"N'ka z'nt kul'th y'ha, sh'tul in y'kal, sh'kerg sh'shr'na k'rith f'gha m'vith y'gh'yul. N'ka z'nt kul'th y'ha, sh'tul in y'kal, sh'kerg sh'shr'na k'rith f'gha m'vith y'gh'yul."
The circle of beasts, hooded in white robes with matching aprons tied about their waists, stood in a circle about a large rounded pot, nearly a full hemisphere of cast iron three feet across, which sat bubbling and hissing atop a stone brazier carved with strange runes running along five rings that stacked across its height. Smoke rose to the mouth of the seaside cave, pulled out by the negative pressure of the night's sea breeze blowing over the cave entrance. The sloshing of waves, dark and ominous on this moonless night, was the only other sound beyond the chanting and the small pops from the oil as ingredients were thrown into the pot, one after the other.
"Powdered extract of garlic, to ward and bind," the Master of the Cult intoned from beneath his hood.
One of the other cultists tossed in a pinch.
"No no, more than that," the Master advised. "You want about a teaspoon for every pound of - yes, that's better.
"Now, sprig of oregano, to please our Lord Below and add zest to the summoning."
A hiss as the culinary flourish hit the oil.
"Now, crushed and powdered red peppers, sweet and spicy, to invoke the duality of our Lord Below, Bringer of Life and Harbinger of Death."
One of the other cultists spoke up. "Actually, I'm allergic to paprika. Can we do without it?"
Another cut in, his tone disappointed. "Aww, I really like the paprika! It just doesn't have the right kick without it."
The Master's voice rang out, commanding. "We shall make one batch without the paprika, and the next batch with it! Substitute shavings of lemon peel, lightly done - thin, long grating of the peel please, we don't want it to just be a bunch of flakes in there."
The most trusted of the cult obeyed, thin yellow strips falling from The Ceremonial Fruit Peeler That We Sometimes Use For Cheese Too When Alvin's Misplaced The Cheese Grater Again and falling into the pot.
"Now, crumbles of sea salt and mixture of black pepper, essence of sea and land, to bind the two together and draw our Lord Below to us," the Master of the Cult commanded.
The cultists stood there for a space of ten seconds, each peeking at each other from beneath their hoods.
"Oh, come on," the Master of the Cult snapped. "Not again! We can't summon the Lord Below, Bringer of Life and Harbinger of Death, He of the Infinite and Unknowable Depths, Father of Things With Far Too Many Tentacles That Taste Delicious Fried In Oil, without salt and pepper! The taste is all wrong! This is exactly what happened last new moon! Whose turn was it to bring the salt and pepper?"
One of the cultists, a stoat, spoke up defensively. "Ain't me. I brought the paprika. Whole bag a' it goin' to waste," he grumbled, clutching the pouch of far too much paprika to his chest defensively.
"And I brought the calamari again," a marten jill pointed out, her tone a tad petulant. "Why do I have to keep doing that? The stuff's expensive!"
"You're the one who works for Innovation," a ferret jack pointed out. "You're the only one here who can afford it regularly."
"Well, I really think that we should take turns with it! I'm spending a lot more to bring back the Lord Below, Bringer of Life and Harbinger of Death, than any of you lot!"
"I'm the one who keeps shouldering the deposit on the cave," a weasel jack complained. "The landlord didn't give it back to me last week since Bohfum spilled cooking sherry on the rug under the dining table."
"SILENCE!" the Master of the Cult roared. His dark eyes, glinting in the light of the fire reflected beneath his hood, shifted as his gaze trailed over the assembled cultists. "Brother Quipwell and Sister Shortpaw," he demanded, fixing on two robed figures who had remained silent, one unusually tall, the other unusually short. "You were charged with bringing the salt and pepper today. What do you have to say for yourselves? Speak!" he commanded. "Explain why you have failed the Lord Below."
The taller figure reached up and pulled back his hood, exposing the handsome, chiseled jawline, cocky smile, and red-graying-slightly-at-the-edges-to-indicate-emotional-maturity-but-still-youthful-enough-to-appeal-to-a-wide-range-of-femmes fur of a fox whose mere appearance was enough to elicit a gasp from the assembled cultists. "Tookumberry Fones!" the weasel jack exclaimed. The cultists all reached for daggers hidden in their sleeves, fumbling with the safety straps on their concealed sheaths, but the Master of the Cult waved a paw and they paused, awaiting instruction.
"So, Tookumberry Fones," the Master remarked, his tone a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "You dare to venture into the Lair of the Lord Below, disguised as my own beasts. I take it that you brought your diminutive sidekick as well."
"Partner, if you don't mind," the shorter beast piped up, pulling back her own hood. Their head was adorned with massive ears, indicating her fennec heritage. Small pince-nez glasses rested atop their shout, seemingly a formality as she looked up at the cult over the edge of the cooking pot, standing atop a crate for a boost to their height.
