Such a shame to see a grown battlemage cry.
Even more a shame the locals made damn sure to ignore any strange noises coming from a battlemages home. Any sounds of screams or struggles would be disregarded. After all, no one wants to be paying too much attention to the business of the secret police.
Life as a scryer was far from easy. Many thought they had the easiest of all the battlemages, as opposed to those in the field, but as traumatic as combat was, they were still the ones with advanced armour and powerful magic on their side. A scryer, was asked to perform detailed scrutinies of things no mortal should ever have to see.
Perhaps asked would be the wrong word.
One would have to wonder what the scryer saw to affect him so profoundly. What he saw was the future.
A dark future.
"Once, I fought in a war." The voice booming, gutteral, vengeful to the ear. "I was a good soldier. I fought for my homeland. I fought well. I fought hard. I shed blood for them. I shed blood!" At once, the voice filled with a bizarre mix of triumph and rage, like the memory of savage fury and the most glorious satation. "We fought for them like no others. We killed their enemies by the score! No one else in that city can say they matched our sacrifice! No one else can say they matched our success! We were champions!"
"We were the best." Stated quietly, harshly, almost a whisper like fibers on a blade edge. "We kept her army loyal. There were dissenters. We dealt with them." A crooked grin spread under his masked helm, hinting at his chosen method. "We made examples. The word 'broken' would be too delicate for what happened to the ringleaders."
The grin grew wider. "My name is Krevster and I am a torturer. Please place your hands down on the table."
Promise of Suffering
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Shadowsong
- Citizen
- Posts: 193
- Joined: Sun May 14, 2006 3:28 am
- Race: Human
Promise of Suffering
If violence is not the answer, you have asked me the wrong question.
Re: Promise of Suffering
Time passed and time passed and the god paid no heed. She drifted and wafted place to place, following the currents of wind which passed through her, twirling without form or composure. She had no physical form to call home and passed over the many human bodies she saw; she could not inhabit them uninvited. She could only cling to the pieces of herself which flowed through the breezes.
She worked hard to retain all of her memories, but the expanse was too vast and spread over too wide of an area. In all her long years she had never experienced the total abandonment of a body to center her focus on, to house the memories she had no need of. When the cloud that she had become thickened, she felt a sense of annoyance towards the experience; when it dissipated she instead focused on keeping her edges trimmed, letting as few memories as possible slip and drift away in the currents which carried her.
When she was thicker, she thought she was doing a good job of it.
Sometimes there was no wind at all, and she didn't have to work to keep herself in one relative piece. On these days she would settle somewhere to rest herself, perhaps along blades of grass or within the bark of a tree. She enjoyed living inside of plants when she could; she enjoyed their internal processes, feeling the sunlight break against her and morph into pure energy. She couldn't touch this energy for she had nowhere to store it; the power and memories she wielded were already too bulky for her to keep track of. But she enjoyed plants nonetheless and stretched her ethereal limbs within them.
She was starting to become impatient. She didn't know how long it had been and only remembered her anger when more composed, but she remembered that she was waiting on something and this something had yet to happen. Something involving a priest who had called her. She was connected to him and felt the bond within more recent memories, but without a physical body she couldn't truly focus upon it.
Unless he thought of her. Which he did often enough. She could hear the thoughts in broken bits and pieces. These gave her more focus, something physical to latch onto when all else failed, when the wind gusted and threatened to blow her apart.
The priest was recent and so this memory drew the most attention; the conversation, the sacrifice, the body on the slab and a warrior. A warrior who was not the priest but drew the priest's attention. She had scryed this warrior for her priest; she wondered who he was. She wondered why the priest cared. And so she used what she could see of the warrior in her scattered memories to seek him out.
It was easy because she was a god; it was impossible because she could not focus. But she tugged at the memory until his face was all she could see, and searched. She drifted over the land, seeking out the crypt. The cavern. The worm's corpse. She visited the rotting flesh so far below; she laid atop the warrior's blood. And though she couldn't absorb it, she could come to know the intricacies of him. The spark that separated this warrior from all others. The patterns within his cells which made him unique.
This is how she came to know him. With this knowledge imprinted upon the memories closest to her, she began her search.
She worked hard to retain all of her memories, but the expanse was too vast and spread over too wide of an area. In all her long years she had never experienced the total abandonment of a body to center her focus on, to house the memories she had no need of. When the cloud that she had become thickened, she felt a sense of annoyance towards the experience; when it dissipated she instead focused on keeping her edges trimmed, letting as few memories as possible slip and drift away in the currents which carried her.
When she was thicker, she thought she was doing a good job of it.
Sometimes there was no wind at all, and she didn't have to work to keep herself in one relative piece. On these days she would settle somewhere to rest herself, perhaps along blades of grass or within the bark of a tree. She enjoyed living inside of plants when she could; she enjoyed their internal processes, feeling the sunlight break against her and morph into pure energy. She couldn't touch this energy for she had nowhere to store it; the power and memories she wielded were already too bulky for her to keep track of. But she enjoyed plants nonetheless and stretched her ethereal limbs within them.
She was starting to become impatient. She didn't know how long it had been and only remembered her anger when more composed, but she remembered that she was waiting on something and this something had yet to happen. Something involving a priest who had called her. She was connected to him and felt the bond within more recent memories, but without a physical body she couldn't truly focus upon it.
Unless he thought of her. Which he did often enough. She could hear the thoughts in broken bits and pieces. These gave her more focus, something physical to latch onto when all else failed, when the wind gusted and threatened to blow her apart.
The priest was recent and so this memory drew the most attention; the conversation, the sacrifice, the body on the slab and a warrior. A warrior who was not the priest but drew the priest's attention. She had scryed this warrior for her priest; she wondered who he was. She wondered why the priest cared. And so she used what she could see of the warrior in her scattered memories to seek him out.
It was easy because she was a god; it was impossible because she could not focus. But she tugged at the memory until his face was all she could see, and searched. She drifted over the land, seeking out the crypt. The cavern. The worm's corpse. She visited the rotting flesh so far below; she laid atop the warrior's blood. And though she couldn't absorb it, she could come to know the intricacies of him. The spark that separated this warrior from all others. The patterns within his cells which made him unique.
This is how she came to know him. With this knowledge imprinted upon the memories closest to her, she began her search.
I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.
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Shadowsong
- Citizen
- Posts: 193
- Joined: Sun May 14, 2006 3:28 am
- Race: Human
Re: Promise of Suffering
After many minutes of inflicting agonies upon the hapless scryer, Krevster finally begun his interrogation. The introduction was not for entertainment sake, but a deliberate psychological ploy. Intimidation was an art form - always offer a way out. Only that way out need not be offered immediately...
In doing so, helpless terror was the beginning, rather than allowing his captive the first stages of resistance. By the time he was asking questions, the victim was already frantic for something he could actually do to stop the torture. Then and only then was the offer made.
Finally, the scryer had divined much knowledge of the Voice of Blood, the demon within, or a dragon, the matter was hazy but Krevster let it rest. What he cared about was the dark power behind the artifact, and how to enhance it further. This he learned.
Hatred. Death. Blood. Destruction.
All that he dreamed of. These, as offerings.
An easy gift to Krevster to provide, a manner of service he found most pleasing. Indulging himself in the kitchen of the helpless scryer, he consumed enough to fuel his great mass before he decided to put his new knowledge into practice. In time, the Voice of Blood would improve the forms.
Goddess Angatdan, he prayed, I have an offering for you.
In doing so, helpless terror was the beginning, rather than allowing his captive the first stages of resistance. By the time he was asking questions, the victim was already frantic for something he could actually do to stop the torture. Then and only then was the offer made.
Finally, the scryer had divined much knowledge of the Voice of Blood, the demon within, or a dragon, the matter was hazy but Krevster let it rest. What he cared about was the dark power behind the artifact, and how to enhance it further. This he learned.
Hatred. Death. Blood. Destruction.
All that he dreamed of. These, as offerings.
An easy gift to Krevster to provide, a manner of service he found most pleasing. Indulging himself in the kitchen of the helpless scryer, he consumed enough to fuel his great mass before he decided to put his new knowledge into practice. In time, the Voice of Blood would improve the forms.
Goddess Angatdan, he prayed, I have an offering for you.
If violence is not the answer, you have asked me the wrong question.
Re: Promise of Suffering
Power and memory rolled in waves over the land, following the drifting scent left by a person's essence to come upon the person himself. She had to move slowly and cautiously; if she shot forth to find him within seconds, she would lose far more than she was willing to give up. The part of the memories that were conscious wanted to preserve the whole, to shield it against the elements.
Still, pieces dropped away. Scattered or dribbled along the ground, soaking into the reeds and grasses and dirt and pavement. Each tree she played in kept a piece; each boulder she merged with another memory remained behind. From such a vast expanse of time she had no choice but to sacrifice the oldest or most peripheral thoughts; she let them go as she centered on the core of her being. The years of isolation, with neither worship nor praise. The priest and his ritual.
And the warrior.
Her name came to her on a current of air, and the god was confused. Where had the name come from? She hadn't thought it in ages; it couldn't be one of her own memories. And it wasn't her priest's voice; she would have recognized him immediately, called upon by the connection she had given over to him.
She wafted along the trail left by the name, following the eddies and curls and drifting through anything within the path. It was along the path the warrior had left and she rejoiced to herself for this small mercy. Her search was completed for the warrior knew her name.
The god entered the room where the warrior prayed and called out her name. She was large in this form, with no center to focus the energies on. She spread herself out against the walls and floor, her edges creeping into the surfaces. Leaving more of herself within the room.
She did make the effort to keep herself away from the warrior. The power which held her together bulged at the edges, desperate to be free. The air it controlled became stale as it dried up the particles of their own energies.
Tendrils came forth. She had no eyes to see the room or the warrior or the warrior's offering. She could only sense the world around her...unless she took form.
This she would not yet do. It took all of her effort to maintain the form, to create the fake body and take in with fake eyes. Now, she wanted to reply to his words. This took more of her power, a small surge. She projected directly against his mind.
"What have you brought me?
Still, pieces dropped away. Scattered or dribbled along the ground, soaking into the reeds and grasses and dirt and pavement. Each tree she played in kept a piece; each boulder she merged with another memory remained behind. From such a vast expanse of time she had no choice but to sacrifice the oldest or most peripheral thoughts; she let them go as she centered on the core of her being. The years of isolation, with neither worship nor praise. The priest and his ritual.
And the warrior.
Her name came to her on a current of air, and the god was confused. Where had the name come from? She hadn't thought it in ages; it couldn't be one of her own memories. And it wasn't her priest's voice; she would have recognized him immediately, called upon by the connection she had given over to him.
She wafted along the trail left by the name, following the eddies and curls and drifting through anything within the path. It was along the path the warrior had left and she rejoiced to herself for this small mercy. Her search was completed for the warrior knew her name.
The god entered the room where the warrior prayed and called out her name. She was large in this form, with no center to focus the energies on. She spread herself out against the walls and floor, her edges creeping into the surfaces. Leaving more of herself within the room.
She did make the effort to keep herself away from the warrior. The power which held her together bulged at the edges, desperate to be free. The air it controlled became stale as it dried up the particles of their own energies.
Tendrils came forth. She had no eyes to see the room or the warrior or the warrior's offering. She could only sense the world around her...unless she took form.
