Chapter Text
The town fell in the span of one night. It fell in silence. Without fear. Without pain. Or, well, with as little fear and pain as the bloodhound could manage. The bloodhound set upon the vulnerable humans while they slept, swooping from house to house like a vulture, ripping their dreams from them one by one until all that remained of their lives were eyeless shells.
Men, women, little children, the elderly. The bloodhound devoured without distinction, swallowing dream, after dream, after dream until its stomach bulged, distended, threatened to burst. It was agony to be so full. Agony to eat. It must eat. It had no choice.
The people it found still awake, it pierced with the spear in its hands. Ichor and desire stained the cold earth. Soon, the grass around the houses was slick with blood. Those ones— the conscious ones— were the ones the bloodhound hated killing most, for there was no way to make their deaths painless, and despair spoiled their dying ambitions, burning the bloodhound’s throat as it swallowed them down.
It ate, and ate, and ate. It could not stop, no matter how much it wanted to.
Bloodhounds did not want. They only obeyed the will of their masters.
When the first fingers of dawn stretched across the sky, the bloodhound stood alone amidst the destruction it had wrought, and wept.
A settlement falling into ruin was nothing unusual. They were at war, after all. But this settlement, according to Morax’s scouts, had been wiped out in the space of one night — and the method of slaughter had been especially evil: the consumption of dreams, ambitions, hopes, torn from their bodies until they turned to dessicated husks. The mark of the craftsman was unmistakable: Aite, a repugnant but weak goddess whose domain shared a border with the Guili Assembly. Until now, Morax had simply had bigger problems to worry about, but the settlement in question had been in the contested space between them — and so this attack was too close for comfort.
Morax’s invitation to conference was nothing more than courtesy. So too was his offer that they meet on Aite’s side of the contested border, rather than his own, for the comfort of the goddess. They both knew that if Morax so chose, he could crush her just as easily as she had destroyed that human settlement.
Morax took to the skies with Menogias and Bosacius, and the three of them soared over Aite’s miserable little territory to her court upon Wuwang Hill.
When he descended in a great spiral of golden-scaled coils, the feet that touched the earth were that of a man.
By the time he and his yakshas strode through the door into Aite’s throne room, Morax was recognizable as the co-ruler of the Guili Assembly: a young emperor of surpassing beauty, clad in a black and gold hanfu — one of the forms most comfortable for the people of Liyue to look upon.
Aite’s throne room was a vast cathedral of limestone. The air was thick with the smell of opium, myrrh, and overripe fruit. The goddess herself sat upon her throne among her own various retainers, holding a long-handled smoking pipe in one hand. As they entered, she set her pipe aside, rose, and tipped her head in greeting, the opulent gold buyao in her poppy-red hair swaying with every movement.
“Lord Morax,” she greeted, “I count myself very fortunate indeed to have the pleasure of hosting you in my realm. Tell me, what is it you have come to speak with me about?”
The slight quaver in her voice was not lost on him, and in truth she had every right to be afraid. Morax had felled a hundred gods greater than she.
At Guizhong’s advice, Morax had intentionally left the topic of discussion out of his message. He was here to negotiate. To have a frank discussion. They wanted to give Aite no time to weave one of her webs.
“I wondered if you would allow me to borrow a map,” Morax said.
Aite faltered. She stared at him. “A map?”
Next to him, Bosacius snickered. It was hardly audible, but even so Morax shot him a glare. Then, he returned his attention to Aite.
“Yes,” he said. “I would like to look at our borders together.”
The confusion in her face gave way to panic. She snapped her fingers in the general direction of her kneeling retainers. One of them crawled off and then returned a moment later, carrying a scroll. This, he brought to Morax, shuffling on his knees the whole way across the room.
Morax bent and gently took it from him, disguising his distaste. He had never understood why so many gods preferred the people under their command to debase themselves like this.
Though, in Aite’s case, he had his guesses. Weak gods were always searching for ways to make themselves feel powerful.
Morax unrolled the scroll and examined it, making a few soft, thoughtful rumbles in the back of his throat — allowing the stone beneath his feet to tremble in menacing resonance. He muttered something to both Bosacius and Menogias, who closed in behind him to make a great show of looking over the map, as well.