"Ah yes, Paphnutia Gowdie," the Master sneered. "She/they of the dark academia. So, the Ministry has dispatched you two to meddle in our affairs once more. Well, I should thank the Duchess then. She has given us two perfect sacrifices to offer up to our Lord Below when he arrives."
"I'm afraid not, old chap," Tookumberry Fones declared, shrugging out of his robes and putting on a stylish wide-brimmed hat slightly beaten at the edges and lightly dusted to imply significant experience in the field. "Without the salt and pepper, I'm afraid your summoning ritual shall remain much like your outfits: tasteless."
There was a murmur of mixed outrage and despair from the cultists, but the Master simply chuckled, a sound of amusement that soon grew into a bellowing guffaw. His cultists nervously laughed along, each clearly trying to seem as if they were in on the joke. "There's no need to fall to hysterics," Nutty Gowdie remarked, raising her eyebrow. They glanced to Tookumberry a bit quizzically. "I didn't think we would achieve total victory so quickly."
"No, Nutty," Tookumberry replied, reaching to his side, where a riding crop hung by a strap at its end from his belt. "That's not a laugh of defeat."
"Indeed it is not, hapless heroes," the Master declared, raising his arms, each shrouded by the long sleeves of his robe. "For you see, I anticipated your interference, and I brought my own shakers of salt and pepper!" His sleeves fell back, revealing two small glass bottles with perforated metal caps at the top, one white, the other a mottled gray. "Now, look on in fear as we complete the ritual and summon the Lord Below!"
"No," Tookumberry gasped, putting his paw out, but it was too late. With a flourish the Master turned his paws and, shaking vigorously, released a small trickle of black flakes and tiny white crystal dust to float down into the oil.
The cave was quiet for a few moments, cultists and crusaders alike holding their breath. The world held in that moment, time slowing down to breathe in the heady atmosphere of dramatic tension and well-seasoned calamari (though it perhaps could have used some paprika).
Then, they heard it.
The deep, gurgling groan echoed through the cave, the sound somehow implying alien depths in its guttural resonance. "You fool," the aghast Tookumberry whispered, looking to the Master. "What have you done?"
The sea entrance of the cave exploded inward, chunks of rock going flying as a mess of massive tentacles, each ridged with numerous grasping suckers, crashed through the space. One cultist was struck and incapacitated by a small chunk that lodged in his skull; another was grabbed by a flailing tentacle and pulled, screaming, toward a toothy maw at the center of the creature. The sounds that next echoed through the cave were best left to the imagination and foley work of a dedicated and innovative sound designer.
"Nutty," Tookumberry yelled, ducking down to avoid another flailing tentacle as the cult all scattered to seek cover, "see if you can turn off the brazier! Maybe that will break the summoning ritual!"
"Already on it!" the fennec hollered back, crouching and examining the numerous esoteric symbols that lined the contraption. She started to push at them experimentally, finding that they did not yield. "It's not working!" they called back to the adventurer as he ran out into the cave, tumbling to avoid one lashing tentacle and swatting at it with his crop.
"Is it Valangrian or Culumbandrian runes?" Tookumberry yelled back, barely dodging to the side as a massive tentacle slammed down in the spot he had just occupied.
"Culumbandrian, I think!" Nutty called back, examining the symbols. "These aren't the ones from Golospatchrian's Lost Primer, though - I think they might be from the Second Pre-Dynasty!"
"Okay," Tookumberry responded, trying to keep his voice calm as he ran toward the far end of the cave, clutching his hat to keep it on his head and occasionally glancing back at the creature that was devouring another cultist, "so then that would mean...?"
Nutty recited a rapid-fire liturgy in a dead tongue to herself under their breath, translating into an even deader tongue, before slapping her forehead. "Which would mean that it's from the Mindarix Heretics! The runes are ideographic, not logographic!" She tried pressing at a few others; to her dismay, they still didn't budge. "I think it's jammed!" she called back.
Tookumberry tripped near the back of the cave, barely rolling over in time to see the tentacle coming. He splayed his legs wide, the tip of the tentacle with a sharp, almost metallic claw atop it striking a mere inch from the seam of his pants running down the crotch. "Maybe it's not sequential," he called back. "What was the creed of the Mindarians again?"
"Mindarixians," Nutty corrected him, one paw gesturing in the air as they poured through the pages of a vast, ancient library stored inside her memory. "'The End and Beginning are found only in the cycle'!" they recalled at last, clutching her paw into a fist in victory. This time, they reached down and, paws placed along one of the rings, pushed it toward her left. It rotated, the runes slowly sliding out of sequence until the flame atop the squat pillar sputtered and hissed out of existence. "It's off!" they called to Tookumberry, poking her head out from behind the pillar. "Did that work?"
