Chrysalis

Granin was centuries old, in the latter third of his lifespan, by the measure of his people. At this age, he should have been pestering his children for grandkids, a few pebbles he could play with while he wound down his work to something more manageable. Perhaps he would have retired to Emberstone, or Mantle Towers, higher in the Dungeon, where life was a little slower, far from the politics and power struggles that so often plagued his people.

Instead, he was far from home, far from the golgari Empire of Stone, the support of the Shapers Circle, and the oppression of the Warriors Circle. Adrift with only his triad members for support, living in a gigantic Colony of sapient ant monsters and burying himself in research, mapping all new, never before seen evolutionary pathways for insect monsters, documenting mutations and materials seldom explored. As a sideline, he was also hoping to guide and mentor the most promising monster he had ever seen into becoming the twentieth Ancient, completing the circle and fulfilling the millennia-old dream of the cults.

For thousands of years, the various cults had worked towards this goal, working in secret, moving in shadows, furthering their study of monsters, of the Dungeon. They had infiltrated every society on Pangera and counted members of every race amongst their number.

Which made it all the more difficult for Granin to accept what now filled his days.

“Zothoth would kick Arconidem’s backside!”

[He most certainly would not!]

“Why even argue about it? Tarriflyx would eat both of them for breakfast.”

“Oh, them’s fightin’ words!”

“All of you be quiet,” Granin rumbled, glaring at the gathered cultists. Under his withering stare, they reluctantly subsided, but not before slipping some casual elbows and nudges into those sitting next to them. These micro-agressions threatened to kick off the arguments all over again, but he managed to suppress them with an audible growl.

“I will remind the gathered delegates that they are here at the pleasure of the Colony, who have hosted us very generously and openly. Petty fighting and squabbles are the last thing we want them to see, given how well they’ve been treating us.”

There were many downcast, shame-faced members of various cults around the table, avoiding the gaze of the old Shaper.

“Carriflare’s the strongest anyway,” Miriam Roundtree muttered under her breath.

“SHUT IT!” Granin roared before anyone else could reply, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “I will not have us fall into such stupid and trivial arguments. Especially not now. We’ve finally been granted the opportunity to go and see Anthony in person. If the ants realise how foolishly everyone here is behaving, they may well withdraw this opportunity!”

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In truth, Granin and his triad could go and see the big ant whenever they wanted, provided he was willing to talk to them. But this was a different matter entirely, visiting a potential Ancient as a representative of the Worm Cult.

“Well, this is fascinating, certainly,” Dr Melshin remarked. “I am quite eager to speak with someone who claims to have contacted Perrianon directly.”

Although she spoke in a quiet and reserved manner, as she usually did, the heavy breathing and frenzied look in her eyes betrayed her inner feelings on the matter.

[I am certainly eager to make Anthony’s acquaintance once more,] Rassan’tep said evenly. The dignified ka’armodo, at least, was able to maintain the proper decorum. [It would be wonderful to see how they have changed since I last saw them.]

The others expressed similar views, excited to meet a potential Ancient face to face and ask questions to which they might not find answers anywhere else.

“Only five of us are allowed to go,” Granin said flatly, cutting through the chatter. “And I take a slot automatically. That’s not my doing, that’s straight from the Colony.”

Suddenly, there was a deep, profound silence around the table. Delegates of the venerable cults eyed each other with a worrying mix of suspicion and hunger. Before something truly unfortunate could happen, Granin headed off disaster.

“We’ll be drawing lots,” he told them.

“Random chance? That’s absurd. We should be allotted places according to our merits!” Dr Melshin declared.

“And how exactly would you decide the basis for measuring that merit?” Granin inquired dryly.

The esteemed doctor, a professional with years of experience, hesitated. She brought her hands together and folded them in her lap.

“By… which… Ancient is the strongest?” she murmured.

“I will not be drawn into such childish arguments,” Granin refuted. “We’re drawing lots.”

Besides, Yarrum was easily the strongest, in his opinion. The rest of them were just too shortsighted to see it.

In the end, the five delegates were chosen, with much gnashing of teeth and many dissatisfied cultists. Granin was going, of course, but joining him would be Rassan’tep of the Red Truth, Miriam of the Ember Cult, Stormchaser of the Cloud Cult and Samuel of the Hatchet Cult.

“Travelling during a wave is never easy,” he warned them, “but the Colony has ensured our safety as long as we don’t stray from the strict schedule they’ve given us. The situation in the fifth is unstable and anyone who joins me does so at their own risk. Knowing that, does anyone want to give up their spot?”

He didn’t expect any of them to give up and none of them did. For a cultist, a chance to speak to someone so close to the Ancients was worth braving almost any amount of danger.

“We will leave tomorrow, then. While we’re gone, I expect the remaining delegates of the Cults to behave in a manner appropriate to their station.”

He fixed all of them with a glare, and they studiously avoided his gaze, looking up at the ceiling or making an assiduous study of the walls.

Granin sighed. He was too old for this.