As the moment dragged out, he could hear how frantic the chime of Aite’s gold buyao became with her anxious fidgeting. He let her suffer a little while longer. At last, Morax looked up. A thin, too-polite smile sliced across his face. He re-rolled the scroll with care, then inclined his head.
“I see that our maps do agree. I had wondered if yours were, perhaps, different — in which case I might have been more understanding. ” He waited until the exact moment that Aite began to open her mouth — likely to ask what he meant — before he decided to put her out of her misery: “A human settlement on our shared border was slaughtered last night. The nature of that slaughter was… vicious. There are some gods who might consider an act of such violence carried out so close to their own territory as a declaration of war.”
All the air went out of the room. A beat, then — Aite let out a nervous laugh. “Of course, Lord Morax, I have coexisted peacefully alongside the Guili Assembly for centuries. I would not dare—”
“But you did,” Morax cut her off, voice soft but imbued with telluric power. Once again, the limestone beneath his feet shivered. “Their dreams were eaten. This is your work. Your mark is plainly on it.”
“Allow me to explain,” Aite said, voice sickly-sweet — just like the stench of overripe fruit that pervaded her hall. “I believe I know how this… mistake… was made.”
“Oh? Then explain.”
Aite snapped her fingers once more and, inexplicably, snarled: “Dog.”
From beside the throne, a sack of flesh crept on all fours to her heel.
Aite reached down, grabbed a fistful of this creature’s stringy black hair, and hauled him up until his back bent at an unnatural angle and he was obliged to look her in the eye. Morax, instinctively, reached behind him to put a hand on Bosacius’ arm, even as he fought his own flash of indignation. Regardless of what this creature… was, or did… this treatment was excessively cruel.
Then again… Aite was excessively cruel. She always had been.
“Dog,” Aite hissed again, “Is this what I am to make of your disappearance last night? Did you set upon a village on our southern border and eat their dreams?”
The creature visibly shook in her grasp, eyes clouded with abject terror. When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was hardly audible and hoarse from disuse. “This one… did set upon a village and eat their dreams, goddess.”
Aite tossed the creature away from her in (theatrical, Morax thought) disgust. It was difficult to watch as he — a little adeptus, or a yaksha? — struggled to fold his trembling, thin frame into a deep kowtow immediately once he hit the stone floor. Aite turned her attention back to Morax, and gestured to the little adeptus. “My deepest, humblest apologies, Lord Morax. It seems my bloodhound acted beyond its directive. It’s a greedy little thing, and will be duly punished. This will not happen again.”
Morax took a step forward, summoning his spear to his hand. “Do you so swear it, Lady Aite?”
That veneer of calm which had settled upon the goddess the second she’d had a subordinate to focus on abusing fractured. She took a step backward, as if seeking the solace of her own throne.
“Do I—?”
“Do you so swear that you, nor anyone under your command, shall kill, maim, or otherwise harrass any mortals who live on our contested border — neither shall you cull them for dreams?”
Between the two gods a gold thread spun and stretched, reaching out in a spiraling tendril from Morax’s palm, stopping just shy of the goddess’s wrist.
Aite looked down at it and scoffed. “If you would make a new contract with me, Lord Morax, I would hear your end of the bargain.”
Morax tilted his head. He gripped the haft of his spear a little tighter. “Of course, Lady Aite. So long you uphold these terms along with the terms of our original contract, my armies will not set foot in your lands, and I will make no declaration of war.”
Her eyes narrowed. As she studied him, no doubt attempting to discern a loophole or lie, he felt Aite’s magic clawing at his senses, at his eyes, sifting up through his nostrils. The second Morax’s head began to thin and lift with the cloying fog of opium, he drummed his spear against the earth and said: “Enough.”
The entire hall quaked in resonance. Aite scrambled back to grip the arm of her throne to steady herself. Her retainers cried out and clutched at each other, and for that Morax did feel regret. Only the little adeptus remained where he was, glued to the ground as he had been all this time.
“Your arts are impressive, Lady Aite, but they will not work on me. Do you so swear?”
“Yes!” she gasped out as dust sifted down upon her head. “Yes. I swear.”
All at once, the hall went still once more. Morax inclined his head and replied: “So be it.”
The contract was solid as stone.
The bloodhound’s mistress begged to offer Morax and his yakshas her hospitality. It had never known its goddess to be so… frightened.
