Goldeneye doesn’t need a costume for Halloween. If anything, he just needs to wear less of a costume than the gorgeous gryphon he usually manifests as. Shards are not pretty creatures at heart.

This was a horrifically wonderful gift by the delightful 01phoenix01 , who went so deliciously hard on the monstrosity of it. Thank you very very much, I’ve wanted to see Goldeneye as a more monstrous figure for a while.

All the monsters I know are very, very greedy, so if you want to show your appreciation for their stories, I'd be delighted. I have a KoFi here.

Contains: gryphon, griffin, griffon, rat, oral vore, mass vore, multiple prey, monster, horror, lovecraftian, cosmic horror, unwilling, fear

A Clearer Perspective

Some things cannot be comprehended by mortal eyes. The eye is used to seeing in three dimensions, and looking at atoms via radiation in the visible light spectrum. When it encounters something which is none of these, it tries to reinterpret them according to what it knows. In doing so, it fails to perceive the truth, but manages to capture a fraction of it.

The ear is a bit easier. Sound is still sound… mostly. Hortas could hear the monster, dragging its vast misshapen bulk through the dark corridors. A soft, silken squishing, of sheer tonnes of flesh bulging and squirming its way through the confines. At irregular intervals there would be scraping noises as a claw gripped the stone. And throughout it all was the gurgling and groaning, and the chorus of screams and moans and cries, muffled from deep, deep within.

Hortas, who was a handsome rat employed as an attendant to Vesalia’s Treasury, had been lucky. He had only caught glimpses of the monster as it rampaged through the city, cramming clawfuls of people into its gaping maw. The dust from the shattered buildings had hidden most of it. But even those silhouettes had been wrong. He had seen a shape as big as a house, swollen and mishapen, lashing out with claws as large as tree trunks to snatch up another half-dozen screaming victims. But it had felt like an optical illusion. The shape had been… unreal. Like it was simply a hole in the world to a distant land, or a mountain in the exact same shape shrunk and yet made smaller, or a flame which had taken this shape for a brief moment. As he stared at the claw clenching tight around its prey, its surface seemed to shift from scaly skin to become eyes, or mouths, or stars, or crystal, or words. Mercifully one of the other diplomats had pulled him away before he could look closer, but even now, after hours spent cowering in this abandoned mansion, the images gnawed at his memory. No matter how he tried, he could not make sense of them.

Somewhere, the monster roared. The sound was like many, many voices layered over one another, each one whispering a different thing until the end result was an incomprehensible torrent of sound, echoing through the halls of the mansion. Hortas whimpered. He could have sworn he heard voices he knew in there.

Maybe he had. Everyone else was gone. One by one, the abomination had picked them off, chasing them clear across Vesalia. Despite its size and girth it seemed able to move near silently when it wanted to, even smothering the screams of the dozens or hundreds of people trapped within it. Artien and Menri had tried to fight it, and their swords had passed through its flesh like water before it devoured them. Olra had tried to sneak past it, and Hortas had watched as it seized control of her very body and forced her to walk to its maw. Only those who ran survived. So their little group had ran, over and over, shedding people into the ravening maw with each flight, until no-one was left but him.

The distant scraping was getting closer, and he could hear a deep, husky breathing now, as of many huge lungs working only slightly in unison. He swallowed, leaning against the pillar. There was an archway twenty feet away. He could make it before the enormous thing reached him, but it would still see him. And over long distances, it was much, much faster than its bulk would suggest.

He took a deep breath, daring to squeeze his slender muzzle around the pillar and take a peek. Sure enough, there it was, nearly a hundred feet away between two collapsed pillars. The silvery furry flanks were swollen and bloated, and a slender neck was raised into the air, wafting as if on an intangible wind. Its mismatched eyes hadn’t seen him. They were like gelatinous lanterns, one gold as a summer evening’s light, the other so intensely purple that he could tell it was a colour his eyes shouldn’t have been able to perceive, and the bright beam of their gaze was sweeping slowly around the ruined mansion. It knew he was here, but it didn’t seem to know where.That wouldn’t matter.

It growled wet and guttural, the sound undulating unpleasantly, almost seeming like speech, or an attempt at it. The tone sounded… thoughtful. Playful, even. Was it talking? Could it talk? The idea that it might have had some form of intelligence beyond just animalistic greed was… terrifying. Hortas shuddered at the thought, quickly drawing his head back behind the cover. He couldn’t risk running now. A distraction. That was what he needed. That was what his life depended on. Vesalians didn’t hold stock in gods or luck. They were realists. But right now all he could do was plead with the universe.

Please. Please, if there is anything out there, give me this kindness.