This she would not yet do. It took all of her effort to maintain the form, to create the fake body and take in with fake eyes. Now, she wanted to reply to his words. This took more of her power, a small surge. She projected directly against his mind.
"What have you brought me?
I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.
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Shadowsong
- Citizen
- Posts: 193
- Joined: Sun May 14, 2006 3:28 am
- Race: Human
Re: Promise of Suffering
Blood. A magus sacrifice.
Offer made. Seeking out godly favour required tribute. From what he knew, a magus soul made a fine gift. Contained within was power, knowledge, the essence which fuelled their own spells. Something of worth to a dark goddess.
And this sacrifice served one purpose. To prove his worth.
Instruct me in the forms of the ceremony, so that I may send you this gift. Clutching the sacrificial dagger, he beseeched her aid in this. Blood sacrifice was nothing new to Krevster, who had many times as a soldier had cast heads into flames as tribute to the hells, asking for luck in the next battle. True, he knew intent alone meant little to such capricious gods, but he knew also that this one would desire the sacrifice and so had motive to grant his request. And once knowing the rite, he could bring further tribute.
This was a more formal, more meaningful sacrifice.
Cupped in his other wargauntlet was the sacrificial bowl, made of dark clay or stone, with scorching on the inside. This would be used to catch blood spilled directly from the veins in the absence of a true altar. Perhaps lesser, but working his way up had advantages of it's own.
More will come in time. A fist to wield fire and sword in your glory. Worshippers brought before you to pay tribute. More sacrifices and grand slaughter in your name. That should prove worthy for you. Even in prayer, he would not allow any semblance of uncertainty.
Offer made. Seeking out godly favour required tribute. From what he knew, a magus soul made a fine gift. Contained within was power, knowledge, the essence which fuelled their own spells. Something of worth to a dark goddess.
And this sacrifice served one purpose. To prove his worth.
Instruct me in the forms of the ceremony, so that I may send you this gift. Clutching the sacrificial dagger, he beseeched her aid in this. Blood sacrifice was nothing new to Krevster, who had many times as a soldier had cast heads into flames as tribute to the hells, asking for luck in the next battle. True, he knew intent alone meant little to such capricious gods, but he knew also that this one would desire the sacrifice and so had motive to grant his request. And once knowing the rite, he could bring further tribute.
This was a more formal, more meaningful sacrifice.
Cupped in his other wargauntlet was the sacrificial bowl, made of dark clay or stone, with scorching on the inside. This would be used to catch blood spilled directly from the veins in the absence of a true altar. Perhaps lesser, but working his way up had advantages of it's own.
More will come in time. A fist to wield fire and sword in your glory. Worshippers brought before you to pay tribute. More sacrifices and grand slaughter in your name. That should prove worthy for you. Even in prayer, he would not allow any semblance of uncertainty.
If violence is not the answer, you have asked me the wrong question.
Re: Promise of Suffering
Already this warrior sought to provide tribute to her, and rather than guess at the ceremony and perhaps make a crucial mistake, he asked her to show him.
The god was well satisfied and wished to inform her priest of this sentiment. But she could not afford the travel and needed her concentration focused on what this man wanted to know. She would have to search extensively - and the memories were farther back, harder to focus upon. Her concentration on form broke as she searched, and memories began to leak more extensively, flowing about the room to drift lazily along the walls and floor and ceiling. Some of them settled within the plaster and floorboards to be ignored until her focus returned; some merely remained in place, with no breeze to push them away. And some settled against the scryer and warrior's minds.
The memories which drifted carried centuries with them. There was no logic or timeline; civilizations and practices long-dead mingled with modern times. Temples full of dark-skinned peoples prostrate against her will; a stone church with an odd priest who womanized; the creation of a man's body from snow; a void in which no light existed, her brethren warring and slamming against one another until light and mass were formed; the feel of wind carrying the dragon's body across oceans...
Her tendrils glanced off of and swirled about and through the form of the scryer, feeling every inch of him. The blood was housed within the skin and she came to know it instinctively as she drifted through. She wanted to know it more physically; she wanted to plunge a fist within his chest and wiggle her fingers inside of his lungs. She wanted to hold his fresh heart in her palm and pump it until it could only make a hollow sputter against her fist, a deflated blood pouch.
She could not. She could only show him what was required to complete this particular ceremony to her liking.
The memory came forth and she wasted no time in plunging into the warrior's brain, firing the synapses she needed for him to comprehend what she was conveying. The image itself was simple energy, but she had neither voice nor lips to communicate the idea. Instead she had to create it from nothing within his mind.
And so she did. By stimulating the appropriate pieces of his brain and eyes she re-created the scents and colors, the shapes and motions. A naked body prone upon a slab; a knife sliding inside of the body to cut around and never into the heart. The victim screaming and gurgling as the body is mutilated; the delicate procedure of removing the organ from the sacrifice's body, then disregarding the body itself. Placing the heart within the stone vessel, lined with a power the priests had created. And then fire to engulf the organ and burn it to ash.
The god was well satisfied and wished to inform her priest of this sentiment. But she could not afford the travel and needed her concentration focused on what this man wanted to know. She would have to search extensively - and the memories were farther back, harder to focus upon. Her concentration on form broke as she searched, and memories began to leak more extensively, flowing about the room to drift lazily along the walls and floor and ceiling. Some of them settled within the plaster and floorboards to be ignored until her focus returned; some merely remained in place, with no breeze to push them away. And some settled against the scryer and warrior's minds.
The memories which drifted carried centuries with them. There was no logic or timeline; civilizations and practices long-dead mingled with modern times. Temples full of dark-skinned peoples prostrate against her will; a stone church with an odd priest who womanized; the creation of a man's body from snow; a void in which no light existed, her brethren warring and slamming against one another until light and mass were formed; the feel of wind carrying the dragon's body across oceans...
Her tendrils glanced off of and swirled about and through the form of the scryer, feeling every inch of him. The blood was housed within the skin and she came to know it instinctively as she drifted through. She wanted to know it more physically; she wanted to plunge a fist within his chest and wiggle her fingers inside of his lungs. She wanted to hold his fresh heart in her palm and pump it until it could only make a hollow sputter against her fist, a deflated blood pouch.
She could not. She could only show him what was required to complete this particular ceremony to her liking.
The memory came forth and she wasted no time in plunging into the warrior's brain, firing the synapses she needed for him to comprehend what she was conveying. The image itself was simple energy, but she had neither voice nor lips to communicate the idea. Instead she had to create it from nothing within his mind.
And so she did. By stimulating the appropriate pieces of his brain and eyes she re-created the scents and colors, the shapes and motions. A naked body prone upon a slab; a knife sliding inside of the body to cut around and never into the heart. The victim screaming and gurgling as the body is mutilated; the delicate procedure of removing the organ from the sacrifice's body, then disregarding the body itself. Placing the heart within the stone vessel, lined with a power the priests had created. And then fire to engulf the organ and burn it to ash.
I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.
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Shadowsong
- Citizen
- Posts: 193
- Joined: Sun May 14, 2006 3:28 am
- Race: Human
Re: Promise of Suffering
Most men would be unsettled by the sudden blooming of new experiences within his brain. Many would balk at performing such brutal torture so casually. Many would shy away from performing blood sacrifice, from buying his power through murder and pain.
Alas, Krevster was not most men.
Instead, he relished the new memories as a gift. The gift of lore. One great step towards power. One great step towards revenge. Already, he knew to himself that being the warrior for such a dark goddess would appeal to him. Leading an unholy legion on a swathe of bloody destruction across the land inspired nothing but delight in him.
Watching the memory joyfully, he welcomed this manner of service. Slaughter, destruction, these things she embodied. The dark side of nature. Wanton havoc would be his task.
Eager with anticipation, he planned out the ceremony. Removing the heart was a task often hindered by the ribcage.
Crack.
After slamming his fist into the chest of the scryer, Krevster made him bound and helpless atop his dining table. There were servants, or had been. One dead, the others crippled and broken like their master.
So the ritual began.
Markings were carved into mortal flesh, across the chest and arms, simple symbols seen in the vision. Small importance, but ritual was so often a matter of details. With the introduction taken care of, he began the business of extracting the heart.
The sacrificial dagger, a curved, yellowed instrument, sank into flesh gleefully. Here and now, he begun working the blade inside like a trowel. He could not cut through the bone with it, so he settled for creating a large enough hollow of flesh to snap the bones and reach his hand within the bloody tissue to withdraw the desired organ. All the while a bowl was held beneath the bleeding, collecting the blood in offering.
"Your blood. Your soul. For the dark master."
It was then he knew the value of the inscriptions worked into the scryer's flesh. They were seals of ownership. By laying such claim to the body, he gave her right to the soul. Once the dripping heart was inside the bowl, he lit the fire and let it consume the organ in echo of the goddess consuming his life.
That was his ultimate gift. Of course, there were more on hand. Lesser offerings, although the servants were still more blood to feed her cruel desires.
When the final life had perished, something stood out from a vision which returned. Something important. Something needed. Soon.
"An altar!" The discovery burst from his lips. An altar to serve as her anchor in these lands, to steady her as she grew greater and greater from offerings. And as she grew, so would he who brought her such tribute. Not generosity, not appreciation, not even payment, but his fitting empowerments as an instrument of her will.
Your altar, the thought sent out with less effort than before, the communion already more natural. Now he knew this was a forgotten god, partially faded, and even the gods had needs. What shall I do?
Alas, Krevster was not most men.
Instead, he relished the new memories as a gift. The gift of lore. One great step towards power. One great step towards revenge. Already, he knew to himself that being the warrior for such a dark goddess would appeal to him. Leading an unholy legion on a swathe of bloody destruction across the land inspired nothing but delight in him.
Watching the memory joyfully, he welcomed this manner of service. Slaughter, destruction, these things she embodied. The dark side of nature. Wanton havoc would be his task.
Eager with anticipation, he planned out the ceremony. Removing the heart was a task often hindered by the ribcage.
Crack.
After slamming his fist into the chest of the scryer, Krevster made him bound and helpless atop his dining table. There were servants, or had been. One dead, the others crippled and broken like their master.
So the ritual began.
Markings were carved into mortal flesh, across the chest and arms, simple symbols seen in the vision. Small importance, but ritual was so often a matter of details. With the introduction taken care of, he began the business of extracting the heart.
The sacrificial dagger, a curved, yellowed instrument, sank into flesh gleefully. Here and now, he begun working the blade inside like a trowel. He could not cut through the bone with it, so he settled for creating a large enough hollow of flesh to snap the bones and reach his hand within the bloody tissue to withdraw the desired organ. All the while a bowl was held beneath the bleeding, collecting the blood in offering.
"Your blood. Your soul. For the dark master."
It was then he knew the value of the inscriptions worked into the scryer's flesh. They were seals of ownership. By laying such claim to the body, he gave her right to the soul. Once the dripping heart was inside the bowl, he lit the fire and let it consume the organ in echo of the goddess consuming his life.
That was his ultimate gift. Of course, there were more on hand. Lesser offerings, although the servants were still more blood to feed her cruel desires.
When the final life had perished, something stood out from a vision which returned. Something important. Something needed. Soon.