Unhinged, yes. Malicious, yes.
Frightened?
But then again, this fearsome god of earth…this Morax… was infinitely more powerful than she was. Even the bloodhound in its ignorance could feel the disparity of power between them. She was as to this god as a mouse was to a tiger. A mouse could wile its way out of a lot of things, but the tiger would always, eventually, eat the mouse.
That was why it was so baffling when Lord Morax agreed to allow her to entertain him . He cited something about how it would be indecorous of him to refuse. The bloodhound did not pretend to know what that meant. It did not pretend to know anything. It was still reeling from the horror of its goddess pinning the blame of last night’s culling on it, and the horror of what she might mean by impending punishment. Its goddess took great delight in finding new and creative ways to make sport of her bloodhound. It could not imagine what she was planning. It only hoped that this time, she would spare its wings.
That was a selfish thought. It stamped on it the second the thought arose. Who was the bloodhound to deny its goddess anything? It was nothing more than an object, a weapon of war to point at her enemies and threaten her subjects, a toy. It existed to be used. Objects had no choice in how they were used. Their only purpose was to obey.
The bloodhound remained where it belonged: folded to the floor in submission, as its goddess called for refreshments for her guests, and told her servants to prepare a feast and a suite of rooms. After that, she shook out the train of her hanfu, snapped her fingers, and called her bloodhound to heel.
The bloodhound crawled after her, swearing he felt the ground tremble once more beneath his bruised knees.
As soon as they were alone in the chamber behind the throne room, the bloodhound’s goddess spun on him and delivered a swift, harsh kick to its ribs.
The goddess may be weak, but she was a goddess still, and the force of the blow sent the bloodhound sprawling, its vision blurring with red fog. As it coughed, it righted itself back into position — kneeling there on the floor, waiting for whatever next correction its goddess decided to bestow.
None came.
“Go bathe yourself,” the goddess commanded. “You’re filthy. Tonight, you are to present yourself to Lord Morax and show him the depth of your obeisance.”
Its heart dropped into the pit of its stomach.
No, it wanted to beg, no, please do not make this one—
It kept all supplications behind its teeth. Weapons did not have thoughts. Toys did not have thoughts. Already, it felt the threads of magic weaving through its sinew and bone, stitching the order straight into its marrow. It could only obey.
This was not the first time the bloodhound had been sent to the chamber of one of its goddess’s guests. It was nothing the bloodhound was not used to. But the bloodhound had wronged Lord Morax. Had angered Lord Morax. Had erred, somehow (even if it had erred on his goddess’s orders, it had erred nonetheless), and Lord Morax was a warrior god, a killer of gods. What horrors would he inflict on a worthless, useless, lowly bloodhound who had sinned against him?
This must be the punishment, it thought to itself. Of course.
“Did you hear me, dog?” Its goddess’s voice was pitchy and razor-thin with fury. “Go.”
The force of the command hurled it through space. The bloodhound flashed from the floor of that chamber to the floor of the bath-house it shared with the other slaves.
Everything hurt. Its stomach still cramped from all the dreams it had been forced to consume, and now it was even more difficult to fight nausea as it sank into the cold bath and scrubbed itself down, as it washed its hair and perfumed it with oil (it did not know what scent Lord Morax preferred, so it chose a simple blend of sandalwood and mint — common and pleasing enough), as it lined its eyes with red powder, as it dressed itself in a gauzy robe that was as pretty to look at as it was easy to remove, as it found as private a place as it could to prepare its body for use.
(It did not deserve privacy, it knew. Even so, it sought out a corner of the baths where a wooden dressing screen stood, and that little illusion of a shield helped it to keep from vomiting).
Briefly, it wondered if it ought to take on a different form. Perhaps Lord Morax might find a feminine form more to his taste, but the bloodhound’s goddess preferred this yang infused one for her own cultivation, and it did not dare to presume she wanted it to give Lord Morax the chance to use a yin-infused one in his own.
Once it was ready, the bloodhound chose a place to kneel on the ground and wait. There would be no point in going up to the feast. Its goddess had not called it to do so. Neither should it go to Lord Morax’s chambers early. That would be presumptuous. Instead, it turned its mind inward toward the bindings around its heart and waited, knowing that its goddess would tell her bloodhound when the right time came to seek Lord Morax out.