They did. He wished they hadn’t. A pretty gazelle exploded suddenly from the rubble to the monster’s right. She must have been hiding under the stones all this time. He didn’t know why her nerve had broken. Perhaps she thought it had seen her. Perhaps the terror had just grown too great. The beast roared in delight with many tongues, lumbering after her as she bolted towards the door behind them. Hortas waited as long as he dared, hearing her footsteps and the unholy squishing of the monster’s bulk grow more and more distant. Then he scrambled forwards, towards the archway.

Now there was a corridor. Hortas scurried down it, his heart thundering almost loud enough to drown out the sounds behind him. The gazelle screamed, long and desperate, until it was cut short by a wet, obscene gulping sound. Hortas flinched, trying not to think about it. He had heard it before. But at least he would be able to escape this time. The monster was occupied with its prey. He would be able to make it out of the mansion, maybe towards the next district. If he could get out of the city he might be able to flee into the lakes of Vesalia, where it surely wouldn’t pursue. He could survive this. He would survive this.

It was waiting for him when he turned the corner.

It filled the world, an avalanche of feathered flesh and looming weight. Its gut dragged along the walls to either side. Its blazing eyes bored into him, malign and greedy and laughing. Its beak yawned open, and somehow he could see arms stretching out from within alongside multiple tongues, the desperate essences of those damned to its churning belly squirming in vain for an escape. Hortas fell back, trying to scramble away, but a vast claw was already reaching for him, hooked and greedy, and the beast’s gaze lavished his soul with violating insane obsessive attention and said:

“Sir, you’re going to be late.”

Hortas jerked awake, spasming with fear. Desert sunlight was blasting through the window and onto his face. He had tangled his sheets into a sweaty knot around his body, and he almost fell out of bed as he tried to wriggle free of them. His aide, a tall camel named Pasian, politely averted his eyes as he tried to cover himself.

“Oh… It was…bloody waters, it felt so real…”

“Trouble sleeping, sir? It is hotter here.”

“No, it…” he shivered. “I had a dream, that’s all.”

“Ah.” Pasian nodded as he stood up, presenting him with his formal clothes. “Mine were a little strange too. I suppose everyone’s been getting stressed over the journey. But we’re here now. Things will be easier once you get started on the negotiations.”

“I… I suppose so. Gods, I better not dream like that again.”

“Just one God now, sir,” Pasia said, studiously looking out of the window. “And you’re supposed to be meeting him in an hour.”

Hortas nodded gloomily and pulled the silken robe over his head, trying to wipe his mind clean of the dreadful images as he did so. He had felt the heat of that gaze. He had remembered fleeing it for weeks. How could his mind have conjured up the awful sounds of it?

Then again, there were some inconsistencies. He wasn’t some minor attendant to the diplomatic staff, he was the appointed Ambassador to Seraphia. He had never seen that courtyard before, not met the gazelle. If they were products of his imagination, so was the impossible beast which had ruined and devoured them.

Besides, Pasian wasn’t wrong. Everyone in the delegation was nervous. They were here to officially make Vesalia a vassal of the Seraphian empire, something no other city had done. Giving up their autonomy to a country whose capital lay more than a thousand miles away, so far that it had taken them two months to travel here across ocean, forest and desert. It would have been unthinkable a few decades ago.

But now it was that or be conquered. Or worse. Vesalians prided themselves on their realistic outlook on the world, with none of the arrogance or blind optimism of other cities and they knew when they were outmatched.

Perhaps that was who the monster was meant to be: his subconscious perception of Seraphia’s impossible Emperor. Hortas vaguely recalled a description of the alien god-creature as having different coloured eyes, though he couldn’t remember what colour they were meant to be. The beast in his dream had been avian-esque, in a twisted, hideous sort of way.

Best not to think about it.

He dressed quickly, and joined the rest of the delegation downstairs. Judging from their morose expressions, their dreams had not been much friendlier. Technically the signing was only a formality - the Queen of Vesalia had already ratified the treaty back at home - but that didn’t make this feel less like a defeat.

After some small talk over a breakfast of Vesalian pastries and Seraphian milk tea, they left, passing through the roaring bustle of the city streets. Seraphia was thronged with citizens from across its empire, cultures merging and swirling around them. Travellers from of Bas-urn carried jars of spices towards on their backs, weaving around dancers from the Sunset Forest trying to scrounge a few coins while merchants from Teazmornen set out stalls of glistening trinkets from their volcanic forges. The burst of languages overwhelmed their little group. In a way, the continent was more peaceful and prosperous than it had ever been now that most nations were ruled by Seraphia, allowing the disparate nations to come together, explore their neighbours’ ways of life, and try to squeeze as much money as possible from each other. Right here, however, it felt just as chaotic as the past thousand years of war, only more economical in nature.

