avarice and her own empty gut probably helped this in equal measure. She cautiously tried a daucus. It was soft and sweet, but not overly so, and the rich, salty gravy played along very nicely with the delicateness of the vegetable. It wasn’t that bad, actually. Knowing that the meat on her plate was much the same she had been eating her whole life definitely helped her digest it all.

“Your plate’s still lookin’ pretty full there,” Gytha said, snapping Milis out of her trance.

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

“Something wrong?”

“No no! No, nothing’s wrong,” Milis lied, “It’s just… I’m just not that hungry,” she said with a forced smile.

“Look,” Gytha said, knowingly, “I get it, I’ve been to a few of these. It’s weird.”

“That’s… one way to put it.”

“It’s fine if you don’t wanna eat a guy, I get it. Think about it like this:” Gytha scooched a little closer to Milis, and cautiously pointed around the table. “Look at everyone.”

She did. The guests were all joyfully eating away at the flesh of a dead man. The Arachnidan and Mantidean Tumarchs were chatting away, between slices of Burkhard’s flank.

“We’re all eating ‘im. ‘Cept you and the Lord. And that guy.”

Gytha was pointing at Juste, who, despite Noemi’s poking and prodding, was not eating anything.

“You and Ifrinn got the good-people plates. He’s not even bothered with a plate! Bet his mistress isn’t being rude about it though,” she grumbled.

Milis looked at Ifrinn, who was focused on savouring his food. Somehow, she saw a tinge of sadness in his eyes, even as he delighted in the exquisite flavours.

“So don’t worry so much. The cooks are careful to not get nothin’ mixed up, your food’s all clear.”

“Thank you, Gytha.”

The beetle gave Milis a wink and returned to her food. Whether she had meant a word of what she said or not, her pep-talk definitely helped ease Milis’ nerves, so much so that she tried some of the belostoma. She kicked herself a little for not trying it sooner.

“Merciful moon that’s good,” she muttered, covering her mouth with her clean hand.

To her embarrassment Ifrinn chuckled at her mumbling, and gave her a proud smile. He quickly returned to his own world, recentering himself on his plate. He had whittled through most of the meal by now, each bite more delicious than the last. His bastion of indulgence was broken by a familiar tone.

“How is your food, Ifrinn? To your standards?” Linza asked, her voice seeping with vitriol.

“It is quite delightful, thank you, Matriarch.”

“And yet you cannot be tempted to try the main dish.”

“Quite correct, Matriarch.”

“Why is that, Ifrinn?”

“Is a man not entitled to his preferences?”

“Of course he is,” Linza admitted, “But if one understands from where his entitlement stems, then such a man might be better accommodated next time.”

“I believe that I am perfectly well accommodated, Matriarch.”

“Linza,” Beraht whispered, “Please.”

The rise in Linza’s tone was enough to disturb the rest of the guests, breaking all conversation save for her and Ifrinn’s. The violinists continued playing. Milis assumed that this kind of thing must have happened before, either that or they were exceptionally well-versed in not caring. In any case, her distaste for this woman was mounting.

“Surely you are not, Ifrinn, if the main event itself is not to your liking? The meat isn’t well done enough, was it? We can have that fixed for you. Diener,” she snapped, pointing a claw at a servant who jumped to life. “Take a plate of meat to the kitchen, and have it cooked further.”

“At once, Matriarch. This will only take a moment.”

With clockwork precision, the servant grabbed a plate from the cart, and carved away at Burkhard, piling the plate high with meat. Too much, frankly. Milis reasoned this was either a better-safe-than-sorry thing, or that this was planned excess, just to be a pest.

“That’s quite unnecessary, Matriarch,” Ifrinn assured.

“And why is that, Ifrinn? Do you not wish to partake in our sacred traditions?”

“No, Matriarch, I do not.”

“You would balk at our heritage? At us?”

Ifrinn opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping along the ground. Milis’ feet led her of their own accord, walking past Ifrinn, past Linza and the other diners. She arrived beside the servant carving the meat, and by this point the music had stopped. Milis grabbed a slice of meat, turned around to face Linza, and stuffed it into her mouth. With apparent effort, she managed to choke it down.

“Thank you, Matriarch,” she sputtered, “The meal was delicious, however I for one am full. I imagine the Lord is too, which, I have no doubt, is why he refused.”

“Thank you, Milis. I could not have said it better myself.” Ifrinn stood up, finished off the wine in his cup, and walked away from the table toward the exit. “Thank you for your hospitality, most venerable Tumarch. We will be taking our leave.”

As one may imagine, vomiting in an alleyway is something of a taboo to the Mantidea. Doing it twice, however, is damn near unfathomable. Ifrinn gave Milis a reassuring pat on the back, apparently unbothered by the unacceptable display. Milis stood up slowly, head spinning.

“We’ve left earlier than I had told the driver,” said Ifrinn. “He’ll still be sticking around for a while yet. I suggest we find a drink for you, if only to remove the taste.”

“Yeah, I think that-” Milis covered her mouth with her hand, ready to be sick again. She managed to keep it down. “I think that would be good.”

“I must say,” Ifrinn started, helping keep Milis upright, “That was quite the display. Thank you, I might have exploded if you hadn’t acted.”

“What can I say, she was bothering me at that point too.”

Ifrinn turned his eyes to the road for a second, trying to coax himself back into speech.

“I shouldn’t ask, really, but… How was it?”

Milis looked as though she was staring at something behind the world ahead of her, eyes almost glased over with thought, finding the right words.

But what words were there? For something so completely, utterly, unrepentantly evil, and yet the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten? The rendered fat crispened the skin enough to give it a satisfying ‘crunch’, but not enough to mar the soft, almost cloud-like tenderness of the meat. Salty and oh-so-rich, with that kind of earthiness that lingers just a little on the roof of your mouth and behind your nose, tempting you to have another, and another. It was completely unlike anything Milis had eaten before, and much, much more delicious. So delicious, in fact, it almost distracted her from the reality that she had eaten somebody’s corpse.

“It was… Fine.”

Ifrinn looked a little dissappointed. “Fine?”

“Honestly? The belostoma was better.”

So yeah hope you liked that. I certainly like the fact that you chose to suffer through it.

#writing #insects #fantasy #cw cannibalism

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