Chapter 52: Chapter 52: An Interlude Wherein Nom Noms

Nom was having a blast running the kitchen at the Lodge, but he missed Nay. Although he had expressed excitement about her learning how to officially cultivate, he was worried about her.

What would he do if she didn’t come back? If she had failed to get to Iron?

Don’t think those thoughts Nzxthommocus the III, of course she’ll advance to Iron.

He’s been around enough cultivators to know she had what it took.

When he had first arrived on this world, he had recognized the vigor for what it was. Something cultivators would obsess over, just as the cultivators in his world had obsessed over the quintessence.

In his world, as part of the host body, he wasn’t allowed to Siphon. They had served the Pain Lord, who had in turn served a powerful cultivator named Cassian Carter.

Before the cultivators had come to their world to subjugate the Dread Ones, Nom’s kind naturally strengthened themselves on the emotions, memories and dreams of others. This was done by physical contact and using an ability called Siphon.

This feeding was how he strengthened his Eldritch Void. The more he fed, the more abominable he would become. It was the Dread One equivalent of cultivating.

While his friend Nay had to go and learn how to cultivate so her Marrow Abilities wouldn’t kill her, Nom had been Siphoning and strengthening his Eldritch Void to accommodate the Marrow Abilities he had been acquiring with her.

The fact was, there were a contingent of the Hounds of Tindalos who did not look kindly on cultivators.

Being subjugated by them could have that effect on a broodling.

Nom often wondered what his world would turn into if his kind had ever broken the chains of Cassius and the other cultivators.

“How are those mussels coming along, chef?”

Nom was pulled out of his thoughts by Gracie, who was looking at him from the expo table. She was tapping her foot. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and Nom knew she was irritated.

Nom came back to the present. His attention snapped back to all the saucepans laid out in front of him on the heat rings he had conjured. They were filled with mussels from Lac Coinescar. He was sautéing them in Vancian white wine, butter and cream with shallots and parsley.

He called them Nom’s Sumptuous Shells and he served them with the same French fries they had always made with the Fish n’ Chips. The townspeople loved the mussels and went crazy for dipping the fries in the white sauce.

He saw that the shells were open on all of them, exposing the delicious mussels inside.

“Sorry, Gracie,” Nom said. “I zoned out for a bit there.”

He ladled the mussels onto plates and poured the sauce over them. Then he grabbed several plates with his protuberances and sped to Gracie, setting them on the expo table.

“Were you worried about Nay again?” Gracie said.

“How could you tell?” Nom said.

“You kind of stare off into the distance and one of your fins starts to twitch,” Gracie said.

That made Nom self-conscious. He looked down at his fin protuberances.

“I’m worried about her, too,” Gracie said. “With everything that’s happened here, now she’s left somewhere with Quincy for a few days? Makes me anxious about what’s going on.”

Him and Gracie had developed a rapport, which is what naturally happened while working in the kitchen trenches with another person. She was doing a good job as the kitchen manager and he grew accustomed to her presence during work.

Nom preferred most of the humans here compared to his world.

But the social dynamics were different. Back home, he was often used as a tool of torture by his master, and if that didn’t dampen tentacle-human relations, than he didn’t know what did.

Of course, maybe the dynamics would have been different if he hadn’t been a servant of Ormandius.

It was easier to communicate with humans when they didn’t hate or fear you so much.

Bryja came in and saw her orders ready. “Finally! Was beginning to worry that Nom was slacking off back there.”

“A tentacle is never completely slack, nor are we completely taut,” Nom said. “We’re always best somewhere in the middle.”

Hilde came in next, red-faced and huffing. “I’m gonna kill him. I swear to Veritax I’m gonna kill him.”

“Degnar?” Gracie said.

“If he makes one more comment about me copious features I’m gonna drown him in the Lac,” Hilde said.

“Want me have a talk with him?” Nom said. “Might do him right to experience true darkness. I can show him a glimpse of the roiling rings of Tindalos. Seems to always do the trick.”

“No, Nom,” Hilde said. “I appreciate the offer but I can take care of myself.”

Nom held his fins up and shrugged. “Of course you can. But the offer still stands.”

“Thank you, Nom,” Hilde said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She took a tray full of mussel entrees and Nay’s garlic knots out the door.

“Nom,” Bryja said, putting her elbows on the expo table and her chin in both of her hands. “Do you ever get bored being cooped up in The Lodge? What do you do for fun?”

“Oh, I manage to keep myself entertained,” Nom said.

/////////

Portitia giggled in the bubble bath, her hands bracing the side of the claw-foot tub in her room at the House of Saccharine Delights.

She squealed in excitement as something tickled her. A green protuberant fin appeared out of the bubbles and then disappeared back into the water.

The stitchgal squirmed and squealed again, laughing. A flash of purple muscle intertwined with her legs and then moved underneath the bubbles.

Portitia leaned back and closed her eyes, enjoying a peculiar but delightful series of sensations.