It did not know how long it waited.
Time did not mean anything to a dog.
It only knew that eventually, it flashed from its place on the floor of the bathhouse to the floor deep inside the maze-like corridors of the goddess’s palace. The floor here was made of colorful glass mosaic tile. It bit into its skin.
The bloodhound looked around. Ah, yes. It recognized this hall. These were the guest rooms. Tentatively, it extended its senses just enough to feel the weight of geo resonating from a specific door.
(Weight…but a good weight. Steady. Sonorous. Somehow calming. That was a surprise. The bloodhound would have thought someone like Lord Morax would feel more…oppressive, but it was not so).
It could also feel two other presences: one geo, softly resonating with Lord Morax’s energy. The other tingled on the bloodhound’s tongue — electro. All three came from the same room. Yes…Lord Morax had arrived with retainers. Yakshas.
Saliva flooded the bloodhound’s mouth as its stomach, despite its best efforts at quelling it, threatened to rebel. Was it expected to entertain all three? The goddess had said nothing about Lord Morax’s retainers…
But…she had made it clear it was to put itself at Lord Morax’s disposal. And so the bloodhound supposed that in the end, it would be up to Lord Morax just how much torment he wished the bloodhound to endure.
The bloodhound schooled its breathing, did its best to quiet its own energy and keep it from souring in fear, and crawled forward to that door. It softly knocked, then folded itself once more to floor as far as it could, pressing its forehead against the tile.
Footsteps. The door opened. For a moment, nothing was said.
Then, the person above him (not Lord Morax. It was not his voice), called out: “Uh. Morax? Looks like Aite sent a messanger for you.”
More footsteps. The tiles shivered with the weight of them the way leaves shivered in a great storm. The bloodhound folded itself still tighter, trying to get still lower, and fought the urge to shrink from the unspeakable power radiating from the being now just a mere pace away.
Quietly, jarringly quietly, Lord Morax intoned: “Speak, little one. On what errand has your goddess sent you?”
The bloodhound wet its lips. It would not do to muffle its voice against the floor, so it lifted its head just an inch, just a hair, enough to say: “This lowly one was sent to apologize to you, mighty god, as it was this one who sinned against you.”
Someone — the bloodhound could not be sure who — sucked in a sharp breath. Lord Morax sounded perplexed when he commanded: “Sit up. Lift your head.”
The bloodhound did as it was bid, though it kept his eyes fixed right where they belonged on the floor.
One of the retainers — the one in command of electro, the hound thought — said: “Aite’s hound.”
His voice was tinged with surprise.
The bloodhound curled its hands into fists atop its knees, fighting the urge to fidget with the fabric of its robe. “Yes, honored one. This one is…Aite’s bloodhound. This one slaughtered the village on the edge of the borders of the Guili Assembly and ate the people’s dreams. This stupid one has been made to understand that it has erred, and begs forgiveness—” the bloodhound caught itself there. Its voice was beginning to shake, for the next phrase was wholly sincere: “...though this wicked one does not deserve it.”
Another long, painful beat of silence stretched out. The bloodhound held its breath, and could not force back the shivers wracking its body — from pain, from hunger, from exhaustion, from the sheer might emanating from the god before him.
The god bent —no— knelt, down on the ground next to the hound, the rich black silk of his hanfu gathering on the tile like a puddle of ink.
With haste, the bloodhound crunched back down as far as it could go, grinding it face into the floor. If the god meant to strike it, it didn’t understand why he didn’t just honor the bloodhound with his boot. Why on earth would he bother to stoop himself—?
A hand was placed upon the bloodhound’s head, the span of it so wide and the fingers so large that it could have crushed the bloodhound’s skull in one easy motion. For a second, it expected the god to do just that.
But he didn’t. Instead he just kept his hand there, fingers sinking into the bloodhound's hair like a blessing. The touch was so gentle and so chaste that the bloodhound had no idea what to make of it.
“You are forgiven. Return now to your mistress, or to wherever you must go.”
The bloodhound’s mind emptied. It did not move, even as the god removed his hand and stood once more.
Lord Morax did not even sound angry. Surely— surely he meant to lull the bloodhound into a false sense of security. Surely a blow was coming. Surely he would pin the hound’s head beneath his boot and press down, down, down, until its vision went black. Surely he would break one of the hound’s hands, or a wrist at the very least— surely—
“Is there more?” Lord Morax asked. “Why do you tarry?”