One of the cultists hit the wall behind them head first, the rest of his body following after a moment later as it was chucked by a separate tentacle. "I don't think so, no!" Tookumberry called back, sprinting along the wall in Nutty's direction. He slapped away the tip of a tentacle with his crop, then with the other paw disarmed a cultist that swung at him with a dagger. A quick headbutt to stun, followed with a slap to the face with the crop, sending the white-robed cultist stumbling right into the tendrils of his lord. A few seconds later, Tookumberry was kneeling behind the altar with Nutty, ducking for cover. "Maybe turning it off isn't enough," he conjectured. "Maybe we need to spill the ritual dish." He straightened up and, grasping the two large handles on either side of the massive pot, strained to lift the bubbling mixture off the iron prongs on which it rested.
He'd only just worked it free, lifting it up and readying to turn, when Nutty caught the sight of movement in white behind him. "Took, look out!" she cried, but too late. The Master of the Cult stabbed a wicked-looking paring knife into the adventurer's back, causing him to arch his spine in pain and, in a moment of searing agony, spill the hot cooking oil down his chest. The sound was as sickeningly delicious as the scent. "YOU WILL NOT DEFY OUR LOAAAUAUAUAAAAUAUGH!" the Master bellowed, then screamed, as one of the Lord Below's tentacles wrapped around him and yanked him across the cave. He struggled up until the end, even as the great beast carefully sprinkled him with the excessively large sack of paprika before shoving the struggling cultist into its maw.
Nutty knelt beside the fallen Tookumberry, looking over his injuries. The adventurer groaned, large red burn marks showing across his chest as his fur slid free of the injuries. The pot at least had rolled off to the side, leaving a scattering of fried calamari rings across the scalded agent. "Took," the fennec pleaded, "we have to get up! We need to get to the Harbor and warn the Duchess-"
"No," Tookumberry groaned, gesturing weakly with his paw. "No, we have to kill it here and now, Nutty. If we don't, who knows how many it'll devour." His gaze slid to the brazier, its rings currently out of alignment. "That thing," he managed to ask. "How powerful does it get?"
Nutty looked up at it, assessing the runes. "If I adjust the other four rings," she stated, "then maybe enough to blow a hole in the ceiling. It could collapse the whole cave on us."
"Not on us. On me, and that thing." Took's paw slipped into theirs, squeezing it tightly. His gaze met hers, the sounds of the monster's thrashing falling into the background. "It's been a grand adventure, Nutty," he told them, a glimmer of tears starting to gather in his eyes. "These six years we've been partners have been the best and most interesting of my life. The things we've seen, the threats we've faced down together... I wouldn't trade any of it for the world." He brought his other paw to grasp atop their intertwined pair, holding it tightly. "Go," he beseeched her, longing in his voice. "Don't stay here for me. Go live your life, see it all, be happy. And, when the sea wind caresses your hair, think of me."
Nutty listened, looking deep into his eyes and holding still as he spoke his last wishes for them. She took a breath, looked in his eyes, and stated, their tone clinical, "Okay. Was there anything else, or should I show you how to arm the device?"
Tookumberry blinked, peering at her in confusion. "Um... I've always loved you?" he ventured, trying to think of what else he might need to say. "I never told you, and I'm sorry for that. I know it's a shock-"
"It's not," Nutty confirmed, glancing up at the ceiling to assess its structural integrity. "I'll admit that I didn't really figure it out until every single beast in the department started pointing it out to me, but I've known for at least two years now. You know, I think if we scoot this a few feet toward the center, you'll get a more optimal blast."
"Nutty, please," Tookumberry pleaded, squeezing their paw. "I'm about to die. If there's any last thing you need to tell me-"
"Oh, yes, right," Nutty responded, smacking her head. "We should establish a way to test the existence of spirits. If you do find yourself manifesting as a discrete intelligence, use the ritual board in the third floor break room to communicate your experience back to me. I'll be available on Thursday nights after seven."
"Nutty!" Tookumberry pleaded. "I love you. I can die happy, knowing you love me too."
There was an awkward silence as the monstrosity continued to thrash about behind them. Its tentacles had found the kitchenette and were currently raiding the cabinets, hauling away dried meat and wheels of cheese to slake its unending appetite. "Oh." Nutty's tone, for the first time since Tookumberry first met her, had turned awkward. "Well, Took, you see..."
"You don't love me back." The disappointment and regret was palpable in his voice.
"I definitely feel a sort of platonic affection for you," Nutty pointed out, patting his shoulder appeasingly, "and I'll certainly miss having you around."
"But you don't feel anything more?" There was a last, desperate hope in his voice.