In the midst of this ocean of sound, the delegation from Vesalia was an island of nervous silence. They struggled through the massed streets towards the enormous, beautiful shape of the Imperial palace, a structure of dozens of towers of sandy stone strung with exquisite walkways. No-one seemed to pay them much attention, at least not until Hortas realised with a start that they had acquired an escort. Without warning, the delegation had been surrounded by half a dozen tall, heavily armoured figures, each holding a massive halberd. Not an inch of fur or feathers could be seen beneath their ornate bronze plate, and they moved so silently that he almost thought they were a hallucination. Before them, the crowd parted like water.

“The Immortals,” Hortas whispered. Pasian nodded, walking a little closer to him. They were the emperor’s personal guard, utterly loyal and utterly silent. Vesalia’s spies had never even managed to establish what they looked like under their armour. They almost seemed like automatons of myth as they steered the small group into the shadow of the palace.

There was no moat, no drawbridge. The doors, as tall as trees, were wide open, allowing functionaries and officials of all ranks to bustle in and out. A dozen more Immortals flanked the opening on each side, but Hortas didn’t see them stop or even speak to anyone. The security of this place seemed nonexistent.

Of course, if half of the stories about the Emperor were true, it wouldn’t be needed.

He remembered the report from their intelligence division. The Emperor does truly devour his citizens, consuming between half a dozen to hundreds every day, but usually his pool of prey is limited to those who he feels his empire can afford to lose. Palace slaves are especially at risk, and he is fond of choosing members of the population seemingly at random to ensure none feel safe. The important thing for visitors to know is that high ranking members of his court and foreign nationals are rarelychosen as prey, unless he feels they need to be made an example of, or unless he finds them especially “delicious” looking.

Rarely. It was not comforting reading.

Hortas shivered, trying to make himself smaller. Their group passed through the gates without stopping, the Immortals shepherding them into the enormous, beautiful entrance hall. Pillars thick as redwoods held up a ceiling even higher than the doors had been, adorned with murals of the ever-growing empire, and in the centre, an image of a fiery meteor streaking down towards them. Everywhere was wealth and opulence.

“At least our taxes will be put to good use,” said Verle sourly. She was a mynah bird and the treasury representative. The others shushed her quickly, but the Immortals didn’t seem to notice. They were already departing, walking away as silently as they had arrived. Hortas squinted at them as they want, trying to spot some gap in the armour, some hint that there was flesh and blood under there. He found none.

There was an awkward silence in the small group for a while. The officials trotting past took no notice of them. Hortas scratched his ears nervously. Pascian was using his height to look around for some sort of desk.

“This is an outrage,” Verle said, voice simmering with anger. “Just being left to wait like common servants. We deserve to be treated better. Vesalia deserves to be treated better.”

“Then go complain,” Hortas snapped, his own nervousness getting the better of him. He was still thinking about that dream. The bird bristled.

“To who? The Emperor? I might at this ra-”

“Good morning, esteemed delegates of Vesalia. I’m delighted to meet you all.”

The room was huge and open. They were all looking around. It should have been impossible for anyone to sneak up on them, let alone something as colossal as this creature. And yet he was simply there, where nothing had been seconds before. His Imperial Divinity Goldeneye the First and Eternal really was as big as the stories said he was. And even more sublimely gorgeous. He towered over them, easily twice Pascian’s height, his body heavy and powerful and more than a little padded. His stomach hung soft and rounded between his legs. Blue wings wider than a street slowly folded themselves along his side as he looked down, his huge eyes glittering pleasantly beneath an elegant bronze wreath. One was purple and one was gold, and both were double-ringed.

The sight was stunning, beautiful, and terrifying. There was an unreal sort of perfection to him, as though he had crafted his whole body as much as his pose to create the greatest impression. Verle fell over, squawking in surprise. Pascian tried to hide behind Hortas. Hortas himself just froze, staring at that golden gaze. The eyes… one purple, one gold. His dream…

Emperor Goldeneye chuckled. His voice was deep and luxuriant. “I am sorry. I was a little late for our appointment, just finishing breakfast, and I might have rushed a little to get to you. Thank you kindly for coming.”

Their spies had been clear: yes, he really did eat people. Which meant that breakfast was probably…

As one, the little group stared at the bloated, soft swell of the gryphon’s gut. Goldeneye waited, smiling pleasantly. Hortas was the first to snap out of the terrified trance, managing to squash his roiling thoughts by slipping into his rehearsed speech. “Your Majesty, we are honoured to meet with y-you today. The bond formed between our two nations promises prosperity and p-peace between us both, and our cultures will-”

“Oh, Hortas. Very sweet of you, but let’s not do that here. I have a proper place for diplomatic conferences. Could you follow?”