"An altar!" The discovery burst from his lips. An altar to serve as her anchor in these lands, to steady her as she grew greater and greater from offerings. And as she grew, so would he who brought her such tribute. Not generosity, not appreciation, not even payment, but his fitting empowerments as an instrument of her will.
Your altar, the thought sent out with less effort than before, the communion already more natural. Now he knew this was a forgotten god, partially faded, and even the gods had needs. What shall I do?
If violence is not the answer, you have asked me the wrong question.
Re: Promise of Suffering
As the warrior prepared himself for the sacrifice, the god drifted in all directions, her essence running along and soaking into the floor and walls. She expanded beyond the simple room for the borders were barely figments to her. They represented no physical limitation that she could feel.
Wide and unfocused, she fanned out her tendrils until she knew every inch of the building, every corpse within. She delighted in every body she found, came to know the blood within the body itself as a form of entertainment. Those who were not yet dead were thoroughly violated as she explored their inner workings, coming to know the mortal's body once more. Memories of what this body could feel like drifted farther than memories of events and creatures she'd known. The idea of physicality lay beyond her, but she knew that having a mortal's corpse as these humans once had was something she needed. A focus to house her unneeded powers and thoughts.
She was inside of the sacrifice when its ribcage cracked under the warrior's fist, and felt his hand for a moment. The fresher pain and convulsions within the body pulled her tendrils closer together, and she plunged more of her focus within the body itself to feel what the warrior was doing.
She could feel every incision and mark from this viewpoint; she could feel the flesh peel away from itself, the muscles convulse. She could encircle the heart in the closest to a caress she could manage in this formless existence, inundating it with her own powers and memories to feel the blood soaking through her.
For one glorious moment she felt drenched in the sacrifice's pain and blood. She rolled inside of his cells and skittered along his flesh and bones, reveling in what she could feel.
The moment had to pass, for the sacrifice was not complete. But she did not have to fully detach herself from the glorious corpse her warrior had created; she was vast and distorted. And so pieces of her remained to bathe within the sacrificial corpse, pieces of her remained spread throughout the area and within the foundation, and pieces of her drifted above the bowl where her warrior settled the heart to incinerate the final offering.
She absorbed the smoke as greedily as she would have the blood. Instead of rising into the nothing to be carried away on currents of emotionless air, the cinders and vapors vanished into her own great maw. Nearly imperceptible, she felt her edges harden; she felt a greater weight, a more solid focal point. It was enough to help her; it was enough to assuage her. The pieces within the sacrifice's body tightened and collapsed organs under their pressure; blood and matter poured from the body's nose and ears as the brain was pressure through holes too small for it to bit.
The god felt this warrior within her now. The connection was not as that she shared with her priest, but the sacrifice was a bond he had forged with her. A bond she could honor by granting small boons and rewards for his service. She wished to do more; she ached to ravish him with her power, to reform the corpse which held him into a stronger vessel. But she could not.
Not yet.
His request drifted through vocal chords and thoughts, and she felt all the more enlivened. This warrior wasted no time. She would not waste his.
Altars and temples were mortal creations to satisfy the god's need for worship. She could envision them in her mind's eye, and poured these images into her warrior's eyes and mind to grant him the needed information. But an altar or temple was useless with no priest to sanctify it. Her priest was her most important and solid connection within this realm; it was past time he and this warrior should meet.
The magic she instilled into the warrior was a small bit, an image followed by an invisible trail of her own essence to serve as his beacon. The impression would neither drag nor force him, but it would serve as a gentle tug - and the face of her priest stood at the end.
Find my priest. I will guide you.
Wide and unfocused, she fanned out her tendrils until she knew every inch of the building, every corpse within. She delighted in every body she found, came to know the blood within the body itself as a form of entertainment. Those who were not yet dead were thoroughly violated as she explored their inner workings, coming to know the mortal's body once more. Memories of what this body could feel like drifted farther than memories of events and creatures she'd known. The idea of physicality lay beyond her, but she knew that having a mortal's corpse as these humans once had was something she needed. A focus to house her unneeded powers and thoughts.
She was inside of the sacrifice when its ribcage cracked under the warrior's fist, and felt his hand for a moment. The fresher pain and convulsions within the body pulled her tendrils closer together, and she plunged more of her focus within the body itself to feel what the warrior was doing.
She could feel every incision and mark from this viewpoint; she could feel the flesh peel away from itself, the muscles convulse. She could encircle the heart in the closest to a caress she could manage in this formless existence, inundating it with her own powers and memories to feel the blood soaking through her.
For one glorious moment she felt drenched in the sacrifice's pain and blood. She rolled inside of his cells and skittered along his flesh and bones, reveling in what she could feel.
The moment had to pass, for the sacrifice was not complete. But she did not have to fully detach herself from the glorious corpse her warrior had created; she was vast and distorted. And so pieces of her remained to bathe within the sacrificial corpse, pieces of her remained spread throughout the area and within the foundation, and pieces of her drifted above the bowl where her warrior settled the heart to incinerate the final offering.
She absorbed the smoke as greedily as she would have the blood. Instead of rising into the nothing to be carried away on currents of emotionless air, the cinders and vapors vanished into her own great maw. Nearly imperceptible, she felt her edges harden; she felt a greater weight, a more solid focal point. It was enough to help her; it was enough to assuage her. The pieces within the sacrifice's body tightened and collapsed organs under their pressure; blood and matter poured from the body's nose and ears as the brain was pressure through holes too small for it to bit.
The god felt this warrior within her now. The connection was not as that she shared with her priest, but the sacrifice was a bond he had forged with her. A bond she could honor by granting small boons and rewards for his service. She wished to do more; she ached to ravish him with her power, to reform the corpse which held him into a stronger vessel. But she could not.
Not yet.
His request drifted through vocal chords and thoughts, and she felt all the more enlivened. This warrior wasted no time. She would not waste his.
Altars and temples were mortal creations to satisfy the god's need for worship. She could envision them in her mind's eye, and poured these images into her warrior's eyes and mind to grant him the needed information. But an altar or temple was useless with no priest to sanctify it. Her priest was her most important and solid connection within this realm; it was past time he and this warrior should meet.
The magic she instilled into the warrior was a small bit, an image followed by an invisible trail of her own essence to serve as his beacon. The impression would neither drag nor force him, but it would serve as a gentle tug - and the face of her priest stood at the end.
Find my priest. I will guide you.
I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.
-
Phaloth Arnitel
- Outsider
- Posts: 16
- Joined: Wed Feb 06, 2008 2:34 am
Re: Promise of Suffering
The hand of the Lord was set upon me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”
I said, “O Sovereign Lord, you alone know.”
Ezekiel 37
He was trapped. The man with the sack thrown over his head knew that.
It was just another day and another handful of Bishani for him. He was one of the few (if any of the significant ones, really) contract couriers that came from the big city of Marn to secure and deliver goods from the outlying town of Shim. Things went along as usual; Farmer Richtus, the old crotchedy bastard with no heir, no one to make an heir with, and a penchant for boozing gave him the usual sack of oats and other miscellaneous goods so that the merchant who contracted him can get the things that he needs to run his little shop somewhere in the Merchant Square. The people of Shim milled about as if brainlessly compelled to function and do very little else (in comparison, really, Farmer Richtus seemed like he was the only guy that had personality in this town). He even made a pit-stop with his eight-strong (mercenary) retinue at the Black Rose Tavern & Inn to eat a hearty lunch. The same smiling waitress tended to their every needs, gave them their usual foods and their usual drinks. She also, of course, tended to the more carnal needs of the band as she sometimes does. Today, the head honcho himself got a little piece of heaven for about five minutes somewhere behind the bar. Life was good. Business was good. All in all, it was normal. Fluid. Like nothing could go awry.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Soon after their stop at the Black Rose, the courier and his men departed with their acquired wares. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Stretches of low-lying plains’ vegetation yawned across the girth of the gently sloping fields in intermittent waves of golds and of cold-dead browns. The day was overcast, the temperature was frigid, and tell-tale signs of frigid precipitation struck like pinpricks across his pores. The ground underneath of the horses’ hooves was compact and fused together at the topsoil; each step that a horse would make made little indentation in the earth and made a hollow noise that was about as dead and as lifeless as Shim’s monolithic heart. Nature couldn’t decide whether winter should stay or go this year. The courier talked and laughed amongst his men, blathering on about topics that ranged anywhere from “this damnable weather” to the Black Rose’s wench and how sweltering her nether regions were today.
Then something strange happened. Far away from Shim and somewhere halfway to Marn, a group of twelve men garbed in blood red robes emerged right in the middle of the trade road. Their hoods were up, casting a crawling shadow over their faces that just barely concealed their features from the world. Their hands were folded together, as if they were postulants of some kind, hidden underneath of their oversized sleeves. The queerest individual of them all, garbed in shocking cerements of orange and blue, stood dead center in the middle of the group. Unlike the rest of the robed men his face was veiled, wrapped around his head by a black and almost gauzy cloth that seemed to flow out from under the brim of a plain-looking gold crown of five points. Under normal circumstances, circumnavigation would’ve been sufficient enough to get around the individual (he wasn’t getting paid to help some traveler who doesn’t have a solid bearing of what North and South were, anyway). However, these men easily obstructed such efforts by being clustered together and taking up the width of the small dirt road.
The miniature caravan was brought to a halt when they encountered these strangers. Several of the men not-so-politely demanded that they move out of the way, that a delivery had to complete by early tomorrow. The twelve men in the robes quietly stood there, unmoving, as if they were in silent protest. The demands grew sharper and steel was drawn from their scabbards. Accusations were flung at the robed ensemble, titles ranging from “bandit” to “servant to the bastard Bela” howled from their lips. Not a word was spoken in rebuttal. Theirs was a silence as compelling as that of a grave’s, cold and absolute. The horses whinnied and paced around a bit.
A feeling gnawed away at his gut when his men drew their arms. This sort of confidence only emanates from those that are either insanely foolish, mired in zealotry or magically adept. His strongest impression of fear was laid upon the tallish man in the orange, who was so radically different from the bunch that he just seemed to be branded upon his vision. Upon a closer look, he could see that a belt held his robes to him unlike the sashes that the rest of the monks wore. Patchworks of what appeared to be flat strips of colored leather were stitched tightly by a reddish-brown tie that didn’t quite look like leather but didn’t quite look like twine, either. Bones ringed around his belt, tied to him like some sort of wind chime. Skulls, femurs, tibias---all of them, human bones, strung from his belt and swaying slightly with the breeze. Upon seeing the bones, the courier realized that it wasn’t leather that was stitched on to the man’s belt.
It was flesh. Dried flesh from people.
The courier panicked when he came to the realization. Somehow he knew that these men, all of them, were sorely outclassed. Not just by skill, mind, but by something else. A primal fear had gripped him and nearly caused him to wet himself. He wanted to cry out and tell the men that they were in grave, grave danger and that they should flee right away. However, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He just sat there on the saddle of his perturbed steed, quaking slightly. One of the men spurred his horse into motion, galloping toward the group with his sword in hand, ready to cleave them where they stood.
His life was over in an eyeblink.
