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The Watcher names herself after she has climbed the Spire enough times to recognize its heartbeat from three floors below. She is not completely blind, neither in the literal nor divine sense. She can make out blurry shapes, hints of color surrounded by jet black periphery, enough to make out the difference between a large ornate orange treasure chest and a small blue one. Usually, though, when she is calm enough, she opts to feel out its edges.
Regarding divinity, she has the best vision of anyone she has ever known. Not many people, given the secluded nature of a monastery, but she has had enough conversations to know that most people cannot see the aura of sentience in front of them, the gentle glow of a creature’s companionship or crushing waves of murderous intent. Not many can tell when a god is trying to unlock the potential of one’s rage or peace. Even less can tell a god that this is the right time for that power, and unleash it.
The Watcher was chosen to evaluate, to explore, to watch the Spire, however much violence it would require. It is more than she imagined. The Spire’s core pulses with a constant need to rule, to destroy any threat. Every corridor is filled with things intent on fighting, no matter how much she tries to talk to them. A few will flee or dissipate when their leader dies in panicked bursts, and she is always thankful. Most just ready to attack in predictable patterns.
Despite learning these patterns, sometimes her peace is unfounded. Sometimes she cannot regain her energy, finds her rage ill-timed, ends up waking up to fight again with nothing in her possession but her skills.
She always wakes with a hazy memory, hearing the noisy breaths of the whale of the Spire. It makes the noise of creaking furniture that has existed for much too long. It takes effort for it to offer gifts when she wakes, but it always does. She is never sure whether its wheeze is a strained cough or laugh.
The whale is always there to greet her, and so are others. The chuckle of the merchant when she runs her hands over his good and pulls out an exorbitant amount for a feather or sculpture. He seems to be in many places at once, always faster than her–and it’s not just a doppelgänger of sound. The cheerful greediness of his mind always feels like large soap bubbles.
The most interesting ones are other climbers. The Watcher first notices when a fierce metallic clanking follows her through multiple fights. When it gets closer, she hears yelling, noise of brash combat. His energy is dark, almost demonic, yet always directed towards auras she has fought before.
She is at a rest spot when he approaches. This is a good a time as any to see what he wants, she is fully rested and his leg clanks as he drags it. He does not have any violent intent, but there is something unnatural about the way he moves. From his unnatural gait to the swing of his arms, he moves like a man possessed by a spirit, even though his fights are certainly physical. She readies her staff.
They stand near each other for a second. She suspects he is looking her up and down. From what her peers have told her, he will probably underestimate a thin woman in an oversized robe.
“You don’t seem like a monster, there’s not supposed to be any monsters at these quiet places, so you are…” He trails off.
No one has talked directly to her since she arrived, excluding the wheeze of the whale. She startles, clears her throat.
“I do not wish to hurt you. If you can say the same for me,” she replies.
He chuckles a little, surprised. “Fancy words, but I get it. No fighting.” He groans, sits down on a log. “How’d you get all the way up here with no gear?”
“I climbed.” She does not voice her own similar queries: how could one get up here without a god to guide them? How could the protection of heavy armor outweigh its constant grating noise?
“Fair enough.” She is glad he does not pry. His items are noisier than he is–no, he now snores. She quickly exits the chamber. The ironclad man is respectable, but someone she would not like to work with.
The next climber she meets is the opposite. Except for the slight clink of tiny knives and the swish of a cloak, she barely hears her at all. They only come face to face at one of the merchant’s stands: she is about to leave, when the merchant yells, “Ho-ho! You’re back! Stay a while, and listen. Nice hair!”
A giant crash, and he’s pulling out a different rug full of items. The woman, suddenly much nearer than the Watcher would prefer, just sighs. She taps a small knife near the items, muffled by the rug, then leaves just as quickly as she arrived. She feels like a razor-sharp breeze when she passes, although directed forward.
Evaluation is the Watcher’s job. She uses this to justify ducking behind a wall as the silent woman walks out into an infested clearing. Her boots squish on mushrooms that the Watcher has learned through trial and error are poisonous. Poison is the Watcher’s least favorite tool: she can rarely gauge its effects accurately, especially with herself. Its only signifier is akin to the spirit of a snake: coiled tight and green around its target, yet difficult to notice. Emotions and her fists are much simpler.
The stranger would probably disagree. She dances through the battlefield, dashes of tight green latching on to her enemies. They crumple, unprepared. She dashes further into the Spire without a word, and the Watcher decides she should do the same.
The last climber of the Spire is someone she almost attacks upon first meeting. Tinges of tan and light blue mark what she suspects is an automaton or sentry. The electric hum is somewhat familiar, but the intention of the being is not. Automatons are lifeless: preprogrammed to destroy with no original thought.
But this one is defective. Possibly for the better. Her instincts tell her to charge, but she holds herself back. It clanks, tiny pieces of metal hitting each other and whirring. Trying to mime something? She cannot know the specifics, but she feels curiosity and determination in front of her.
She points to her eyes and holds out her staff in a show of peace. In response, footsteps, and metal scraping something hard. The wall, possibly. It presses something into her hand, covered in bits of rock.
A clawed glove: strangely designed. Its hands were much different than her own. Still, the figure had given her a weapon, and was now walking away.
She calls out her thanks. Even if it does not understand, this type of defect is hope for the Spire. Glimmers of original thought, let alone ones of compassion, were rare in her past runs. If its technology can evolve into this, then perhaps she can evaluate the Spire as better, and know it is the truth.
Rarely, she does everything to the best of her ability and the Spire cooperates. Monsters fall beneath her staff. Her cloak fills with treasures pilfered from their remains. She faces the very core of the living tower. Its beat is so loud, so powerful, every action hurts to carry out. Still, she is here to learn.
There is one memory that always slips through her grasp like a breeze. She faces the Heart, sure of her defeat, even though her grip shakes with anger–because she has shook with anger, she has left herself open and tired. She curls her arms into her sides, waiting for the worst of it to end. Under her fingertips rest thin metal armor and thorns she has attached to her cloak. Yet when the Heart beats, it pauses, flinches like a ragged breath.
Silence. The Watcher freezes. Has it wounded itself? Collapsed? Given up?
An explosion knocks the thoughts out of mind and her into a wall. She coughs, feels blood cover her chest and many fractures beneath. No matter. There is nothing alive in front of her anymore. This is the limit of what she has been sent to discover.
A god, her favorite, congratulates her by lifting her up, up, up, until she is finally out of the accursed vessel. Her fights, her struggles to survive are now beneath. She plunges her staff below into what is left. A warmth expands, all the violence and questionable attempts at life released from the Spire. She grins and lets the warmth envelop her.
Yet she wakes facing the gigantic whale. Its eyes glow slightly brighter. It offers the same gifts. Confused, she takes one without thinking, determined to climb again, see if her vision of destruction really did nothing. She bypasses worms and rats she has seen before without thinking. And yet, they seem more destructive. Is it all a farce?
She ascends. Finds creatures she thought she was used to attack with more vengeance, finds herself weaker at the end of each battle. Wakes after she bleeds out on the Guardian’s thorns. The whale’s eyes betray nothing.
The Watcher and her god have relished their supposed victory. But her job is not done. There is more to discover, to understand. Even if the Spire sleeps, she will not.