"I mean, often I feel like you're the only beast who understands me," she offered. "You say the phrase 'I don't understand you' forty-eight percent less frequently than everyone else in my life."
Tookumberry groaned, laying his head back. "So, all those times I dated other femmes and you kept getting into verbal sparring matches with them-"
"I was testing to see if they were secretly cultists trying to lure you to your death," Nutty confirmed. "To be fair, five out of six of them actually were, and the other one was the amnesiac manifestation of an Unknown One who nearly devoured your soul. You really do have spectacularly poor judgment in awarding your affections."
"Great. Yeah, thanks. Wonderful thought to hold onto as I face oblivion." He gritted his teeth as he struggled up onto his elbows. "Well, let's do this then, before this death gets any more humiliating."
"Right." Nutty maneuvered four of the rings on the brazier into position, then pointed to the fifth. "You just need to slide this ring to the right, then it will activate the device," she confirmed. "It will take about twenty seconds to fully charge, then it will blow this whole cave to pieces. If you can keep the entity here, distract it maybe, that would guarantee our success."
"Yeah, yeah," Tookumberry groaned, struggling to pull himself to his footpaws by hauling himself up the brazier. "Distract the tentacle monster, got it." He took a deep breath, looking to Nutty with genuine remorse in his eyes. "I'm sorry Nutty. You deserve better from me. Try to remember me as the handsome, heroic todd you knew."
"I'll remember you as one of those three things," Nutty promised. She offered him a pawshake. "Good luck, Took. Don't get devoured on the other side." The pair exchanged one final shake, paws clasped firmly together, before Nutty turned and dashed toward the hidden tunnel leading out of the cave. Behind her she heard the brazier begin to hiss and rattle as it built up pressure, and Tookumberry yelling to distract the monstrosity while his partner got away.
Perhaps, in those final moments, Tookumberry Fones stared down a monstrosity from the unknown depths of the ocean, all steel and grit in the face of his own demise. Perhaps he even charged into the maw of death itself, distracting the beast just long enough to not notice as the brazier reached the point of ignition and exploded in a blast large enough to reduce everything in the cave to cinders and the cave itself to a collapsed pile of rubble. Unfortunately there was no one to witness whatever occurred, so that tale remained untold.
---
Nutty Gowdie sat alone in her office, their quill dripping ink onto a rapidly growing black mark on her barely-touched field report. Their cheek rested on her paw, elbow propped on the desk as they stared morosely at the desk next to her own. Someone had come in and boxed up all of Tookumberry's personal effects before they'd even finished her debriefing with the minister. Everything that had made up Tookumberry Fones was gone, and they found herself upset about that. They'd been rather hoping to use some of his hairs that he'd shed on the desk to test if his spirit could be summoned back from the beyond, but the ministry had wiped those away too. Right now they were probably scrubbing his name out of every record and directory in the few non-classified files that Misanthropy had.
On her way back to their office she'd been called the wrong name four times, nearly stepped on twice, and had a well-meaning colleague remind them that Tookumberry Fones was in love with her, and it was really about time that someone tell them so the pair could stop the will-they-won't-they thing they had going on and just get on with it. When informed that Tookumberry Fones was dead, the colleague's response had been a flat "Oh" before, after a pause, they awkwardly backed away down the hall.
"It's illogical to speak to the dead," Nutty mused aloud, looking toward her former partner's desk, "at least if they can't talk back. It's like talking to a plant - and not one of those sentient plants that begins mind-controlling beasts with its spores and devouring its followers one by one. It would be far more interesting if you could respond, Took." They sighed, glancing down at the ruined sheet, and set down the quill in resignation. "I guess they'll give me a new partner or two soon. Probably they'll want me to train some new hires from off the street. It won't be the same." She looked back toward the one thing left on Tookumberry's desk - a standard spectre-ometer, a steel ball on a wire that dangled from a large hoop on a stand, resting in the middle. It was slightly swaying, back and forth, back and forth. The corner of her mouth twitched as she recalled, "I remember when you stole one of the attraction stones from the vault and used it to mess with everyone's spectre-ometers for a day. You had the whole department scrambling to put together an exorcism before they figured it out."
The fennec sighed and slid off her chair, going over to climb up on Tookumberry's instead. She leaned over his desk and put their paw on the wavering orb, stilling its motion. "Another day, Took," they suggested, her tone surprisingly gentle in contrast to its usual abrasiveness. "Another day we'll talk and catch up, and I'll pepper you with a thousand questions about the world beyond. Today was rough for us; we both lost our partners. Let's take some time to mourn and come back to it later, okay?"
They carefully lifted her paw, and the orb remained still. Nutty slid back down off the chair, slid the ruined report off their own desk and into the waste, and carried the candle from her desk over to the nest they'd made for herself out of books and blankets in the corner. They slipped herself beneath the blankets before glancing one last time across the room at the vacant desk and, in a small, melancholy puff, blew out the candle.
