The Brie-hemoth Stirs

They stood at the edge of the orchard, the breeze pushing faint scents of smoked cheddar, mildew, and fermented fruit into their faces. Sunlight filtered through the boughs in dappled patches, animals beginning to flock to the streaks of goop left behind from Fon-Doom. 

"This is starting to feel like a horror story with lunch ingredients." Willow muttered, stepping over a slick smear that stretched toward the inner grove. 

Gus didn't answer. He was already cracking his knuckles, eyes narrowed ahead. "If I see it, I'm clocking it hard." 

Late-Afternoon – The Orchard 

As they traversed through the wreckage left behind, they began to close in on the beast. The closer they approached, the more sounds they could hear coming from wherever it was. It sounded like a lava pit bubbling and churning, or like a pot of very thick soup. 

A low plopping sound echoed ahead, followed by something wet dragging across bark and grass. The air grew warmer, heavy with the pungent blend of heated dairy goods. As they entered a clearing, they could spot Fon-Doom squelched in the center like a fallen god of dairy. 

Towering over the grass, it was a seething mass of bubbling cheese that greeted our quartet of heroes. Hunks of rind that hardened from the cool air sloughed off its sides, only to melt again into its molten body. The thing pulsed in slow waves like it was breathing, or perhaps gasping for air. It shivered, and a glob of brie-colored sludge plopped onto the grass with a wet slap. 

No one spoke at first. 

Fon-Doom twitched. 

Bartholomew was the first to break the silence. 

"He's... grown." He said, tears starting to well up in his eyes. He looked like a father proud of his child, or in this case, creation. 

Willow took a single step away from him. "You're crying." 

"My boy is all grown up." He said, wiping the tears away now. 

Gus exhaled hard through his nose. "I'm going in." 

"NOT YET—" Willow started, though it was too late. 

Gus cracked his knuckles one more time, slow and deliberate. His shoulders rolled back like a prizefighter entering the ring, each step heavy with purpose. 

The orchard floor seemed to thud beneath him, the leaves trembling with each impact of his boots. Sunlight gleamed off the sweat at his temples, painting him in gold like some old-world mural of a champion rising from the commonfolk. 

He gave his nose a sharp swipe with his thumb, the way he always did before a hit, and bounced once on the balls of his feet. He shifted between them at astounding speed, which was surprising given his ginormous stature. It was like watching a mountain wind up for a battle of brute strength. 

Muscles flexed beneath his shirt like ropes pulled tight, causing his shirt to accentuate every detail like a marble statue. He shifted his weight forward, fists raised in a street-boxer's guard as he approached like the king of the ring. Every inch of him spoke the same language: he had never lost. 

Fon-Doom paid no attention to the people behind him, only turning enough to look at a new path to take. Gus closed the distance in three leaping strides, planting his heel and preparing a might right hook. His fist collided with the surface of the cheese monstrosity in a wet, rubbery thwunk. 

For a brief, glorious moment, it looked like impact alone might solve everything. A shockwave rippled through Fon-Doom's body, sending a wave of melted dairy splashing outward. 

Then his arm sunk into the blob. 

Up to the elbow. 

Gus's expression twisted from triumphant to betrayed in a matter of seconds. "Oh no," he muttered, trying to yank himself free. He started to put his legs on it and push off like a leg press, but the gloopy mass named Fon-Doom was just too much. 

His arm would not come out. 

Willow didn't waste time. 

Her eyes narrowed, and her body shifted in a smooth, predatory motion. One arm twisted mid-air, tendons stretching, skin pulling back as it morphed into a sleek, serrated, mantis-like blade. It glinted with the cold clarity of something not entirely human. 

She moved with a fluid grace, silent but deadly. Her feet barely stirred the grass as she dashed sideways, then forward, angling herself like a scythe in motion. She was but a blur of ginger hair and glinted silver as she moved in. 

Her blade arm carved a wide arc, slashing clean through a thick fold of Fon-Doom's side, right above where Gus's arm was stuck. Chunks of semi-solid cheddar flopped to the ground with a wet splap, but it began to reabsorb that which she just slashed off. 

Willow skidded back, eyes narrowing. "It's no use, this thing can regenerate too." 

Before anyone could answer, a sudden war cry rang out. 

"FOR THE ORDER OF THE WHEELBARROW!" 

Bartholomew barreled past them, legs pumping like a man half his age. 

His coat flared behind him like the cape of a war general who lead the charge into battle. His arms swung wide with each sprinting stride, one hand gripping a spoon he'd snatched from who-knows-where as he leapt from the ground. 

He ran with the chaotic velocity of an unstoppable force, madness ever apparent in his eyes. He tore through the air like an arrow plucked from a bow, head pointed like a spear. 

Bartholomew collided with Fon-Doom in a glorious, custard-thick explosion of cheese and steam. 

He went clean through. 

Steam hissed where Bartholomew had flown through. Fon-Doom quivered, its entire body convulsing like a pot about to boil over as it weathered the impact of a giant spear that had torn a hole in its body. A wet, gurgling sound followed. 

The hole quickly reformed. 

Bartholomew lay sprawled in the grass several paces behind the creature, coated in goo and dazed but grinning wildly. "Direct hit..." he mumbled to no one in particular. 

He lifted a trembling thumbs-up, still on his back. "Tactical penetration." 

Fon-Doom rumbled again, the gurgling rising to a boil. The gap in its middle had already sealed, the molten surface smoothing over like nothing had happened. 

Gus let out a long breath. "Okay. Hitting it doesn't work, cutting it doesn't work, and jumping through it… surprisingly… also doesn't work. What CAN we do?" 

Willow's blade arm receded slowly, folding back into skin with a faint shimmer. "We're running out of time, we have to do something." 

Joren stood still, watching the creature re-form, the folds of melted rind sealing like stitched flesh. The others argued about what could possibly work to destroy this creature. The heat rising from Fon-Doom blurred the edges of the orchard. The haze reminded him of the cave, of the portrait. 

He wasn't there anymore. 

The stone walls hummed as dust floated like stars in the air. The Supernova Portrait pulsed on the cavern wall, filled with the beautifully haunting colors of a star reaching the end of its life, yet if felt alive in its silence. 

It hadn't spoken in words to Joren, it never did, but the message had been clear. 

Until you choose who you are willing to become, you cannot wield this power fully. 

Back in the forest between Glazebend and Duskfen, Joren came face to face with the greatest reason to hide what he was becoming. 

It was supposed to be a quiet evening. 

He remembered the chill that crawled up his spine as the man stepped through the trees, how every part of him had screamed to vanish. The memory still echoed in his bones. 

That moment the man's eyes lost its glimmer. 

The blood on his hands. 

The heat of the orchard pressed back in. 

Joren blinked. The shimmer of the cavern vanished, the memory he wanted to forget replaced by the warped light rising off Fon-Doom's churning form. 

They were waiting for a plan. 

Waiting for him. 

Joren stepped forward. 

"I think I have an idea that just might work."