Just when he was about to collide into the group, the man in the orange robes swept his arms together in a grand and dramatic fashion, hands disappearing underneath his sleeves. Then, with the celerity of a cobra he lashed a hand outward and flung what seemed to be white darts from his fingertips. The projectiles found a home in the mercenary’s throat, right above where his breastplate ended and the unprotected regions of his head began. The impact caused him to suddenly lurch back; as he did, he inadvertently yanked on the reigns and caused his horse to rear. His dying carcass was dropped from the saddle; hands clutched to his windpipe as he gasped desperately for air and instead inhaled enormous amounts of his own blood. He wasn’t finished, though
The man in the orange robes then made another sudden movement, bringing a hand up underneath of the opposing sleeve. He then brought that hand back out with a sweeping motion. A large, white blade tinged with red fluid that could only be described as blood emerged from where his forearm was and extended to about four feet in length. With that same deadly speed in which he flung the darts, the man in the orange robes shot forward and used his newly-conjured weapon on the rearing horse. There was a sickening sound, likened to tearing paper, and a mass of the horse’s throat was torn out. The force of the blow, while not superhumanly strong, was just enough to send the horse toppling over on its side. It let out a sharp cry and jerked about spastically as its life drained on the cold earth underneath of it, blood suffusing the road like the runoff of rain.
When the horse had fallen, the courier could see the man in the orange robes standing there. The blood of the steed splattered all over his robes and a hunk of flesh was dangling off of the blade that protruded from his arm. What happened after he saw that gruesome sight, he could hardly remember---it was all an adrenaline-induced blur and a rabid fight for flight. The next thing he knew was darkness all around him.
Soon, heavy-lidded subconscious subsided and gave way to an airy bleakness that was comparable to waking up from drinking yourself silly the night before. He barely had any feeling in his nerves and it took him a little while to register his current state. His vision was dark around the edges, narrowed into a sort of tunnel; apparently the eyeholes that they had punched into the sack-cloth was haphazardly done. From what he could see, there were trees all around him. The air was even colder today; his clothing provided little protection against winter's harsh caress. A sudden shiver shocked his bones and riled his body. It was so powerful that it moved the body.
But he found, however, that he was unable to do so.
The courier's eyes widened from underneath of the sack-cloth. He looked down at himself and discovered that he was laying down on something---a rock? Some sort of table?--- and tied down by thick chains, designed for cows to pull plows with. It was futile, he realized, to try and force himself off of his makeshift prison without walls. The chains were too heavy and too tightly wound from which he could be freed. He started screaming for help, screaming for anyone to come out and save him.
Soon, his futile screaming subsided and nothing remained but faint echoes in his eardrums. His breathing was labored, frightened. The courier began trembling---and it wasn't because of the cold. Was he a survivor? Was there anyone out there to help him? What...what had happened? Thoughts raced through his head at a mile a minute. A faint sound soon disrupted him from his reverie. The sound of rustling leaves and breaking twigs underfoot. There was a sudden hope that clutched in his chest, a pining desire that somebody was coming to free him from this infernal fate. He soon found a veiled face looming down in front of him, seemingly expressionless. Almost immediately, he knew that it belonged to the man in the orange robes.
The courier was so frightened that he couldn't find even the will to scream.
____________________________________________________________________________
Phaloth Arnitel regarded his latest victim with the same measured aloofness that he regards the rest of his victims with. The poor sap underneath of him would fail to realize that neither a smile nor a smirk crossed the lips of the Bodycrafter. There was only a quaint, almost academic expression on his face---comparable to that of a scientist pontificating over his most recent finds as he jots them down in his notebook somewhere.
"I see that you are awake," the Bodycrafter said. His voice was soft and nearly devoid of inflection, tinged with a trace of Hispanic flourish. "That is well. If you were in any other state of being, it would be counterproductive to my workings."
Phaloth let out a sigh and reached down with an olive colored hand, tearing the sack cloth off of the man's head. The poor boy was the ultimate expression of fear. His lips were quivering, his nose was runny, and his eyes were blurred with the moisture of tears. The Bodycrafter audibly "tsked" at the pathetic sight and shook his head slowly, almost sadly.
"Ah. I see that you are...unwell, my lord." Phaloth folded his hands together, allowing them to seemingly vanish underneath of his enormous sleeves. "A touch nervous, perhaps? Fearful?"
From underneath of his veil, Phaloth closed his eyes and called upon his intimate knowledge of the Craft. One of his hands, concealed from plain view, gingerly brushed along the shape of an arm and slowly peeled the flesh from there as if it were nothing but wet clay in a pottery shop. When he touched the bone underneath, it too became malleable---albeit much more sturdy than the flesh, but just as flexible. He shaped the bone into long shard and pulled it from the main mass, no larger than a few inches long and maybe an inch thick. With his thumb, he caressed the length of the bone shard and created a small divet that spanned its entire length. When he was finished, he smoothed the skin back over his forearm as easy as if it were closing the page of a book.
He drew out that small part of himself and revealed it to the captured delivery-boy. It looked like a small plug that a sap collector would slam into a tree to bleed out its ichor. Phaloth saw the expression on the courier's face go from mute fear to absolute horror.
"But you have no need to fear, my lord," Phaloth reassured, although he knew that the gesture would do nothing to dissuade his prisoner's notions. Which suited him fine, of course; he was not about to take what was left of this pitiable soul's capacity to feel. "In fact, you should feel...honored. Distinguished from the rest of your immutable stock."
At this point, Phaloth grew quiet and measured his words carefully, in better hopes of explaining to this man of his intentions and his purpose. "You see, there is a force that exists in this world. A force that exists beyond your ken and, indubitably, my own. She is a grand, glorious force that embodies the strife that comes with inflicting change. She embodies the sacrifice that is needed, the very blood of that which must be spilled."
He sighed, almost sadly, before he continued on. "But you see...she isn't exactly what you would call "real." Alas, she is but a fleeting causality that drifts intangibly through our world and is merely espoused through our very own actions---yes, yes, even yours. Even among your unchanging, feckless, and faithless kine. For every life that is snuffed out by the sword, for every last breath that is taken, and for every institution admonished---she is there, but not.
"So I shall tell you: I fully intend on making her real. Manifest. Once I have felt her touch, her lips delicately caressing my brow in an overture of affection and goodwill to my steadfastness in her ways." The diveted bone twirled around between his fingertips. "And I will feel her touch yet again. I will make her real."
Phaloth brought the bone down and started carving up the sturdy cloth of the courier's shirt, exposing his upper body to the harsh elements outside. The man started screaming loudly, obviously in fear of the Bodycrafter's sudden violence. When he was sufficiently exposed, Phaloth gouged the diveted bone into the man's chest and made a puncture wound the size of a quarter around his right lung. The stabbing was shallow and not anywhere near far enough to be fatal but it was more than enough to garner the blood that he needed.
With care, Phaloth collected a thick sludge of the man's blood into the diveted bone and balanced it there. He then walked away from him and over to a small stump, where various materials were scattered; most notable was a small bowl filled with a greasy white powder---ground bones. Phaloth then poured the blood that he had collected into the bowl and started mixing it until the blood was thoroughly seeped into the powder. He then dipped his hands into the bowl and rubbed the blood-soaked powder into his skin thoroughly. However, the stuff didn't stick or coat his skin---it seemed to melt into his pores, leaving not even the faintest trace behind.
When he was finished, Phaloth walked back over to the little courier. He was pleading and begging for his life, asking to be spared. The Bodycrafter merely shook his head, a gesture made opaque by the veil that flowed from his crown.
"It's a pity that you don't see your sacrifice befitting. It would do you so much better to see yourself in the bigger picture, my lord."
Phaloth reached over and grabbed the edge of the courier's mouth, being mindful of his teeth. Then, as casually as if it were his own flesh, he gave a sharp tug and stretched the skin of the man's mouth into a long flap. The courier ceased his screaming for mercy when he saw the long contrail of skin being pulled away from him so effortlessly and started breathlessly panting, trying to gather more air into his lungs for another horrendous cry. Before he could even utter another sound, Phaloth pulled the flap of skin over the man's lips and pressed it down to the other side of his face. With a couple of presses and creases with his fingers, the man's mouth was sealed with his own flesh. Muffled grunts and screams ensued, the man protesting.
"I am terribly sorry for the discomfort," Phaloth said after he was finished. "But I do value subtlety in my workings, after all. Too much noise will attract attention."
Phaloth carved the necessary runes into the man's body, dedicating each and every one to his Goddess. Rather than force his way into the man's body, he casually peeled back the flesh and bone from his body like a flower to reveal the man's still beating heart. Then, with practiced ease, he tore the organ from his chest straightaway. The arteries and muscles that held it fast snapped like so much twine, spewing blood and other bodily fluids in every which direction. The courier's body heaved the in throes of death-spasms and muffled sounds of choking resonated from his gagged mouth. When the man had fully perished, Phaloth carried the bloodied heart over to a burning fire that one of his followers started on a stone nearby. Reverently, he placed the organ inside of the licking flames.
"For my mistress," Phaloth whispered. "I dedicate this sacrifice to you, Goddess." He knelt before the fire and bowed his head down. The smell of cinnamon---burning flesh---pervaded his nostrils like incense. His body was wracked with a sudden ecstasy, a sudden pleasure that thrilled him to the core of his dead soul. Underneath of his veils, he smiled like a man in delirium.
When the organ was finished burning, he stood up slowly and looked to his left. Strung up nearby on branches were the bodies of those others that were sacrificed, bodies opened up grotesquely and emptied of their hearts along with the entrails that were taken along with gravity. That was the last one.
But there were more to come. There would always be more.
I said, “O Sovereign Lord, you alone know.”
Ezekiel 37
He was trapped. The man with the sack thrown over his head knew that.
It was just another day and another handful of Bishani for him. He was one of the few (if any of the significant ones, really) contract couriers that came from the big city of Marn to secure and deliver goods from the outlying town of Shim. Things went along as usual; Farmer Richtus, the old crotchedy bastard with no heir, no one to make an heir with, and a penchant for boozing gave him the usual sack of oats and other miscellaneous goods so that the merchant who contracted him can get the things that he needs to run his little shop somewhere in the Merchant Square. The people of Shim milled about as if brainlessly compelled to function and do very little else (in comparison, really, Farmer Richtus seemed like he was the only guy that had personality in this town). He even made a pit-stop with his eight-strong (mercenary) retinue at the Black Rose Tavern & Inn to eat a hearty lunch. The same smiling waitress tended to their every needs, gave them their usual foods and their usual drinks. She also, of course, tended to the more carnal needs of the band as she sometimes does. Today, the head honcho himself got a little piece of heaven for about five minutes somewhere behind the bar. Life was good. Business was good. All in all, it was normal. Fluid. Like nothing could go awry.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Soon after their stop at the Black Rose, the courier and his men departed with their acquired wares. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Stretches of low-lying plains’ vegetation yawned across the girth of the gently sloping fields in intermittent waves of golds and of cold-dead browns. The day was overcast, the temperature was frigid, and tell-tale signs of frigid precipitation struck like pinpricks across his pores. The ground underneath of the horses’ hooves was compact and fused together at the topsoil; each step that a horse would make made little indentation in the earth and made a hollow noise that was about as dead and as lifeless as Shim’s monolithic heart. Nature couldn’t decide whether winter should stay or go this year. The courier talked and laughed amongst his men, blathering on about topics that ranged anywhere from “this damnable weather” to the Black Rose’s wench and how sweltering her nether regions were today.