All that night, as Nutty slept, the spectre-ometer gently rocked in time with their breaths.
The circle of beasts, hooded in white robes with matching aprons tied about their waists, stood in a circle about a large rounded pot, nearly a full hemisphere of cast iron three feet across, which sat bubbling and hissing atop a stone brazier carved with strange runes running along five rings that stacked across its height. Smoke rose to the mouth of the seaside cave, pulled out by the negative pressure of the night's sea breeze blowing over the cave entrance. The sloshing of waves, dark and ominous on this moonless night, was the only other sound beyond the chanting and the small pops from the oil as ingredients were thrown into the pot, one after the other.
"Powdered extract of garlic, to ward and bind," the Master of the Cult intoned from beneath his hood.
One of the other cultists tossed in a pinch.
"No no, more than that," the Master advised. "You want about a teaspoon for every pound of - yes, that's better.
"Now, sprig of oregano, to please our Lord Below and add zest to the summoning."
A hiss as the culinary flourish hit the oil.
"Now, crushed and powdered red peppers, sweet and spicy, to invoke the duality of our Lord Below, Bringer of Life and Harbinger of Death."
One of the other cultists spoke up. "Actually, I'm allergic to paprika. Can we do without it?"
Another cut in, his tone disappointed. "Aww, I really like the paprika! It just doesn't have the right kick without it."
The Master's voice rang out, commanding. "We shall make one batch without the paprika, and the next batch with it! Substitute shavings of lemon peel, lightly done - thin, long grating of the peel please, we don't want it to just be a bunch of flakes in there."
The most trusted of the cult obeyed, thin yellow strips falling from The Ceremonial Fruit Peeler That We Sometimes Use For Cheese Too When Alvin's Misplaced The Cheese Grater Again and falling into the pot.
"Now, crumbles of sea salt and mixture of black pepper, essence of sea and land, to bind the two together and draw our Lord Below to us," the Master of the Cult commanded.
The cultists stood there for a space of ten seconds, each peeking at each other from beneath their hoods.
"Oh, come on," the Master of the Cult snapped. "Not again! We can't summon the Lord Below, Bringer of Life and Harbinger of Death, He of the Infinite and Unknowable Depths, Father of Things With Far Too Many Tentacles That Taste Delicious Fried In Oil, without salt and pepper! The taste is all wrong! This is exactly what happened last new moon! Whose turn was it to bring the salt and pepper?"
One of the cultists, a stoat, spoke up defensively. "Ain't me. I brought the paprika. Whole bag a' it goin' to waste," he grumbled, clutching the pouch of far too much paprika to his chest defensively.
"And I brought the calamari again," a marten jill pointed out, her tone a tad petulant. "Why do I have to keep doing that? The stuff's expensive!"
"You're the one who works for Innovation," a ferret jack pointed out. "You're the only one here who can afford it regularly."
"Well, I really think that we should take turns with it! I'm spending a lot more to bring back the Lord Below, Bringer of Life and Harbinger of Death, than any of you lot!"
"I'm the one who keeps shouldering the deposit on the cave," a weasel jack complained. "The landlord didn't give it back to me last week since Bohfum spilled cooking sherry on the rug under the dining table."
"SILENCE!" the Master of the Cult roared. His dark eyes, glinting in the light of the fire reflected beneath his hood, shifted as his gaze trailed over the assembled cultists. "Brother Quipwell and Sister Shortpaw," he demanded, fixing on two robed figures who had remained silent, one unusually tall, the other unusually short. "You were charged with bringing the salt and pepper today. What do you have to say for yourselves? Speak!" he commanded. "Explain why you have failed the Lord Below."
The taller figure reached up and pulled back his hood, exposing the handsome, chiseled jawline, cocky smile, and red-graying-slightly-at-the-edges-to-indicate-emotional-maturity-but-still-youthful-enough-to-appeal-to-a-wide-range-of-femmes fur of a fox whose mere appearance was enough to elicit a gasp from the assembled cultists. "Tookumberry Fones!" the weasel jack exclaimed. The cultists all reached for daggers hidden in their sleeves, fumbling with the safety straps on their concealed sheaths, but the Master of the Cult waved a paw and they paused, awaiting instruction.
"So, Tookumberry Fones," the Master remarked, his tone a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "You dare to venture into the Lair of the Lord Below, disguised as my own beasts. I take it that you brought your diminutive sidekick as well."
"Partner, if you don't mind," the shorter beast piped up, pulling back her own hood. Their head was adorned with massive ears, indicating her fennec heritage. Small pince-nez glasses rested atop their shout, seemingly a formality as she looked up at the cult over the edge of the cooking pot, standing atop a crate for a boost to their height.
