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memurfevur-archive · 1 year

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Faithless Creations

Character(s): Zillyhoo, Wesker Werecrow

About: A deity reserved through the annals of time investigates a creature that quickly teaches him what it is like to feel fear and becomes something bigger than himself.

CW: violence and gore, body horror

Google Doc Link

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The throne grows cold as the prayers to feed it grow silent. There were not as many worshippers as there were the night before, or the night before that. Remaining tongues cry of fear, a flavor I most dislike. Their prayers reek of desperation, and they plead for protection and knowledge against an enemy most unknown and unfamiliar. It is not disbelief that is beginning to starve me, but the swift and sharp knife of death that had come too soon.

At first, I thought it must be my brothers and sisters; other Messiahs selfishly trying to claim more domain. It’s within our nature, of course– endlessly do we squabble over the food we play with. Why, it is how I achieved my power so long ago before the quakes of war rumbled our kingdom. Me and my hammer carving a name for ourselves through the blood of gods and mortals alike, until at last the name would be drawn from their lips, drowned in the emotions I crave: Zillyhoo. Only fools have tried to usurp me to take my power and my land, my food and my name. This city of Hoohahn stands strong, and as long as I remain these golden marble pillars will never bend. And thus I looked for evidence for who might have tampered with my flock, evidence for which petty and zealous sibling must I crush beneath my hammer, and yet I found none.

I saw before me fields of blood and bone. A black substance coated the leaves of our harvests. Cadavers hung from wooden posts, mangled yet stitched together like cloth dolls. Expressions of fear and anguish were preserved in the stitching, though their rotting flesh emitted a smell so foul that it threatened to tear me from my mortal host. Skin sunk into hollows and tightly hugged the bone, the faces were hardly recognizable from when they were living. These were the demons my prey feared, but they were hardly more than lifeless apparitions and phantoms from nightmares.

There was one abomination that was most unlike the others.

Like most of these soiled victims, this had clearly been a Purpleblood, but this was more intricately stitched than all the others. Its limbs were strange and non-Trollian, more digitigrade and canine; it even sported a tail, long-furred and just as greasy and matted as the hair on its head. Such a head hung limp, like every other, and its eyes were lifeless yet strained. Black webbing laced its intricate patterns beneath its skin, and where there were tears from the threading, it spilled out like ichor between each piece of straw. Blood of many colors coated its arms and farmer’s clothes. An interesting design for a scarecrow, if any, and yet I had the nagging feeling that this was no victim nor a wasteful piece of cloth and wood.

Inhaling its putrid scents through senses no mortal Troll could hope to have, I could pick up faint traces of the breed of living that I despised. Sterile labs and linen coats, and the air of something overly sanitized. This scarecrow had the mark of man all over it. But how could this be? What scarecrow could kill so many of my followers without my noticing? What scarecrow could kill at all? How could Trolls make a scarecrow move? It is this that angers me about those who mess within laboratories, trying their hand at creation like half-baked gods. I miss the days where superstition ran rampant; the sheep were easier to herd then.

While I had no proof that this scarecrow was the root of my problems, I chose to act on my instinct and remove the wretched thing from its post to destroy it. It felt childish of me to be ripping apart a scarecrow. Straw and ichor flew everywhere, and I grimaced as my hands sunk wrist-deep into the mysterious black substance inside. Viscera clung to me as I retreated my arms. It felt pointless and disgusting, yet soon I had reduced this devil-spawn scarecrow to its raw materials, and in which it no longer held a form. With a scowl I turned to head home, eager to be rid of this host so that I would no longer have this disgusting material on my body.

Not long after, the night grew brighter. Clouds dissipated from the bicolored moons above and donned the fields with a mixed light-brown glow, revealing more of the ichor on the leaves of the crops and upon my body. My scowl grew, but I stopped in my tracks when I felt a sharp burning on my arms. I watched in shock as the ichor peeled away on its own towards the direction of the mangled scarecrow behind me. I turned, my eyes wide with curiosity.

The black ichor from within the scarecrow was now standing like a man, becoming a mountainous mass of slick gurgles and growls. Quickly, arm-like formations sprouted and bones grew out of its surface. Its form was not like that of the shell that still lay at its feet. Instead fuzzy black tendrils whipped from its body, limbs of all sorts spiraling from the mass, teeth and fangs where nails and claws should be. Its own flesh dripped and folded over upon itself, both solid yet liquid like tar. As multiple eyes sprouted and landed their gazes upon me, I knew then that it was not a scarecrow those faithless men had made, but a shadow of their very own wickedness.