Then something strange happened. Far away from Shim and somewhere halfway to Marn, a group of twelve men garbed in blood red robes emerged right in the middle of the trade road. Their hoods were up, casting a crawling shadow over their faces that just barely concealed their features from the world. Their hands were folded together, as if they were postulants of some kind, hidden underneath of their oversized sleeves. The queerest individual of them all, garbed in shocking cerements of orange and blue, stood dead center in the middle of the group. Unlike the rest of the robed men his face was veiled, wrapped around his head by a black and almost gauzy cloth that seemed to flow out from under the brim of a plain-looking gold crown of five points. Under normal circumstances, circumnavigation would’ve been sufficient enough to get around the individual (he wasn’t getting paid to help some traveler who doesn’t have a solid bearing of what North and South were, anyway). However, these men easily obstructed such efforts by being clustered together and taking up the width of the small dirt road.
The miniature caravan was brought to a halt when they encountered these strangers. Several of the men not-so-politely demanded that they move out of the way, that a delivery had to complete by early tomorrow. The twelve men in the robes quietly stood there, unmoving, as if they were in silent protest. The demands grew sharper and steel was drawn from their scabbards. Accusations were flung at the robed ensemble, titles ranging from “bandit” to “servant to the bastard Bela” howled from their lips. Not a word was spoken in rebuttal. Theirs was a silence as compelling as that of a grave’s, cold and absolute. The horses whinnied and paced around a bit.
A feeling gnawed away at his gut when his men drew their arms. This sort of confidence only emanates from those that are either insanely foolish, mired in zealotry or magically adept. His strongest impression of fear was laid upon the tallish man in the orange, who was so radically different from the bunch that he just seemed to be branded upon his vision. Upon a closer look, he could see that a belt held his robes to him unlike the sashes that the rest of the monks wore. Patchworks of what appeared to be flat strips of colored leather were stitched tightly by a reddish-brown tie that didn’t quite look like leather but didn’t quite look like twine, either. Bones ringed around his belt, tied to him like some sort of wind chime. Skulls, femurs, tibias---all of them, human bones, strung from his belt and swaying slightly with the breeze. Upon seeing the bones, the courier realized that it wasn’t leather that was stitched on to the man’s belt.
It was flesh. Dried flesh from people.
The courier panicked when he came to the realization. Somehow he knew that these men, all of them, were sorely outclassed. Not just by skill, mind, but by something else. A primal fear had gripped him and nearly caused him to wet himself. He wanted to cry out and tell the men that they were in grave, grave danger and that they should flee right away. However, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He just sat there on the saddle of his perturbed steed, quaking slightly. One of the men spurred his horse into motion, galloping toward the group with his sword in hand, ready to cleave them where they stood.
His life was over in an eyeblink.
Just when he was about to collide into the group, the man in the orange robes swept his arms together in a grand and dramatic fashion, hands disappearing underneath his sleeves. Then, with the celerity of a cobra he lashed a hand outward and flung what seemed to be white darts from his fingertips. The projectiles found a home in the mercenary’s throat, right above where his breastplate ended and the unprotected regions of his head began. The impact caused him to suddenly lurch back; as he did, he inadvertently yanked on the reigns and caused his horse to rear. His dying carcass was dropped from the saddle; hands clutched to his windpipe as he gasped desperately for air and instead inhaled enormous amounts of his own blood. He wasn’t finished, though
The man in the orange robes then made another sudden movement, bringing a hand up underneath of the opposing sleeve. He then brought that hand back out with a sweeping motion. A large, white blade tinged with red fluid that could only be described as blood emerged from where his forearm was and extended to about four feet in length. With that same deadly speed in which he flung the darts, the man in the orange robes shot forward and used his newly-conjured weapon on the rearing horse. There was a sickening sound, likened to tearing paper, and a mass of the horse’s throat was torn out. The force of the blow, while not superhumanly strong, was just enough to send the horse toppling over on its side. It let out a sharp cry and jerked about spastically as its life drained on the cold earth underneath of it, blood suffusing the road like the runoff of rain.
When the horse had fallen, the courier could see the man in the orange robes standing there. The blood of the steed splattered all over his robes and a hunk of flesh was dangling off of the blade that protruded from his arm. What happened after he saw that gruesome sight, he could hardly remember---it was all an adrenaline-induced blur and a rabid fight for flight. The next thing he knew was darkness all around him.
Soon, heavy-lidded subconscious subsided and gave way to an airy bleakness that was comparable to waking up from drinking yourself silly the night before. He barely had any feeling in his nerves and it took him a little while to register his current state. His vision was dark around the edges, narrowed into a sort of tunnel; apparently the eyeholes that they had punched into the sack-cloth was haphazardly done. From what he could see, there were trees all around him. The air was even colder today; his clothing provided little protection against winter's harsh caress. A sudden shiver shocked his bones and riled his body. It was so powerful that it moved the body.
But he found, however, that he was unable to do so.
The courier's eyes widened from underneath of the sack-cloth. He looked down at himself and discovered that he was laying down on something---a rock? Some sort of table?--- and tied down by thick chains, designed for cows to pull plows with. It was futile, he realized, to try and force himself off of his makeshift prison without walls. The chains were too heavy and too tightly wound from which he could be freed. He started screaming for help, screaming for anyone to come out and save him.
Soon, his futile screaming subsided and nothing remained but faint echoes in his eardrums. His breathing was labored, frightened. The courier began trembling---and it wasn't because of the cold. Was he a survivor? Was there anyone out there to help him? What...what had happened? Thoughts raced through his head at a mile a minute. A faint sound soon disrupted him from his reverie. The sound of rustling leaves and breaking twigs underfoot. There was a sudden hope that clutched in his chest, a pining desire that somebody was coming to free him from this infernal fate. He soon found a veiled face looming down in front of him, seemingly expressionless. Almost immediately, he knew that it belonged to the man in the orange robes.
The courier was so frightened that he couldn't find even the will to scream.
____________________________________________________________________________
Phaloth Arnitel regarded his latest victim with the same measured aloofness that he regards the rest of his victims with. The poor sap underneath of him would fail to realize that neither a smile nor a smirk crossed the lips of the Bodycrafter. There was only a quaint, almost academic expression on his face---comparable to that of a scientist pontificating over his most recent finds as he jots them down in his notebook somewhere.
"I see that you are awake," the Bodycrafter said. His voice was soft and nearly devoid of inflection, tinged with a trace of Hispanic flourish. "That is well. If you were in any other state of being, it would be counterproductive to my workings."
Phaloth let out a sigh and reached down with an olive colored hand, tearing the sack cloth off of the man's head. The poor boy was the ultimate expression of fear. His lips were quivering, his nose was runny, and his eyes were blurred with the moisture of tears. The Bodycrafter audibly "tsked" at the pathetic sight and shook his head slowly, almost sadly.
"Ah. I see that you are...unwell, my lord." Phaloth folded his hands together, allowing them to seemingly vanish underneath of his enormous sleeves. "A touch nervous, perhaps? Fearful?"
From underneath of his veil, Phaloth closed his eyes and called upon his intimate knowledge of the Craft. One of his hands, concealed from plain view, gingerly brushed along the shape of an arm and slowly peeled the flesh from there as if it were nothing but wet clay in a pottery shop. When he touched the bone underneath, it too became malleable---albeit much more sturdy than the flesh, but just as flexible. He shaped the bone into long shard and pulled it from the main mass, no larger than a few inches long and maybe an inch thick. With his thumb, he caressed the length of the bone shard and created a small divet that spanned its entire length. When he was finished, he smoothed the skin back over his forearm as easy as if it were closing the page of a book.
He drew out that small part of himself and revealed it to the captured delivery-boy. It looked like a small plug that a sap collector would slam into a tree to bleed out its ichor. Phaloth saw the expression on the courier's face go from mute fear to absolute horror.
"But you have no need to fear, my lord," Phaloth reassured, although he knew that the gesture would do nothing to dissuade his prisoner's notions. Which suited him fine, of course; he was not about to take what was left of this pitiable soul's capacity to feel. "In fact, you should feel...honored. Distinguished from the rest of your immutable stock."
At this point, Phaloth grew quiet and measured his words carefully, in better hopes of explaining to this man of his intentions and his purpose. "You see, there is a force that exists in this world. A force that exists beyond your ken and, indubitably, my own. She is a grand, glorious force that embodies the strife that comes with inflicting change. She embodies the sacrifice that is needed, the very blood of that which must be spilled."
He sighed, almost sadly, before he continued on. "But you see...she isn't exactly what you would call "real." Alas, she is but a fleeting causality that drifts intangibly through our world and is merely espoused through our very own actions---yes, yes, even yours. Even among your unchanging, feckless, and faithless kine. For every life that is snuffed out by the sword, for every last breath that is taken, and for every institution admonished---she is there, but not.
"So I shall tell you: I fully intend on making her real. Manifest. Once I have felt her touch, her lips delicately caressing my brow in an overture of affection and goodwill to my steadfastness in her ways." The diveted bone twirled around between his fingertips. "And I will feel her touch yet again. I will make her real."
Phaloth brought the bone down and started carving up the sturdy cloth of the courier's shirt, exposing his upper body to the harsh elements outside. The man started screaming loudly, obviously in fear of the Bodycrafter's sudden violence. When he was sufficiently exposed, Phaloth gouged the diveted bone into the man's chest and made a puncture wound the size of a quarter around his right lung. The stabbing was shallow and not anywhere near far enough to be fatal but it was more than enough to garner the blood that he needed.
With care, Phaloth collected a thick sludge of the man's blood into the diveted bone and balanced it there. He then walked away from him and over to a small stump, where various materials were scattered; most notable was a small bowl filled with a greasy white powder---ground bones. Phaloth then poured the blood that he had collected into the bowl and started mixing it until the blood was thoroughly seeped into the powder. He then dipped his hands into the bowl and rubbed the blood-soaked powder into his skin thoroughly. However, the stuff didn't stick or coat his skin---it seemed to melt into his pores, leaving not even the faintest trace behind.
When he was finished, Phaloth walked back over to the little courier. He was pleading and begging for his life, asking to be spared. The Bodycrafter merely shook his head, a gesture made opaque by the veil that flowed from his crown.
"It's a pity that you don't see your sacrifice befitting. It would do you so much better to see yourself in the bigger picture, my lord."
Phaloth reached over and grabbed the edge of the courier's mouth, being mindful of his teeth. Then, as casually as if it were his own flesh, he gave a sharp tug and stretched the skin of the man's mouth into a long flap. The courier ceased his screaming for mercy when he saw the long contrail of skin being pulled away from him so effortlessly and started breathlessly panting, trying to gather more air into his lungs for another horrendous cry. Before he could even utter another sound, Phaloth pulled the flap of skin over the man's lips and pressed it down to the other side of his face. With a couple of presses and creases with his fingers, the man's mouth was sealed with his own flesh. Muffled grunts and screams ensued, the man protesting.
"I am terribly sorry for the discomfort," Phaloth said after he was finished. "But I do value subtlety in my workings, after all. Too much noise will attract attention."
Phaloth carved the necessary runes into the man's body, dedicating each and every one to his Goddess. Rather than force his way into the man's body, he casually peeled back the flesh and bone from his body like a flower to reveal the man's still beating heart. Then, with practiced ease, he tore the organ from his chest straightaway. The arteries and muscles that held it fast snapped like so much twine, spewing blood and other bodily fluids in every which direction. The courier's body heaved the in throes of death-spasms and muffled sounds of choking resonated from his gagged mouth. When the man had fully perished, Phaloth carried the bloodied heart over to a burning fire that one of his followers started on a stone nearby. Reverently, he placed the organ inside of the licking flames.