"Ah yes, Paphnutia Gowdie," the Master sneered. "She/they of the dark academia. So, the Ministry has dispatched you two to meddle in our affairs once more. Well, I should thank the Duchess then. She has given us two perfect sacrifices to offer up to our Lord Below when he arrives."
"I'm afraid not, old chap," Tookumberry Fones declared, shrugging out of his robes and putting on a stylish wide-brimmed hat slightly beaten at the edges and lightly dusted to imply significant experience in the field. "Without the salt and pepper, I'm afraid your summoning ritual shall remain much like your outfits: tasteless."
There was a murmur of mixed outrage and despair from the cultists, but the Master simply chuckled, a sound of amusement that soon grew into a bellowing guffaw. His cultists nervously laughed along, each clearly trying to seem as if they were in on the joke. "There's no need to fall to hysterics," Nutty Gowdie remarked, raising her eyebrow. They glanced to Tookumberry a bit quizzically. "I didn't think we would achieve total victory so quickly."
"No, Nutty," Tookumberry replied, reaching to his side, where a riding crop hung by a strap at its end from his belt. "That's not a laugh of defeat."
"Indeed it is not, hapless heroes," the Master declared, raising his arms, each shrouded by the long sleeves of his robe. "For you see, I anticipated your interference, and I brought my own shakers of salt and pepper!" His sleeves fell back, revealing two small glass bottles with perforated metal caps at the top, one white, the other a mottled gray. "Now, look on in fear as we complete the ritual and summon the Lord Below!"
"No," Tookumberry gasped, putting his paw out, but it was too late. With a flourish the Master turned his paws and, shaking vigorously, released a small trickle of black flakes and tiny white crystal dust to float down into the oil.
The cave was quiet for a few moments, cultists and crusaders alike holding their breath. The world held in that moment, time slowing down to breathe in the heady atmosphere of dramatic tension and well-seasoned calamari (though it perhaps could have used some paprika).
Then, they heard it.
The deep, gurgling groan echoed through the cave, the sound somehow implying alien depths in its guttural resonance. "You fool," the aghast Tookumberry whispered, looking to the Master. "What have you done?"
The sea entrance of the cave exploded inward, chunks of rock going flying as a mess of massive tentacles, each ridged with numerous grasping suckers, crashed through the space. One cultist was struck and incapacitated by a small chunk that lodged in his skull; another was grabbed by a flailing tentacle and pulled, screaming, toward a toothy maw at the center of the creature. The sounds that next echoed through the cave were best left to the imagination and foley work of a dedicated and innovative sound designer.
"Nutty," Tookumberry yelled, ducking down to avoid another flailing tentacle as the cult all scattered to seek cover, "see if you can turn off the brazier! Maybe that will break the summoning ritual!"
"Already on it!" the fennec hollered back, crouching and examining the numerous esoteric symbols that lined the contraption. She started to push at them experimentally, finding that they did not yield. "It's not working!" they called back to the adventurer as he ran out into the cave, tumbling to avoid one lashing tentacle and swatting at it with his crop.
"Is it Valangrian or Culumbandrian runes?" Tookumberry yelled back, barely dodging to the side as a massive tentacle slammed down in the spot he had just occupied.
"Culumbandrian, I think!" Nutty called back, examining the symbols. "These aren't the ones from Golospatchrian's Lost Primer, though - I think they might be from the Second Pre-Dynasty!"
"Okay," Tookumberry responded, trying to keep his voice calm as he ran toward the far end of the cave, clutching his hat to keep it on his head and occasionally glancing back at the creature that was devouring another cultist, "so then that would mean...?"
Nutty recited a rapid-fire liturgy in a dead tongue to herself under their breath, translating into an even deader tongue, before slapping her forehead. "Which would mean that it's from the Mindarix Heretics! The runes are ideographic, not logographic!" She tried pressing at a few others; to her dismay, they still didn't budge. "I think it's jammed!" she called back.
Tookumberry tripped near the back of the cave, barely rolling over in time to see the tentacle coming. He splayed his legs wide, the tip of the tentacle with a sharp, almost metallic claw atop it striking a mere inch from the seam of his pants running down the crotch. "Maybe it's not sequential," he called back. "What was the creed of the Mindarians again?"
"Mindarixians," Nutty corrected him, one paw gesturing in the air as they poured through the pages of a vast, ancient library stored inside her memory. "'The End and Beginning are found only in the cycle'!" they recalled at last, clutching her paw into a fist in victory. This time, they reached down and, paws placed along one of the rings, pushed it toward her left. It rotated, the runes slowly sliding out of sequence until the flame atop the squat pillar sputtered and hissed out of existence. "It's off!" they called to Tookumberry, poking her head out from behind the pillar. "Did that work?"