One of its arms shot towards me, inky flesh uncoiling and stretching thin like a slinky. Bony protrusions sliced across my chest, but I was quick to pull my warhammer from the blood of my host. My fingers found the familiar grooves in the gold and azure handle, the pink orb on the back of my beauty’s head sporting an ever cheerful smile ready to joyfully taunt this monster, as it had countless lives before it. I ran a finger over the engraved Z on the block of gold on its head, and felt the power of my homeworld tremble through it. Metals unknown to this realm, forged in the fire by the smiths of Pipplemop, commissioned by my brother the Sage Lord of the Wozzingjay Fiefdom from within the Realm of the Snargly Fruzmigbubbins. I was confident that this would not take long.

I raised my hammer over my head and slammed it to the ground in front of me. The ground tore asunder, rocks and earth rising as bladed mounds snaked towards the ungodly creation. It knocked the creature back and penetrated its body, but it seemed unfazed. It screeched and slithered over and around the stones and cracks on the ground, and once again unfurled itself with bones flying. I raised my hammer, using it as a temporary shield. The claws slid right off, leaving not a scratch.

Stepping backwards, I pushed my energy into my weapon, concentrating my very soul into the hammer’s atoms. As expected, as practiced, for years longer than this planet’s birth, the wind whipped around my opponent and I. I swung once more, conducting the winds forth at a speed so fast that the currents became visible white razors. The winds severed the limbs of the monster, who seemed to feel no pain even as its cut bones fell to the ground. It staggered towards me still, growing new arms. With a snarl I pointed my weapon at it, forcing the winds to spiral and put some distance between us. This thankfully worked, as the monster stumbled backward and was unable to move against the current.

Or at least, that is how it had appeared, until the creature built upon itself to rise above the wind. Two arm-like extensions soared towards me then, and I lifted my hammer to shield myself as I had before. To my surprise, the monster learned quickly; claws wrapped around the face of the warhammer, dislodging it from my grasp and throwing it far behind. The other set of claws raked across me once more, sending me backwards until I stumbled enough to fall.

How could this be? How could a wretched, Troll-made beast overcome the powers of which the creators themselves could never understand? Was it pure luck, or had this been planned? In all of my years since time primordial, I felt something new stir within me. Something foreign. Something unfamiliar. Something mortal. It burned my throat, and made it feel as if iron hands gripped my… stomach? No. My host’s. This must be fear, a fear so deep and resonating that it escaped the containment of my host. A fear so palpable it leaked into my own soul….

For the first time in my history, I knew I couldn’t win.

The creature wrapped its ichor around my body and pulled me up, lifting me high above the ground. I tried to focus on myself, still my breathing so that I may detach myself from this body and go back to my realm, but the bone-like spikes dug hard into me, making me cry out. Pain? Had fear created a doorway for pain? The longer this went on, the more I found it to be true; the more fear I felt, the more I felt pain, and the more that pain robbed me of my body, the more fear consumed me. I could feel the threads that would have brought me home snap; I could not un-possess this body. I could not go home to my brothers and sisters. I was trapped, feeling mortal emotions– for once I understood what it was that I had been feeding on all this time, and the thought of prey became pitiful and guilty.

I felt my host’s body tremble, though from my fear or from the creature tearing open the flesh, I did not truly know. I watched in horror, powerless, as the whites of my soul mingled with the gurgling ink of the creature. I heard a noise so common on this planet, a screaming ripping from desperate throats. It was unreal; it was hard to fathom that it came from me. I was both experiencing death and watching it from the outside as my essence continued to mingle in the blackness.

I was everywhere, and yet I was nowhere all at once. Memories flooded to me; this creature’s name had once been Wesker. This once-been Wesker had no thought, not even vestigial; it had no consciousness or emotion. Empty. It was empty, spurred only by the godless programming of new-age science. Wesker no longer existed, but it was a name, and I clung to it. And as my essence left the mortal body of my host, I began to cling to the ink and bone. I clung to the traces of organs and viscera left over from those previous and new victims. I clung to everything but the vile godless programming.

Or, perhaps, it mustn’t be so vile afterall; in their wicked shadows they had created a vessel, one void of thought and will, and emotion and sense of self– one which created the perfect nest for a parasite such as my kind. An operating room, protected by this… this…

Mold. Such a perfect name, for now I mold myself to it.

The body of my former host fell to the ground; limp, crushed, and torn apart. I watched as instinct told me to do what I must do: to sew this man back together, to infect him with my spores and my sludge. To create a lesser instance of… of a Werecrow? Is this my identity? Our identity? I could hear the voices in the crops and the voices in the corpses that hung on wooden poles. These were a part of me now, whispers I could control, extensions of myself. To spread. To feed. To make more. Never ending. I watched as my fang needle wove in and out of flesh, connected by the same ichor that oozed from me. I put this man back together. He is perfect now. I hang him on the pole that I once occupied. A mindless angel, ready to be commanded by its god.