/////////

Jolf was strolling down the street, eating a winter apple, when he heard a woman’s screams coming from the next block. He tossed the half-eaten apple into the mud and hurried his way towards the sound.

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Then he stopped, realizing the noise was coming from the House of Saccharine Delights . They weren't screams, but yelps of pleasure. The woman's voice crescendoed in volume, reached a yodeling peak that stopped foot traffic for a moment, and was then quickly forgotten as it faded into the laughter and music coming from the bordello.

Jolf shook his head. “Nether hells. Snowstroke needs to pad those damn walls.”

He straightened his belt buckle before walking on, continuing his patrol.

/////////

Nom settled in to what he called his lair.

He couldn't help himself. As a spawn of the Hounds of Tindalos, he was compelled to have a lair.

Just like all of his kind.

His lair was a place of his own between the walls of Quincy’s Lodge. It was towards the top of the structure, between the upper level and the one below it. So, not quite an attic but he did have the green-tinged moonlight shining in through the cracks in stone and wood.

This was where he stored his collection of baubles and trinkets he had scavenged from around town. There were bits of fabric from clothing, buttons and jewelry townsfolk had dropped in the mud or on the frigid shores of the Lac.

If Nay had seen this place, he was sure that she'd call him a magpie.

He liked to collect little pretties. As a tentacle connected to a larger host body in his previous life, he had never been allowed to own property. But now he was his own entity and could do as he pleased, to an extent.

This is also where he made his poisons.

One darkened and cobweb strewn corner of his lair was a shrine to the art of making poisons.

There were glass tubes he had stolen from the glass blower artisan in town. Well, not stolen. He had left some of the silver coins from his money that was accumulating as an employee of the Lodge. The coins bore the mark of the Winterfist bank and it was the currency everyone used in Stitchdale.

But these glass tubes had labels like Lamprey’s Spit and Kyr Nine. Poisons that had already been created and were ready to deploy should they ever need them.

His current experiment was a new poison recipe he had acquired when he consumed The Marrow of the Mewlipped Tode. It required catching the gray sickle spiders that dwelt in the arctax trees in the forest.

They liked to spin their webs on the lower branches so they could catch the bugs that clung to the elk and reindeer that brushed against the boughs. Nom had caught a few in jars and he was keeping them alive.

Milking the spiders of their venom took forever, but he made sure to do it once a night so that in hopefully a few weeks he would have the amount his recipe required.

The process involved paralyzing them with Mind Shiv and then using an electric lamprey to send a jolt of electricity into the arachnid. This would stimulate the gray sickle spiders into ejecting venom into the glass tubes he had placed them in.

The name of this new poison recipe was called Sickle Drop and required his activation when the time was ripe.

He was proud of his poison collection and he wondered when he would be able to put it to some use again. He was particularly interested in Sickle Drop because it was meant to be spread over a blade or edged weapon as a delivery device.

As with all the others who were involved in the fight with the Nether Sister, he felt that something was coming for all of them and it was best to be prepared for anything.

Poison was a weapon, and it was of his opinion that they should have as many weapons as possible at their disposal.

He set about to his daily ritual of milking the spiders for their venom before he would set off to Siphon.

Most of the town would be asleep by then.

/////////

Nom always tried to choose the elderly and bed-bound to Siphon from.

Feeding on people's dreams and memories could leave a person feeling weak, drained and bewildered. He didn't actually want to harm anyone so he tried to stick to victims who wouldn't suffer as much after being fed on by him.

Picking some stitchguy who needed his energy next day to work on the mines would make him feel guilty. But sticking to someone who was already bedridden didn't make him feel so bad.

Also, people would be less likely to notice that there was an entity in town psychically draining people.

He had chosen a drunk stitchguy who was sleeping inside one of the fishing vessels that was in the dock. This person was recently a known drunk, so Nom felt no qualms about feeding on him.

However, he wasn't ready for the memories he saw during the Siphoning.

During these Siphoning sessions, it was inevitable that Nom would get some impression or glimpse of the memory or dream he was devouring.

Usually it was the ephemera he had learned to expect from people.

The themes seemed universal. Speaking in public only to learn they're wearing no clothes. Dreams about teeth falling out. Some embarassing social faux pas long buried in the subconscious.

But this drunk happened to be a sailor who had worked for Wint the Fishmonger. He had also done other odd jobs for the man.

And he was with him the night of the Night Sister attack.

Wint ceased Siphoning and explored the memory...

"Hurry," Wint was saying. "Before she bleeds to death. Imbecile!"

The man was trying to lift something ungainly into a boat. After some struggle he finally half-lifted and half-rolled it in with a clunk.

It was a limp body.

Wint leaned over it, putting a hand on its face. "You're stronger than this, girl! Just hang on, damn you! I can't lose you too! Hang on!"

When he leaned out of the way, Nom saw who it was.

It was the fishmonger's daughter.

Mishell.

She was still alive.

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