| rdfs:comment | - It’s rare that one finds oneself the prey of the monstrous Argemone, for she only hunts when she’s hungry, and that’s only a few times a year. But when she’s hungry, oh boy is she hungry, and little can be done to stop her from filling her growling belly. She’s a brutal, thundering creature. She doesn’t understand mercy. Once, maybe she did. But not any longer, for the last real memory she has is the one that replays in her primitive beast brain over and over again:
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| abstract | - It’s rare that one finds oneself the prey of the monstrous Argemone, for she only hunts when she’s hungry, and that’s only a few times a year. But when she’s hungry, oh boy is she hungry, and little can be done to stop her from filling her growling belly. She’s a brutal, thundering creature. She doesn’t understand mercy. Once, maybe she did. But not any longer, for the last real memory she has is the one that replays in her primitive beast brain over and over again: The garden was burning. All the beautiful fruit trees, aflame. The colorful birds above — the Blood Bitterns, the Black-Bellied Blue Cloaks, the Devil Fishers — fleeing their nests but finding nowhere to go. Whirling plumes of smoke spiraled toward the silver moon. The silken grass, blackening. Then Argemone heard the noise: shouting. The retort of steel against steel. The report of a gunshot. Atop it all, her Master’s voice — shrill, terrified, yet defiant. Her tree-trunk legs carried her forward, the brush and tangle of the jungle falling easily beneath her massive feet. The river that crossed the Faerie garden would be easy to cross for her, just a quick splashing, harrumphing gallop — But the river, too, was on fire. How was that possible? Then Argemone saw: the waters were covered with some kind of slick, some oily residue that burned. Someone had poisoned the river. Across the water, through the flames, she saw. Her Master, besieged. He was a demon with his two blades, pirouetting this way and feinting that way. It was for naught, though — he was handily outnumbered. Dozens of assailants — ants, really, just ugly little ants she’d love to crush beneath triumphant hooves — swarmed him. One with antlers. Another seemed to be made of glass or ice. They had their own weapons: knives, pistols that barked fire, torches. Argemone saw them tumble over her Master, stabbing at him, cutting out his heart and holding it aloft. She thought to storm them, to barrel across the fiery oil-slick waters and bite them all to pieces (and let their blood and guts fill her spongy belly), but fire was and remains her great enemy, and she could not bear to carry herself across what would surely be a deadly torrent of flame. Argemone retreated from the garden, having only been glimpsed by those who murdered her Master. The pet was without her Keeper and now wanders the trods and paths of the Thorns doing little besides eat, sleep and bay mournfully for her lost Master. Every few days, she finds herself hungry again, and so eats. She’ll eat hobgoblins, sure, but they don’t seem to fill up her gluttonous guts with any great satisfaction — though playing with their still-living bodies earns her some joy, the way a dog or cat messes with a baby rabbit before breaking its tender neck. And sometimes she’ll leave the Hedge (she needs no doorways to walk between worlds, as noted below) to feed on whatever fauna she can get into her mouth. Oh, but it’s the blood and bones of man that really satisfy her hunger. The wet crunch is pleasing on a number of levels. Whether it’s hunting changelings in the Hedge or humans lost in the wilderness, well, one way or another, she aims to slake her appetite. In her current state, Argemone represents the nightmarish pursuer. She cannot be harmed by mundane sources of damage, and when she’s hungry, little can stop her. She’ll keep coming. Maybe a character delays her. Maybe he runs faster or is ultimately more cunning. But like a monster in a bad dream, she’s ceaseless, clumsily barreling forward, seemingly impossible to kill. The beast is vulnerable to two things: extreme heat and extreme cold. Everything else doesn’t seem to bother her much.
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