"For my mistress," Phaloth whispered. "I dedicate this sacrifice to you, Goddess." He knelt before the fire and bowed his head down. The smell of cinnamon---burning flesh---pervaded his nostrils like incense. His body was wracked with a sudden ecstasy, a sudden pleasure that thrilled him to the core of his dead soul. Underneath of his veils, he smiled like a man in delirium.
When the organ was finished burning, he stood up slowly and looked to his left. Strung up nearby on branches were the bodies of those others that were sacrificed, bodies opened up grotesquely and emptied of their hearts along with the entrails that were taken along with gravity. That was the last one.
But there were more to come. There would always be more.
Re: Promise of Suffering
The final command left with her warrior, the god dissipated. She could not expand herself as far as before, finding herself bound by the strength of the sacrifice he had offered.
For a moment, hatred swelled within the listless memories. From very deep within, an old voice wailed in distress. It had only wanted to play...
The moment passed, fading as all previous memories would. She could not hold one for long, and she had been many different people. For now, for this warrior and her priest, she was the god.
Twitters and twitches rippled through her form. In any other creature, it could have been a giggle.
As the memory drifted further, the humour faded, and she was left to her own devices. The warrior was cared for - he had been given his task and would need to succeed to draw her attention once more. Her priest lay dormant, having served the purpose he'd assigned himself: reawakening the dead god. She was left with neither tangible body nor bond beyond whatever carnage might be presented in her honour. Whatever butchery and death the warrior now wreaked would serve her needs. Each thrust of sword into flesh to release the precious blood within would feed and strengthen her, for some piece of her remained aware of his presence even as she aimlessly fluttered away.
The god found herself bored. There were distractions which baited her: oddities she wished to explore, familiar sensations that a mortal's body would recognize, and the queer sense that some distant relative lay waiting for a visit.
But without focus she could not act upon these impulses. She would start to move and find herself trapped by her own disassociation. Where one portion wished to consider a curiousity it perceived, the other wished to enter a field and roll within the grasses and dirts, inundating every grain of soil with her essence. No one idea or purpose brought her forth with concentrated effort; instead, she decided to lay silent and dormant. Waiting.
Except that she was bored.
Previously, the passage of time had meant nothing; she could forget minutes, weeks, years. She could sink within the street and lie silent and unmoving for centuries, with neither thought nor pulse to disturb her slumber. But now, with the warrior's sacrifice congealing between her fragments and solidifying her edges...she had no choice but to remain focused to some small degree. She could not follow her impulses any longer, for no one part of her guided her save the bloodlust itself. The playful sprite pulled her towards the woods and the creatures she could invade, pick apart at her whim and dissect for the joy of watching the heart slow and stop; the god within pulled her towards the battles and blood she felt spilt upon the ground to soak it into herself and gain further strength.
And so, at a loss, she remained still. She did not know her location; she did not know how long it had been. Both warrior and priest could be dead, and she might never move from this spot, never be distracted from the warring motivations. Locked in perpetual internal conflict, the god would remain motionless and useless. She would have been reawakened for nothing.
A sudden tug at her awareness drew all of her attention, and all the drifting voices silenced to try and feel what it might have been. Again the tug came - pause, and again - and the god rose forth with a flutter of passion. It was being called forth through blood and glorious sacrifice, given a thread to follow. Thinking it her priest offering her further nourishment, she followed, lying herself upon the connection and slithering forward as a non-corporeal oil.
This was how she came to the room. The corpses were already lost to her, though she plunged within them regardless and felt the extent of the damage. Hearts torn - this was proper. Incisions and carvings in the flesh - also proper. It was done with precision and grace.
She was present to see the tangerine-garbed man begin the procedure once more. Curious, she drifted forth, close enough to pass bits of herself through the fire, the sacrifice, the man's own cloth and perhaps skin. She knew the bones and flesh woven into his garb; she knew the symbols he carved and the craft he worked. Her oldest memories swamped her and the scene shifted within her perception - now he stood within this room, assuring the sacrifice that his death would be worthwhile - now he stood at the head of a great temple, arms raised and running with blood as the fist-pumped heart evacuated its final fluids onto his bare face and chest - now he carved symbols before this quiet fire, preparing to burn the heart for her meal - now he stood before thronging masses and kicked the useless corpse down the great steps to the cannibals below.
The exposed heart brought her full focus forward, and she plunged her fullest tendrils into the body as he pulled the heart free, syphoning through the sacrifice's eyes, ears and brain to spread within his chest where the blood and pain pooled. She felt the viscera snap and twack; she felt the body's blood flow suddenly cease as the muscle needed to push it through was removed; she felt the death convulsions and rode the waves of pain until the tormented lungs gave in and ceased their sputtering coughs.
She felt the eyes dim and glaze, the hearing dull down to a quiet roar and then nothing. Parts of her felt jealous of the body's abilities to feel all of this and craved it for herself; parts of her merely delighted in the final muscle spasms as the body continued a worthless fight; parts of her now drifted over and above the fire to soak up the newest offering into her creases, thicken the tenuous membranes that held her consciousness together.
And one part of her licked out to feel the man himself, to take in his physicality and presence. This part felt both recognition and displacement, perhaps even confusion within the depths of her memories.
And who. she mused, is this?
For a moment, hatred swelled within the listless memories. From very deep within, an old voice wailed in distress. It had only wanted to play...
The moment passed, fading as all previous memories would. She could not hold one for long, and she had been many different people. For now, for this warrior and her priest, she was the god.
Twitters and twitches rippled through her form. In any other creature, it could have been a giggle.
As the memory drifted further, the humour faded, and she was left to her own devices. The warrior was cared for - he had been given his task and would need to succeed to draw her attention once more. Her priest lay dormant, having served the purpose he'd assigned himself: reawakening the dead god. She was left with neither tangible body nor bond beyond whatever carnage might be presented in her honour. Whatever butchery and death the warrior now wreaked would serve her needs. Each thrust of sword into flesh to release the precious blood within would feed and strengthen her, for some piece of her remained aware of his presence even as she aimlessly fluttered away.
The god found herself bored. There were distractions which baited her: oddities she wished to explore, familiar sensations that a mortal's body would recognize, and the queer sense that some distant relative lay waiting for a visit.
But without focus she could not act upon these impulses. She would start to move and find herself trapped by her own disassociation. Where one portion wished to consider a curiousity it perceived, the other wished to enter a field and roll within the grasses and dirts, inundating every grain of soil with her essence. No one idea or purpose brought her forth with concentrated effort; instead, she decided to lay silent and dormant. Waiting.
Except that she was bored.
Previously, the passage of time had meant nothing; she could forget minutes, weeks, years. She could sink within the street and lie silent and unmoving for centuries, with neither thought nor pulse to disturb her slumber. But now, with the warrior's sacrifice congealing between her fragments and solidifying her edges...she had no choice but to remain focused to some small degree. She could not follow her impulses any longer, for no one part of her guided her save the bloodlust itself. The playful sprite pulled her towards the woods and the creatures she could invade, pick apart at her whim and dissect for the joy of watching the heart slow and stop; the god within pulled her towards the battles and blood she felt spilt upon the ground to soak it into herself and gain further strength.
And so, at a loss, she remained still. She did not know her location; she did not know how long it had been. Both warrior and priest could be dead, and she might never move from this spot, never be distracted from the warring motivations. Locked in perpetual internal conflict, the god would remain motionless and useless. She would have been reawakened for nothing.
A sudden tug at her awareness drew all of her attention, and all the drifting voices silenced to try and feel what it might have been. Again the tug came - pause, and again - and the god rose forth with a flutter of passion. It was being called forth through blood and glorious sacrifice, given a thread to follow. Thinking it her priest offering her further nourishment, she followed, lying herself upon the connection and slithering forward as a non-corporeal oil.
This was how she came to the room. The corpses were already lost to her, though she plunged within them regardless and felt the extent of the damage. Hearts torn - this was proper. Incisions and carvings in the flesh - also proper. It was done with precision and grace.
She was present to see the tangerine-garbed man begin the procedure once more. Curious, she drifted forth, close enough to pass bits of herself through the fire, the sacrifice, the man's own cloth and perhaps skin. She knew the bones and flesh woven into his garb; she knew the symbols he carved and the craft he worked. Her oldest memories swamped her and the scene shifted within her perception - now he stood within this room, assuring the sacrifice that his death would be worthwhile - now he stood at the head of a great temple, arms raised and running with blood as the fist-pumped heart evacuated its final fluids onto his bare face and chest - now he carved symbols before this quiet fire, preparing to burn the heart for her meal - now he stood before thronging masses and kicked the useless corpse down the great steps to the cannibals below.
The exposed heart brought her full focus forward, and she plunged her fullest tendrils into the body as he pulled the heart free, syphoning through the sacrifice's eyes, ears and brain to spread within his chest where the blood and pain pooled. She felt the viscera snap and twack; she felt the body's blood flow suddenly cease as the muscle needed to push it through was removed; she felt the death convulsions and rode the waves of pain until the tormented lungs gave in and ceased their sputtering coughs.
She felt the eyes dim and glaze, the hearing dull down to a quiet roar and then nothing. Parts of her felt jealous of the body's abilities to feel all of this and craved it for herself; parts of her merely delighted in the final muscle spasms as the body continued a worthless fight; parts of her now drifted over and above the fire to soak up the newest offering into her creases, thicken the tenuous membranes that held her consciousness together.
And one part of her licked out to feel the man himself, to take in his physicality and presence. This part felt both recognition and displacement, perhaps even confusion within the depths of her memories.
And who. she mused, is this?
I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.
-
Phaloth Arnitel
- Outsider
- Posts: 16
- Joined: Wed Feb 06, 2008 2:34 am
Re: Promise of Suffering
Suddenly, the sacrificial fire exploded in a spurt of incandescence as Angatdan reached out for her priest, her quintessential and violent essence bleeding into physical manifestation from the act that defines her being.
The slightest glance was enough to get his attention
Tendrils of supernal power caressed Phaloth's mortal soul, wracking his finite frame with the infinitely myriad consciousness and might of a god. A hearty dose of pain and a hearty dose of pleasure subsumed the Bodycrafter. Every cell in his body seemed to constrict, as if being milked of the vital necessities that make the bodily processes work. Though agonizing, there was a masochistic pleasure that seemed to accompany the pain; it was like, regardless of whether one enjoys the pain or not, liking it is indubitably forced. His skin burned, almost like the countless heart-fires that he had ignited over the past three decades; even the smell of the hearts' burning filled his nostrils a thousandfold, nearly crushing his lungs with the overwhelming stimulus.
His loins stirred to life as the ecstasy began to peak. Phaloth knew this feeling, had felt it once before. He closed his eyes and embraced it.
