Poppy O'Possum

“You see,” Chicadino began. “History long suppressed tells us of the Specters of Fate: beings blessed by the Lucky Stars with an insatiable hunger for information and the means to grasp it, who tear through the veils of ignorance to guide Flora towards the single, inevitable truth at the end of all paths.” He closed his eyes in a moment of reverence. “When I first learned of the Specter, I had been living a life devoid of meaning, and the idea of following in the footsteps of such a figure filled me with a sense of purpose. But the more I searched for them, the more it seemed that Flora only grew darker and darker with ignorance each day. Indeed, it seemed there was no Specter to be found at all.”

Chicadino lowered his head in grim resignation, and let out a deep sigh that filled the room.

“But then it hit me!” he perked up. “All of those traits I was looking for applied to me! All those years spent looking for an answer that was right in front of me! I was the Specter of Fate you’ve been waiting for this entire time, Poda!” Arthur gave her a genial smile, but his assertion was met only with quiet disgust and disappointment.

“So,” she spat. “You read yourself a few forbidden texts? And now you think you’re a Big. Special. Boy.” Poda snapped her beak as she punctuated each word. “You? The Specter of Fate? Don’t make me laugh, little bird. I’ve seen dozens of gullible brats like you try to take the reins of the world, and each of them found themselves making rather sudden contributions to my impalpable godmass.”

Chicadino allowed the threat to hang in the air, long enough for the phrase impalpable godmass to deflate into a contender for the most embarrassing thing that had ever been said in that room.

“I… ate them. Is… what I am saying.”

“Oh no, I understood the implication.”

There was further uncomfortable silence.

“A wager, then!” he chirped in singsong. “I’ll bet that I can surprise you with just a single word, and if you’re not sufficiently convinced of my nature, then you can eat me and take my place.”

“I can do that regardless of how you choose to frame it,” she snipped, her face already twisting into a crude facsimile of his own. “But very well, let us play. I’ll give you ten seconds to wow me.”

“Ten.”

Her coloration was changing before his eyes.

“Nine. Eight. Seven.”

Poda slid off the armchair, her form expanding without limit.

“Six. Five. Four.”

She was now inches away, her arms coming in for the kill.

“Three.”

“Two.”

[Image 1]

“Sinfriochati.”

[Image 2]

Poda screamed and thrashed backward through the room, sending her armchair swiveling on one leg and toppling over. Her eyes rolled around in her skulless mantle like a pair of trackballs given a firm spin, as the brand on her forehead popped and fizzled. Her entire body went slack and crumpled on the floor, and her eight arms, now unraveled and sprawled out, began to spasm in waves, each with a unique tempo. After several seconds of sound and fury, the brand went dark again, and her scorched skin immediately began to heal, sputtering with sparks of magic. Within no time at all, there was no sign of any physical scarring left over, but Poda’s emotional state told a very different story, as her tentacles struggled to maintain a coherent shape no matter how many times she attempt to recoil them.

“That is… impossible,” said Poda, drooping uselessly over the fallen armchair like a pile of wet noodles. “You shouldn’t possibly know that trigger.”

“You’ve a lot of nerve to be telling me what I should and shouldn’t be able to do,” Chicadino laughed. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“It… It really is you…” Poda’s eyes glimmered and she rolled across the floor, contracting her body at his feet as a sign of adoration. “My dearest…!”

[Image 3]

Arthur gripped her extended arm and gave it a soft peck. “Come, my darling Poda,” he cooed, pulling a camera from a nearby bag. “I promised Ren and ol’ Chunkcrown I would meet them shortly, so consider this your first order.”

—

“Alright gentlemen, get in close!” said Arthur’s secretary, gently flapping a wing to grab the men’s attention. King Noble momentarily thought it awfully strange that he hadn’t seen her arrive with Arty, but Renard had a gut feeling that it was best just to let her be, and they both knew nothing in the world was as reliable as Renard Darling’s gut.

“Now then, say ‘trees’!”

[Image 4]