One of the cultists hit the wall behind them head first, the rest of his body following after a moment later as it was chucked by a separate tentacle. "I don't think so, no!" Tookumberry called back, sprinting along the wall in Nutty's direction. He slapped away the tip of a tentacle with his crop, then with the other paw disarmed a cultist that swung at him with a dagger. A quick headbutt to stun, followed with a slap to the face with the crop, sending the white-robed cultist stumbling right into the tendrils of his lord. A few seconds later, Tookumberry was kneeling behind the altar with Nutty, ducking for cover. "Maybe turning it off isn't enough," he conjectured. "Maybe we need to spill the ritual dish." He straightened up and, grasping the two large handles on either side of the massive pot, strained to lift the bubbling mixture off the iron prongs on which it rested.
He'd only just worked it free, lifting it up and readying to turn, when Nutty caught the sight of movement in white behind him. "Took, look out!" she cried, but too late. The Master of the Cult stabbed a wicked-looking paring knife into the adventurer's back, causing him to arch his spine in pain and, in a moment of searing agony, spill the hot cooking oil down his chest. The sound was as sickeningly delicious as the scent. "YOU WILL NOT DEFY OUR LOAAAUAUAUAAAAUAUGH!" the Master bellowed, then screamed, as one of the Lord Below's tentacles wrapped around him and yanked him across the cave. He struggled up until the end, even as the great beast carefully sprinkled him with the excessively large sack of paprika before shoving the struggling cultist into its maw.
Nutty knelt beside the fallen Tookumberry, looking over his injuries. The adventurer groaned, large red burn marks showing across his chest as his fur slid free of the injuries. The pot at least had rolled off to the side, leaving a scattering of fried calamari rings across the scalded agent. "Took," the fennec pleaded, "we have to get up! We need to get to the Harbor and warn the Duchess-"
"No," Tookumberry groaned, gesturing weakly with his paw. "No, we have to kill it here and now, Nutty. If we don't, who knows how many it'll devour." His gaze slid to the brazier, its rings currently out of alignment. "That thing," he managed to ask. "How powerful does it get?"
Nutty looked up at it, assessing the runes. "If I adjust the other four rings," she stated, "then maybe enough to blow a hole in the ceiling. It could collapse the whole cave on us."
"Not on us. On me, and that thing." Took's paw slipped into theirs, squeezing it tightly. His gaze met hers, the sounds of the monster's thrashing falling into the background. "It's been a grand adventure, Nutty," he told them, a glimmer of tears starting to gather in his eyes. "These six years we've been partners have been the best and most interesting of my life. The things we've seen, the threats we've faced down together... I wouldn't trade any of it for the world." He brought his other paw to grasp atop their intertwined pair, holding it tightly. "Go," he beseeched her, longing in his voice. "Don't stay here for me. Go live your life, see it all, be happy. And, when the sea wind caresses your hair, think of me."
Nutty listened, looking deep into his eyes and holding still as he spoke his last wishes for them. She took a breath, looked in his eyes, and stated, their tone clinical, "Okay. Was there anything else, or should I show you how to arm the device?"
Tookumberry blinked, peering at her in confusion. "Um... I've always loved you?" he ventured, trying to think of what else he might need to say. "I never told you, and I'm sorry for that. I know it's a shock-"
"It's not," Nutty confirmed, glancing up at the ceiling to assess its structural integrity. "I'll admit that I didn't really figure it out until every single beast in the department started pointing it out to me, but I've known for at least two years now. You know, I think if we scoot this a few feet toward the center, you'll get a more optimal blast."
"Nutty, please," Tookumberry pleaded, squeezing their paw. "I'm about to die. If there's any last thing you need to tell me-"
"Oh, yes, right," Nutty responded, smacking her head. "We should establish a way to test the existence of spirits. If you do find yourself manifesting as a discrete intelligence, use the ritual board in the third floor break room to communicate your experience back to me. I'll be available on Thursday nights after seven."
"Nutty!" Tookumberry pleaded. "I love you. I can die happy, knowing you love me too."
There was an awkward silence as the monstrosity continued to thrash about behind them. Its tentacles had found the kitchenette and were currently raiding the cabinets, hauling away dried meat and wheels of cheese to slake its unending appetite. "Oh." Nutty's tone, for the first time since Tookumberry first met her, had turned awkward. "Well, Took, you see..."
"You don't love me back." The disappointment and regret was palpable in his voice.
"I definitely feel a sort of platonic affection for you," Nutty pointed out, patting his shoulder appeasingly, "and I'll certainly miss having you around."
"But you don't feel anything more?" There was a last, desperate hope in his voice.
"I mean, often I feel like you're the only beast who understands me," she offered. "You say the phrase 'I don't understand you' forty-eight percent less frequently than everyone else in my life."