From the backs of his eyes, he could clearly see a vortex of spilled blood and eviscerated gore. Any normal man would've fled from such a vision, but Phaloth was a man driven by filial piety, a zealot. He did not back away. When it finally washed over him, Phaloth staggered as if he were hit with the metaphysical deluge (and, after a fashion, he was), dramatically propelling himself backward on his haunches. He twisted and writhed around as if he were totally enmeshed in the onslaught. It seemed to never end; the blood and gore flowed and flowed and flowed until it seemingly congealed into something that wasn't quite as black as pitch. There was a quality of flesh that pervaded the darkness, as black and as desolate as gangrene slowly eating away at infected flesh.
Emerging from the stagnant, disease-seeming darkness were bones. Several sets of bones, dozens---no, hundreds---clawed their way into being; they twisted and snaked their way from the infected flesh as if cultivated to do so by his own hands. They eventually combined together after a internecine fashion, transforming into a sort of throne that was tied together by strands of tendon and sinew that emerged from the same infected morass from which the bones emerged from. The shadow of a person---a woman---anointed with a jagged crown materialized on the throne of bone, fine features indistinct and incomplete.
And who is this? The silhouette seemed to murmur, bemused.
In reality, Phaloth's lips quivered in anticipation. His Goddess. It was she.
"Oh!" Phaloth cried, gripped by sudden ecstasy. "Great Angatdan. My Goddess! It is I, Phaloth Arnitel, your most devoted son!"
The slightest glance was enough to get his attention
Tendrils of supernal power caressed Phaloth's mortal soul, wracking his finite frame with the infinitely myriad consciousness and might of a god. A hearty dose of pain and a hearty dose of pleasure subsumed the Bodycrafter. Every cell in his body seemed to constrict, as if being milked of the vital necessities that make the bodily processes work. Though agonizing, there was a masochistic pleasure that seemed to accompany the pain; it was like, regardless of whether one enjoys the pain or not, liking it is indubitably forced. His skin burned, almost like the countless heart-fires that he had ignited over the past three decades; even the smell of the hearts' burning filled his nostrils a thousandfold, nearly crushing his lungs with the overwhelming stimulus.
His loins stirred to life as the ecstasy began to peak. Phaloth knew this feeling, had felt it once before. He closed his eyes and embraced it.
From the backs of his eyes, he could clearly see a vortex of spilled blood and eviscerated gore. Any normal man would've fled from such a vision, but Phaloth was a man driven by filial piety, a zealot. He did not back away. When it finally washed over him, Phaloth staggered as if he were hit with the metaphysical deluge (and, after a fashion, he was), dramatically propelling himself backward on his haunches. He twisted and writhed around as if he were totally enmeshed in the onslaught. It seemed to never end; the blood and gore flowed and flowed and flowed until it seemingly congealed into something that wasn't quite as black as pitch. There was a quality of flesh that pervaded the darkness, as black and as desolate as gangrene slowly eating away at infected flesh.
Emerging from the stagnant, disease-seeming darkness were bones. Several sets of bones, dozens---no, hundreds---clawed their way into being; they twisted and snaked their way from the infected flesh as if cultivated to do so by his own hands. They eventually combined together after a internecine fashion, transforming into a sort of throne that was tied together by strands of tendon and sinew that emerged from the same infected morass from which the bones emerged from. The shadow of a person---a woman---anointed with a jagged crown materialized on the throne of bone, fine features indistinct and incomplete.
And who is this? The silhouette seemed to murmur, bemused.
In reality, Phaloth's lips quivered in anticipation. His Goddess. It was she.
"Oh!" Phaloth cried, gripped by sudden ecstasy. "Great Angatdan. My Goddess! It is I, Phaloth Arnitel, your most devoted son!"
Re: Promise of Suffering
The strength gifted through the sacrifices and worship augmented her. Now a great swell of a deeper emotion rose, and she fanned out her tendrils and rose, expanding in the air above him like a great invisible cloud. The tendrils quivered and trembled with the contained hatred and annoyance flowing from her core. She slammed a group of tendrils together now and pressed these forward in a great ball of pressure against his chest, pushing down, down, down until he was pinned to the floor. Hatred bubbled and spilled from her essence, running in rivulets down to soak into the ground through and beneath his body.
In the mind's eye, it was a great dragon which pressed down against him, though it had no visible form to take. Shivering wings spread from its back; scales raised in hackles along its spine; its great maw pulled back to bare serrated teeth, and blackened eyes which held no life beyond the spark of light in the depths glittered.
I have no spawn.
She had no true eyes to see, and so instead explored his face with her tendrils. The confusion had sharpened at his declaration, and she plunged her tendrils forth once more into his body, a moment's worth of exploration which violated every cell in his mortal's corpse at once.
She pulled free, having tasted of the essence of this creature. A mortal man was before her, wholly mortal. There was no hint of god within his cells, nothing within the mitochondria that would indicate the link he intimated. The hatred poured forth, and she pressed harder against him, her edges frenzied with the rush of fury.
This mortal lays false claim.
In the mind's eye, it was a great dragon which pressed down against him, though it had no visible form to take. Shivering wings spread from its back; scales raised in hackles along its spine; its great maw pulled back to bare serrated teeth, and blackened eyes which held no life beyond the spark of light in the depths glittered.
I have no spawn.
She had no true eyes to see, and so instead explored his face with her tendrils. The confusion had sharpened at his declaration, and she plunged her tendrils forth once more into his body, a moment's worth of exploration which violated every cell in his mortal's corpse at once.
She pulled free, having tasted of the essence of this creature. A mortal man was before her, wholly mortal. There was no hint of god within his cells, nothing within the mitochondria that would indicate the link he intimated. The hatred poured forth, and she pressed harder against him, her edges frenzied with the rush of fury.
This mortal lays false claim.
I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.
-
Phaloth Arnitel
- Outsider
- Posts: 16
- Joined: Wed Feb 06, 2008 2:34 am
Re: Promise of Suffering
Though not prominent, Angatdan's shadow-avatar reflected the godly ire that began to swell. Within the rather limited confines of his imagination, his Goddess began expressing a most dire form of malcontent towards her loyal scion. A sort of succinct expression emerged subtlety from the virtually featureless face like the inimitable darkening of an individual's eyes. The vaguely discerned jaw set; the brows narrowed into a firm "v". The Angatdan-simulcrum slowly emerged from her throne of bone and cocked her head, assessing him with a black and miasma-like pool of darkness settled in her face that could only be described as her eyes.
I have no spawn. The voice seemed to reverberate and repeat ad infinitum within the Bodycrafter's mind, causing his temples to pulsate with subdued agony. The blood vessels circulating through his skullpan constricted in time with the echoing of her sentence. Phaloth writhed around on his back in the real world and clutched at his skull. Darkness refused to come to him, in spite of his brain being slowly deprived of the precious oxygen and other such nutrients carried by these cells. There was nothing but the vision in his mind and the physical pain brought on by its presence.
Angatdan lifted one of her legs. The patch of darkness that was her foot warped in accordance to her will; from her heel, a sharp protrusion that could only be described as a dewclaw emerged. It curved sharply with the wickedness of a scythe and bore a certain onyx sheen that the rest of her body was lacking. Violently, the shadow-avatar brought down the clawed heel into the scabrous flesh located around the throne of bone. Spurts of gore, skin, and blood oozed from the mass mired with pus and infection of a million-million cruelly butchered souls. As the gruesome, viscous fluid flowed Angatdan's power made the cut more brutal than ever before by slashing her spiked heel back like a rake against the earth. A fountain of the horrible concoction spewed around her shadowy body in one magnificient and volcanic display. At first, it was unfocused; it simply carried on upward and every which direction. Within a heartbeat, however, that changed. Angatdan spread her arms wide, embracing the pustulent morass and taking it upon herself. Soon, it flowed around her and, eventually, through her. It enveloped Anga like a ever-flowing chrysalis that was as opaque as its descriptor.
The gore-cocoon exploded not even a moment later and revealed a horror that would make mere mortals perish immediately from just the fear of it. A serpentine horror, as large as a small house, sat before Phaloth and floated scathe inches from the scabrous wound that was underneath of it. It had the head of a dragon, but unlike the conventional dragons seen in those silly stories; the features were exaggerated and square, almost as if carved from stone. The snout was long and squared and filled with teeth that perpetually oozed with what could only be described as the ichor of the fallen. A ceremonial headdress anointed its brow, built on a skeleton of sickly-glowing gold and other valuable ores. Brilliantly colored feathers stained with blood---as stark and colorful as that of a Macaw parrot's---decoratively peppered and contrasted the glowing metals nauseatingly. Strung across the edge of the crown and hanging just above her reptilian slitted eyes were bones of varying variety. Thick scales covered its long body, but they were not monochromatic---rather, it ran a gamut colors, varying from shades of green to red to yellows that were mostly dark and grainy in appearance. It was as if she were naught but stone and the colors were merely painted on. Wings sprouted from around her middle, fanning out powerfully and stretching to at least one and a half times larger than what she is. Every single inch of these wings were covered in beautiful feathers that were tinged and tipped with blood. The midsection of the dragon bore long, wiry arms that ended in long, fragile yet dangerous looking fingertips tipped with onyx claws. Brilliantly colored feathers tainted with blood sprouted like budding grass from around her wrists, slicked backward and pointing directly at her body. Gold bracelets and bangles were cuffed around each wrist; like the base of the crown, these artifacts glowed with an unhealthy and dire light.
The now-draconic Angatdan shot forward like an arrow strung out from a longbow, beating her powerful wings to propel her from her impossible stationary levitation. Before the dream-Phaloth could react, he was immediately pinned in place by one of Anga's powerful arms. The metaphysical force took a considerable toll on his real body; he reacted violently to the power that was suddenly exuded, chest buckling and ribs nearly cracking underneath of the force. A heap of blood erupted from his lips, as his internal organs were very ruptured. Around his body, claws sank into the damaged flesh-ground around him, providing as much resistance as wet paper would to a sharp knife. Putrid fluids started seeping from the puncture wounds that were all around him. The Goddess of Slaughter craned her long neck down to bring her eyes and jaws upon Phaloth's hapless body. A rank, grey smoke was exuded from her nostrils; it bore the smell of a million-million burning hearts.
This mortal lays false claim. Her long, square jaws/snout moved; with each syllable, her teeth gnashed together like a whetstone to metal.
Wracked with pain and fear, Phaloth stared up at Angatdan imploringly through the veils that swaddled and obscured him from everyone but she. He could feel his eyes water, taste the steely taste of his own blood, and could stomach the nausea that overpowered even his contented aesthetic that came along with the smell of burning hearts. A small part of him felt ravished, though, and primordially sated. There was nothing more beautiful, more natural, to Phaloth than this state of being that she had shown to him.
"O, glorious Goddess," Phaloth pleaded, sounding somewhere between apologetic and reverent. "I meant you no offense. You speak sooth; I am not of your blood or of your kin. But your spark---your ways---they flow through my veins as verily as the blood-bonds that you have misconstrued."
I have no spawn. The voice seemed to reverberate and repeat ad infinitum within the Bodycrafter's mind, causing his temples to pulsate with subdued agony. The blood vessels circulating through his skullpan constricted in time with the echoing of her sentence. Phaloth writhed around on his back in the real world and clutched at his skull. Darkness refused to come to him, in spite of his brain being slowly deprived of the precious oxygen and other such nutrients carried by these cells. There was nothing but the vision in his mind and the physical pain brought on by its presence.