He knew Hortas’ name. Hortas didn’t have time to consider that before Goldeneye smiled and turned, padding swiftly down one of the innumerable corridors leading out of the hall. Hortas obeyed without thinking, and the others clustered behind him. Goldeneye moved with a sultry, silken grace, his hips swaying elegantly with each step. Breakfast must have been considerable, from the way his gut sagged and sloshed… and it had not been the only meal which had gone well. The emperor’s rump was thick enough that he would have had trouble with most doors back in Rasalia, and it wobbled almost hypnotically as his long, leonine tail twirled behind him. That was people. There were people inside that churning belly. There were people on those heavy hips. Thousands of them.

Hortas didn’t realise he had been staring at the gryphon’s vast haunches until Goldeneye paused and looked back at him, smiling knowingly. He hurriedly switched his gaze to examine a statue in a nearby alcove, being cleaned by a pair of some small species he didn’t recognise, both in pale purple loincloths which left very little to the imagination.

“I’m aware you were expecting some functionaries to deal with this, but I thought it was only fair I meet you in person. It’s not every day someone new joins my Empire, after all.” Goldeneye's tail curled lazily. “I am only sorry I couldn’t meet your Senate in person. I’d like to come and visit Vesalia sometime. Perhaps we can organise a visit.”

“We, um, we would be delighted,” Hortas lied. “Vesalia has a rich and complex culture, and I think this would be a w-wondrous opportunity to share it with our new f-friends in Seraphia.”

“Yes. Your festivals, your artistic movements, your cuisine…” the Emperor paused, sighing deeply. His stomach gurgled. Hortas felt himself going cold.

“Um… I… the… I kn-know there are some Vesalian restaurants here in Seraphia. Have you tried a Pala’cain stew? Or shrimp and water chestnuts in orange sau-”

“I wasn’t talking about your food, Hortas dear,” Goldeneye purred. “And I wasn’t talking about eating here in Seraphia.”

He reached a vast, elegantly engraved set of doors, and motioned them to enter first. Hesitantly, Hortas touched the handle, and found it swung open as if by magic. Behind was a large courtyard, with sweeping pillars surrounding the edges. The architecture was in the Vesalian style. It was not broken and shattered, but it was exactly, exactly, what Hortas had seen in his dream.

The other diplomats seemed to freeze, just as he did. Pascian gasped. Verle made a small chirping noise.

The enormous gryphon loomed behind them, smiling down. His heavy feathery body was close enough to feel the heat. “Vesalia will not be made a vassal of Seraphia. While you were on the long journey here, I decided to pay your home city a visit. You’re the first civilisation to offer yourself as vassals to me, rather than try to resist being conquered. That’s refreshing. No false bravado, no hope for triumphing over me. You had that perspective which so few have; you could see Seraphia as it really was: a gluttonous monster which couldn’t be fought. I wanted to know just how scared of me you really were.”

He reached down, a massive claw stroking Hortas’ face. It was so gentle and so irresistibly strong.

“And you were all, so, so deliciously terrified. But the more fear I feed on, the more I want.” He slammed his claw down on the ground as Verle tried to flee to the side, and she screamed, flinching back into line.

“You… what did you d-do?” Hortas whispered.

“I sampled the “cuisine”. Every last one.” Goldeneye’s stomach gurgled, wet and monstrous. Hortas felt his mouth moving, with no words coming out. Pascian gave a weak snort.

“That’s not-”

“It took you two and a half months to get here, Pascian dear. I had plenty of time. Thousands of them, squirming and fighting and hiding. All knowing how helpless they were, how doomed, how delicious. So naturally… I let myself relax a little bit.”

The avian claw in front of Hortas eyes creaked, beginning to stretch and distort. “It r-really was you,” he whispered.

“Oh yes. Did you like the monster, Hortas? It’s more me that the pretty gryphon is. I made this body, and usually I make it gorgeous, to entice and addict. But I like terror too.” Goldeneye’s voice thickened and gurgled as his body began to change, and the group of diplomats began to back away, into the Courtyard. Pascian grabbed for Hortas’ hand. “And I haven’t finished my Vesalian meal yet, little ones.”

The gryphon’s body swelled and rippled, his bones crunching into elongated forms. His eyes turned to simmering hellish lanterns, and his belly bloated and swelled with thousands of liquefied Vesalian citizens. His body bulged in dimensions which mortal minds could not fathom, and when he roared, it was with harmonics which the ears could not hear, but which split the sou with terror.

Hortas and the others began to scream, and the Shard began to hunt.

Vesalia never became a vassal of the Seraphian empire. When a very brave historian asked the Emperor for his perspective of the matter, many years later, he commented, “I enjoyed their clear perspective and understanding of the world. Though we only interacted briefly, I felt they came to know me better than most. ”

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