The bloodhound’s tongue turned to sand. Its goddess’s command rang in its ears, pecked at its skin, tearing its spirit in a thousand different directions — threatening to cut it apart if it did not do as it was bid now.
“This one—” it gasped as a fresh wave of agony assaulted it. This one is good, it snarled back at the spell strung through its bones, this one is obeying! At last, it was able to fight through the pain enough to explain: “This one has been sent by its revered goddess as an offering for the great god’s entertainment. As…an extension of the venerable goddess Aite’s goodwill and hospitality.”
The yaksha to Lord Morax’s left snarled, and the bloodhound felt his own hair lift beneath an electric current.
“Bosacius,” came the swift reprimand. The current died, though that felt…reluctant. Begrudging, almost, if such a thing was possible. For the bloodhound’s part, it was once more half on the verge of both tears and vomit. It had not considered the possibility that it might incite one of Lord Morax’s retainers to jealousy. Before it could say anything, though, Lord Morax spoke: “No. Tell your goddess that I am honored by her gracious gift, but that…will not be necessary.”
He did sound angry, now. It was a simmering, quiet sort of anger…but the bloodhound recognized it for what it was nonetheless.
To leave without being used would count as disobedience. It could not disobey.
“Please, this one has many uses,” the bloodhound dared to whisper, unable to keep that whisper steady. Neither could it disguise the tremor in its hands. “Please— allow this lowly one to serve you, Mighty Morax. You will not be disappointed.”
Yet again, the god crouched. The bloodhound flinched, expecting that surely, surely now it would be struck, but— no, the god commanded it to sit up again, and when it obeyed, the god placed the crook of his finger beneath the bloodhound’s chin and told it to look at him.
The god was very beautiful, the bloodhound thought, if the bloodhound could be any judge of beauty. His features were noble and strong, imbued with a sense of rightful pride, but for all the stony lines there was a softness to his face, too. His eyelashes were long and thick, almost like a woman’s; his eyes blazed gold, warm as sunlight, and were…startlingly kind.
His mouth, though, was set in a hard, hard line.
“Answer me truthfully, bloodhound of Aite,” he said. “If I send you back to your mistress now, will it be held against you?”
The bloodhound could not bear the weight of the god’s gaze, so it disobeyed: letting its eyes fall once more to the floor. Hoarsely, it answered: “It would be counted as…failure, yes. This one must please you and make amends.”
The god sighed. He released the bloodhound and stood, then said: “Very well. Come.”
“Morax—!” the yaksha…the electro one, cut in. The bloodhound could not help but wince at the blatant disrespect with which this yaksha addressed their god.
But the god did not rebuke his insolent yaksha. He only said in an even, reasonable tone: “Even if he was sent as an assassin, he would be a poor one. I am in no danger from a little adeptus such as he, and though Aite may be foolish, I do not think she is so foolish as to murder me in the walls of her own palace. She knows she would be destroyed should Guizhong lead the Guili Assembly to war in revenge. And besides: I trust my generals to guard me.”
Was that humor in the god’s voice? Humor…never meant anything good. The bloodhound suppressed a shiver.
It was not its place to wonder or worry about it. It put that out of its mind and instead focused on the relief that it had not failed. The god would deign to make use of it in whatever way seemed good to him. The bloodhound would do its best to be pleasing, and perhaps that would soothe some of its goddess’s ire. It was not stupid enough to think that pleasing Lord Morax would get it out of its due punishment, but perhaps it would lessen the severity.
Once it was inside the room and the door was shut, Lord Morax commanded: “Rise to your feet if you are able. It is not my custom to have those in my service creep about on their hands and knees.”
Had it been displeasing already?
The bloodhound unfolded itself and, shakily, stood. It felt wrong. Its place was at the god’s feet in the dust where it belonged.
But this was Lord Morax’s preference. It must do its best to be obedient.
The bloodhound busied itself with studying the room, so it was in no danger of offending anyone on accident by looking them in the face. This was a suite that was well-known to the bloodhound: its goddess’s most opulent guest suite, complete with a sitting room filled with treasures, trinkets, and books, two adjoining baths, and three adjoining bedrooms. The bloodhound had been in all three of those beds at one point or another. It wondered which one Lord Morax would choose.