Angatdan lifted one of her legs. The patch of darkness that was her foot warped in accordance to her will; from her heel, a sharp protrusion that could only be described as a dewclaw emerged. It curved sharply with the wickedness of a scythe and bore a certain onyx sheen that the rest of her body was lacking. Violently, the shadow-avatar brought down the clawed heel into the scabrous flesh located around the throne of bone. Spurts of gore, skin, and blood oozed from the mass mired with pus and infection of a million-million cruelly butchered souls. As the gruesome, viscous fluid flowed Angatdan's power made the cut more brutal than ever before by slashing her spiked heel back like a rake against the earth. A fountain of the horrible concoction spewed around her shadowy body in one magnificient and volcanic display. At first, it was unfocused; it simply carried on upward and every which direction. Within a heartbeat, however, that changed. Angatdan spread her arms wide, embracing the pustulent morass and taking it upon herself. Soon, it flowed around her and, eventually, through her. It enveloped Anga like a ever-flowing chrysalis that was as opaque as its descriptor.
The gore-cocoon exploded not even a moment later and revealed a horror that would make mere mortals perish immediately from just the fear of it. A serpentine horror, as large as a small house, sat before Phaloth and floated scathe inches from the scabrous wound that was underneath of it. It had the head of a dragon, but unlike the conventional dragons seen in those silly stories; the features were exaggerated and square, almost as if carved from stone. The snout was long and squared and filled with teeth that perpetually oozed with what could only be described as the ichor of the fallen. A ceremonial headdress anointed its brow, built on a skeleton of sickly-glowing gold and other valuable ores. Brilliantly colored feathers stained with blood---as stark and colorful as that of a Macaw parrot's---decoratively peppered and contrasted the glowing metals nauseatingly. Strung across the edge of the crown and hanging just above her reptilian slitted eyes were bones of varying variety. Thick scales covered its long body, but they were not monochromatic---rather, it ran a gamut colors, varying from shades of green to red to yellows that were mostly dark and grainy in appearance. It was as if she were naught but stone and the colors were merely painted on. Wings sprouted from around her middle, fanning out powerfully and stretching to at least one and a half times larger than what she is. Every single inch of these wings were covered in beautiful feathers that were tinged and tipped with blood. The midsection of the dragon bore long, wiry arms that ended in long, fragile yet dangerous looking fingertips tipped with onyx claws. Brilliantly colored feathers tainted with blood sprouted like budding grass from around her wrists, slicked backward and pointing directly at her body. Gold bracelets and bangles were cuffed around each wrist; like the base of the crown, these artifacts glowed with an unhealthy and dire light.
The now-draconic Angatdan shot forward like an arrow strung out from a longbow, beating her powerful wings to propel her from her impossible stationary levitation. Before the dream-Phaloth could react, he was immediately pinned in place by one of Anga's powerful arms. The metaphysical force took a considerable toll on his real body; he reacted violently to the power that was suddenly exuded, chest buckling and ribs nearly cracking underneath of the force. A heap of blood erupted from his lips, as his internal organs were very ruptured. Around his body, claws sank into the damaged flesh-ground around him, providing as much resistance as wet paper would to a sharp knife. Putrid fluids started seeping from the puncture wounds that were all around him. The Goddess of Slaughter craned her long neck down to bring her eyes and jaws upon Phaloth's hapless body. A rank, grey smoke was exuded from her nostrils; it bore the smell of a million-million burning hearts.
This mortal lays false claim. Her long, square jaws/snout moved; with each syllable, her teeth gnashed together like a whetstone to metal.
Wracked with pain and fear, Phaloth stared up at Angatdan imploringly through the veils that swaddled and obscured him from everyone but she. He could feel his eyes water, taste the steely taste of his own blood, and could stomach the nausea that overpowered even his contented aesthetic that came along with the smell of burning hearts. A small part of him felt ravished, though, and primordially sated. There was nothing more beautiful, more natural, to Phaloth than this state of being that she had shown to him.
"O, glorious Goddess," Phaloth pleaded, sounding somewhere between apologetic and reverent. "I meant you no offense. You speak sooth; I am not of your blood or of your kin. But your spark---your ways---they flow through my veins as verily as the blood-bonds that you have misconstrued."
Re: Promise of Suffering
The great lizard's maw turned now, facing towards where she could sense the other mortals this one kept. Whether they were his priestly servants, she did not know or care.
She looked back down at the mortal beneath her. She could feel his body writhing with pain, feel portions of him even dying with the pressure she exerted. Any more and the delicate ribcage would crack and then shatter underneath her paw, the bones rippling out to poke up through the skin. It would tickle.
She swayed at the image within her consciousness, suddenly so desperate for slaughter that she nearly took this mortal's life. But he claimed to be hers - again, she gazed out over the sacrifices lined, primed and given unto her. The power they had offered gave this shape its focus. At the very least, the mortal knew how to offer flesh to her will, which parts of the body she craved, and which to discard for meat otherwise.
He couldn't please her with his offering or his words; she could not feel pleasure. But he could satiate her. He had done so; now he would do more. A test. This mortal wished to be her servant on earth, and she was sorely lacking a priest who gave such perfect gifts to her.
The maw turned back now to gaze upon him. The pressure within his chest never slackened, but nor did it increase. She did not intend to kill him.
You who wish to embody my presence upon this plane, to serve as my bond, must prove yourself.
The word "priest" brought another cascade of ramshackle memories surging from one end of time to the next. Ancient priests garbed in modern robes; modern priests before an ancient assembly; a great stone cathedral with a white fox within; her own priest from before, wrist in hers, accepting the delicate drop of ichor on his wrist to seal the wound she'd created.
She only needed the priest.
Give your slaves unto me.
Death and blood poured from her mouth as she buried the words inside of him. Images of figures broken and bent, bones spiking randomly from their skin, half-eaten and destroyed in flesh, rolled from her in waves; thousands who had been given in both worship and blood lust. The creatures who had worshiped her before sacrificed many and often through their own desires and skills. Her priest would need to further prove he could do the same.
The paw convulsed as her power waned. She could not hold this focus much longer. The pressure steadily began decreasing on his chest, though she remained in place, prepared to crush him into the ground and let his blood and bone mingle with the floor. Now it was his turn to speak. The patience of a true immortal eclipsed her temper, making her motionless as she paused for his reply.
She looked back down at the mortal beneath her. She could feel his body writhing with pain, feel portions of him even dying with the pressure she exerted. Any more and the delicate ribcage would crack and then shatter underneath her paw, the bones rippling out to poke up through the skin. It would tickle.
She swayed at the image within her consciousness, suddenly so desperate for slaughter that she nearly took this mortal's life. But he claimed to be hers - again, she gazed out over the sacrifices lined, primed and given unto her. The power they had offered gave this shape its focus. At the very least, the mortal knew how to offer flesh to her will, which parts of the body she craved, and which to discard for meat otherwise.
He couldn't please her with his offering or his words; she could not feel pleasure. But he could satiate her. He had done so; now he would do more. A test. This mortal wished to be her servant on earth, and she was sorely lacking a priest who gave such perfect gifts to her.
The maw turned back now to gaze upon him. The pressure within his chest never slackened, but nor did it increase. She did not intend to kill him.
You who wish to embody my presence upon this plane, to serve as my bond, must prove yourself.
The word "priest" brought another cascade of ramshackle memories surging from one end of time to the next. Ancient priests garbed in modern robes; modern priests before an ancient assembly; a great stone cathedral with a white fox within; her own priest from before, wrist in hers, accepting the delicate drop of ichor on his wrist to seal the wound she'd created.
She only needed the priest.
Give your slaves unto me.
Death and blood poured from her mouth as she buried the words inside of him. Images of figures broken and bent, bones spiking randomly from their skin, half-eaten and destroyed in flesh, rolled from her in waves; thousands who had been given in both worship and blood lust. The creatures who had worshiped her before sacrificed many and often through their own desires and skills. Her priest would need to further prove he could do the same.
The paw convulsed as her power waned. She could not hold this focus much longer. The pressure steadily began decreasing on his chest, though she remained in place, prepared to crush him into the ground and let his blood and bone mingle with the floor. Now it was his turn to speak. The patience of a true immortal eclipsed her temper, making her motionless as she paused for his reply.
I look at people and I see nothing worth liking.
-
Phaloth Arnitel
- Outsider
- Posts: 16
- Joined: Wed Feb 06, 2008 2:34 am
Re: Promise of Suffering
As the Goddess's power waned, Phaloth could see that the faux world created by her might start to dissolve. Unreality coalesced into reality; verdant greens, darkening browns, and subdued sunlight appeared around the scabrous ceiling that Anga had created in Phaloth's mind. Like so much smoke on the wind, the vision was whisked away and was replaced with a agony-tainted, all-too blurry view of the forest that he and his fellow clerics had set up shop in. However, the presence of the Goddess did not leave him; in his blood, he could feel her power lingering in the background and weighing down on his chest.
The Bodycrafter shuddered; tatters of blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. His insides hurt; each breath rattled the sore bones that housed bruised organs. He was tired, drained emotionally and physically from the wanton rapine of the Goddess's power. Even through all of that, however, Phaloth managed to give his Goddess the answer that she wanted from him.
You who wish to embody my presence upon this plane, to serve as my bond, must prove yourself. The Goddess's voice pulsated in his eardrum as distantly as the pulse in a dying man's wrist.
Give your slaves unto me.
The Bodycrafter looked in the direction of those that he had deemed his understudies in the Ways of the Ever Changing. A seeming tide of red ran through the bushes and brush in his general direction.; their details were blurred, indistinct as his fatigue was still present. Cries, tones mixed with a combination of concern and exaltation, were directed his way. Ah, the men and women that he had gathered and taken delicately under their wing...all useless in the grand scheme of things, as it turned out. The Goddess had no need of any other mortal in this entourage other than he. He was the chosen one, the messianic figure will uphold her vision in spite of everything else. Phaloth didn't view this practice
"I will not question your wisdom, O Great Goddess," Phaloth said, strained somewhat from his ordeal. He sat up slowly, assisted by a couple of his fellows. Through his veils, ebony eyes regarded each and every one of them with a newfound hatred and intent.
The Bodycrafter shuddered; tatters of blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. His insides hurt; each breath rattled the sore bones that housed bruised organs. He was tired, drained emotionally and physically from the wanton rapine of the Goddess's power. Even through all of that, however, Phaloth managed to give his Goddess the answer that she wanted from him.
You who wish to embody my presence upon this plane, to serve as my bond, must prove yourself. The Goddess's voice pulsated in his eardrum as distantly as the pulse in a dying man's wrist.
Give your slaves unto me.
The Bodycrafter looked in the direction of those that he had deemed his understudies in the Ways of the Ever Changing. A seeming tide of red ran through the bushes and brush in his general direction.; their details were blurred, indistinct as his fatigue was still present. Cries, tones mixed with a combination of concern and exaltation, were directed his way. Ah, the men and women that he had gathered and taken delicately under their wing...all useless in the grand scheme of things, as it turned out. The Goddess had no need of any other mortal in this entourage other than he. He was the chosen one, the messianic figure will uphold her vision in spite of everything else. Phaloth didn't view this practice
"I will not question your wisdom, O Great Goddess," Phaloth said, strained somewhat from his ordeal. He sat up slowly, assisted by a couple of his fellows. Through his veils, ebony eyes regarded each and every one of them with a newfound hatred and intent.