Tookumberry groaned, laying his head back. "So, all those times I dated other femmes and you kept getting into verbal sparring matches with them-"
"I was testing to see if they were secretly cultists trying to lure you to your death," Nutty confirmed. "To be fair, five out of six of them actually were, and the other one was the amnesiac manifestation of an Unknown One who nearly devoured your soul. You really do have spectacularly poor judgment in awarding your affections."
"Great. Yeah, thanks. Wonderful thought to hold onto as I face oblivion." He gritted his teeth as he struggled up onto his elbows. "Well, let's do this then, before this death gets any more humiliating."
"Right." Nutty maneuvered four of the rings on the brazier into position, then pointed to the fifth. "You just need to slide this ring to the right, then it will activate the device," she confirmed. "It will take about twenty seconds to fully charge, then it will blow this whole cave to pieces. If you can keep the entity here, distract it maybe, that would guarantee our success."
"Yeah, yeah," Tookumberry groaned, struggling to pull himself to his footpaws by hauling himself up the brazier. "Distract the tentacle monster, got it." He took a deep breath, looking to Nutty with genuine remorse in his eyes. "I'm sorry Nutty. You deserve better from me. Try to remember me as the handsome, heroic todd you knew."
"I'll remember you as one of those three things," Nutty promised. She offered him a pawshake. "Good luck, Took. Don't get devoured on the other side." The pair exchanged one final shake, paws clasped firmly together, before Nutty turned and dashed toward the hidden tunnel leading out of the cave. Behind her she heard the brazier begin to hiss and rattle as it built up pressure, and Tookumberry yelling to distract the monstrosity while his partner got away.
Perhaps, in those final moments, Tookumberry Fones stared down a monstrosity from the unknown depths of the ocean, all steel and grit in the face of his own demise. Perhaps he even charged into the maw of death itself, distracting the beast just long enough to not notice as the brazier reached the point of ignition and exploded in a blast large enough to reduce everything in the cave to cinders and the cave itself to a collapsed pile of rubble. Unfortunately there was no one to witness whatever occurred, so that tale remained untold.
---
Nutty Gowdie sat alone in her office, their quill dripping ink onto a rapidly growing black mark on her barely-touched field report. Their cheek rested on her paw, elbow propped on the desk as they stared morosely at the desk next to her own. Someone had come in and boxed up all of Tookumberry's personal effects before they'd even finished her debriefing with the minister. Everything that had made up Tookumberry Fones was gone, and they found herself upset about that. They'd been rather hoping to use some of his hairs that he'd shed on the desk to test if his spirit could be summoned back from the beyond, but the ministry had wiped those away too. Right now they were probably scrubbing his name out of every record and directory in the few non-classified files that Misanthropy had.
On her way back to their office she'd been called the wrong name four times, nearly stepped on twice, and had a well-meaning colleague remind them that Tookumberry Fones was in love with her, and it was really about time that someone tell them so the pair could stop the will-they-won't-they thing they had going on and just get on with it. When informed that Tookumberry Fones was dead, the colleague's response had been a flat "Oh" before, after a pause, they awkwardly backed away down the hall.
"It's illogical to speak to the dead," Nutty mused aloud, looking toward her former partner's desk, "at least if they can't talk back. It's like talking to a plant - and not one of those sentient plants that begins mind-controlling beasts with its spores and devouring its followers one by one. It would be far more interesting if you could respond, Took." They sighed, glancing down at the ruined sheet, and set down the quill in resignation. "I guess they'll give me a new partner or two soon. Probably they'll want me to train some new hires from off the street. It won't be the same." She looked back toward the one thing left on Tookumberry's desk - a standard spectre-ometer, a steel ball on a wire that dangled from a large hoop on a stand, resting in the middle. It was slightly swaying, back and forth, back and forth. The corner of her mouth twitched as she recalled, "I remember when you stole one of the attraction stones from the vault and used it to mess with everyone's spectre-ometers for a day. You had the whole department scrambling to put together an exorcism before they figured it out."
The fennec sighed and slid off her chair, going over to climb up on Tookumberry's instead. She leaned over his desk and put their paw on the wavering orb, stilling its motion. "Another day, Took," they suggested, her tone surprisingly gentle in contrast to its usual abrasiveness. "Another day we'll talk and catch up, and I'll pepper you with a thousand questions about the world beyond. Today was rough for us; we both lost our partners. Let's take some time to mourn and come back to it later, okay?"
They carefully lifted her paw, and the orb remained still. Nutty slid back down off the chair, slid the ruined report off their own desk and into the waste, and carried the candle from her desk over to the nest they'd made for herself out of books and blankets in the corner. They slipped herself beneath the blankets before glancing one last time across the room at the vacant desk and, in a small, melancholy puff, blew out the candle.
All that night, as Nutty slept, the spectre-ometer gently rocked in time with their breaths.