One of the retainers — the other one, spoke, their voice carrying the same sonorous timbre as Lord Morax’s: “Rest, Morax. Bosacius and I will keep watch. If anything happens we’ll need you at your best.”
Again, the manner of address made the bloodhound twitch.
Lord Morax hummed. The walls reverberated the sound back to him. “Very well. Little adeptus, come join me. Bosacius, don’t give me that look. I know what Aite intended to happen tonight. I would like to be able to at least say I took him to bed without it being… false.”
The electro yaksha — Bosacius — laughed, a laugh that sounded like a peal of thunder, and replied: “Are you positive you’re not the god of technicalities?”
Lord Morax laughed too. It was a bright sound, a rich sound — so different to the sharp laughter of the bloodhound’s own goddess, for when Lord Morax laughed, there was no cruelty in it.
This god behaved like this in a private room where he only had his trusted retainers for company. Was he like this…with his people, too? The people of the Guili Assembly were very fortunate to have such a god, if he was the same on his throne as he was here in this bedroom.
Focus. It must focus. It must listen well to Lord Morax and learn what would please him. However kind and lenient he might be with his own people, the bloodhound was under no illusion that he would be the so kind and lenient with it. Lord Morax had already been merciful. Surely there was a limit to that mercy.
As Lord Morax’s two retainers took up their posts — Bosacius outside the door, and the other yaksha on the inside, seating himself on one of the couches — The bloodhound trailed behind Lord Morax to the middle bedroom. Ah, yes. It remembered. This one was the largest. That made perfect sense.
The bedroom was bathed in gentle tangerine light. A stick of incense burned in its holder on the shelf on the far wall. The bed was huge, pre-eminent, with four posts and blood-red drapes. Lord Morax tugged his sash free, then stripped down to the waist. When the bloodhound moved to match him, reaching for the ties of its gown, Lord Morax’s hand shot out and covered its own.
“Leave it on,” he said.
Not an unusual request. The bloodhound was well aware that this body it wore was starved and ugly, constantly sporting marks from his goddess’s corrections and whims. He let his hands fall to his sides and awaited further instruction.
Lord Morax crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, then commanded: “Come.”
The bloodhound’s stomach twisted. It swallowed back the new surge of bile filling its throat and obeyed. Lord Morax might not be so bad. He has been gentle so far.
The bloodhound knew that could go one of two ways. Either Lord Morax was just as gentle in bed as he was out of it, or that gentleness was a front. Often, the ones who were the cruelest liked to toy with their food first.
Should it kneel? It felt wrong to stand here in front of him, but Lord Morax had not commanded it to do otherwise…
The bloodhound ventured: “How…would you like this one, mighty god?”
When it glanced up at Lord Morax through its lashes, it saw Lord Morax nod in the direction of the mattress. “Here,” Lord Morax said, peeling back the thick coverlet. It was as red as the canopy, and patterned with gold ginkgo leaves. “Lie down.”
Terribly unspecific. Should it lie on its back? Its side? Its front? Did he mean for it to present? It didn’t know, and nothing about Lord Morax’s expression or posture gave any indicator of what he might prefer.
The bloodhound sank down onto bed, then took the option it deemed safest and eased itself down flat on its back.
Bewilderingly, Lord Morax drew the coverlet up around it, then slid over to the far end of the bed, slipped beneath the coverlet himself, rolled over to face away from the bloodhound, and said: “Sleep.”
What?
The bloodhound stared up at that canopy. It knew that canopy as well as it knew the back of its hand. It had stared up at it just like this so many times.
“M–My lord?”
“Sleep,” Lord Morax repeated more firmly. “If you can. Rest or meditate if you cannot. That is what I want from you, little adeptus.”
The bloodhound wondered if perhaps it was the god’s preference to press himself into a sleeping body. One of its goddess’s allies found that very amusing. He had fucked the bloodhound until it had passed out, and when the bloodhound had next awoken — he had still been fucking its body. Perhaps that was Lord Morax’s preference. It…didn’t seem to fit, but it could not presume to understand the amusements of the gods.
It was here to be of use. To serve. To entertain. To obey.
It must obey.
The bloodhound closed its eyes and tried to sleep.