I am its god.

I am a god. I am like no other. A fusion of old world and modern. I will make. I will spread. This territory, this army, are mine. I am complete, within a vessel.

I am a god, and I am hungry.

#Zillycrow #Werecrow 2.0 #fevur writing

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blahblahwritings · 4 years

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From Death’s Door.

A/N: Couldn’t really think of a title but this was requested anonymously. I loved writing it.

Request: Hey! I hope this isn’t too much, but do you take prompts for your writing? If so, can I please request a Jaskier x female reader oneshot with the prompts “I just want you to be safe. That’s all i’ve ever wanted for you!” + “Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so...” + “Can I kiss you?” Angst with a romantic fluffy ending!! 💕💜💕 Thank you so much!!

Words: 1472.

Warnings: Blood. Angst.

This wasn’t how you thought you would go. You had a plan, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be at an old age, surrounded by loved ones as your lungs finally gave out, or perhaps saving someone else from a terrible fate. At the very least you wanted to die in your own home alongside your belongings that told the stories of your life.

But, the ringing in your ears wouldn’t cease as you stumbled through the forest, clutching your side to desperately stem the bleeding. Gore continued to gush from the claw wound as the world started to blur. Just a little farther. You could make it to the village if you just kept going. The hand that wasn’t pressing into your side found grip on a nearby tree as you staggered, off balance. Pushing off, you made it a few more steps before tripping over a protruding root and plummeting to the soil in a heap.

Agony shot through you in waves earning a groan as you hopelessly tried to crawl back to your feet. To no avail. Slipping back to the ground, your body screamed out in exhaustion, viscera spurting from the tear in your abdomen. Darkness started to cloud the corners of your vision and you panted helplessly in a fruitless attempt to get more oxygen to your brain. A horrifying screech sounded behind you, the thundering of paws and claws soon following. Twigs and branches snapped and the whole world seemed to shake as the beast drew closer. This would be your pitiful end, once strong and proud now struck down in the middle of nowhere, no hope of anyone finding your body. You would be left to rot or be eaten by filthy ghouls and monsters alike.

A huff of breath blew across your face, causing you to grimace at the stench of death and decay. It began to circle you, tormenting its prey before delivering the final blow. Scraping its claws through the dirt, powering up to launch it’s attack, you closed your eyes, images of your friends flashing like projections behind your eyelids. All the times you’d laughed and cried with Jaskier, drunk and clumsy as you walked home. Flickers of the world you’d been introduced to while travelling with Geralt and the bard. Your younger sister screaming in joy as you gifted her the first bow and arrow she’d ever use.

Then you listed the regrets. All the things you would never be able to do. You would never confess your feelings to Jaskier, kiss him or marry. You would never have children or see another birthday. A broken sob made its way from your throat for all the things lost as you opened your eyes again. The beast lurched forwards, its wings carrying its massive body and its beak falling open in a deafening battle cry. You howled right back, every last bit of energy in your body producing an almighty roar at your impending doom.

It didn’t come, however. Instead, a silver sword had plunged through its skull just before it reached you, the sticky dark red liquid coating your chest and legs as you sat against the trunk of the tree watching the life drain from its feline eyes. Your shriek stopped and your breathing faltered. The beast collapsed, the head on your lap crushing your legs. It was thrown aside in a moment, revealing a certain white haired witcher and your pretty boy bard before you sunk into unconsciousness.

You awoke in your home, the scent of a burning fire filling your wheezing lungs. Your whole being ached, the gash across your side was throbbing and your skull felt like it was being relentlessly pounded. Rolling your head to the side, you found Jaskier fast asleep facing away from you. His halo of chestnut hair splayed across the mattress he leant on, the bottom half of his body sat in a chair at your bedside. A weak smile twitched at your lips as you stared through half-lidded eyes. Fingers began softly twirling strands of his locks, gently coaxing him from his slumber. Realising that you were awake, he shot up, head swivelling to meet your gaze.

“Thanks the gods, you’re alive.” He whispered, a breath of relief huffing from his chest as his hands covered his face before parting again. His eyes looked red and puffy, he’d been crying. “How are you feeling, love.” He grabbed your hand, holding in tenderly between his two palms, laying a kiss to it. Had you not been in so much pain, the mix of the pet name and his lips touching your skin would’ve made you melt.

“I’m good, you’re here, how could I be any different.” You replied, smile growing. At this, he scoffed, his forehead falling against his grip and a grin of his own made an appearance. Looking back to you, you saw his eyes becoming glassy. “Sh, I’m alright you and Geralt found me. I’m safe.” You cooed, brushing your thumb against his knuckles. “And what if we hadn’t? Hm? What if you had died before we could get to you?” His voice cracked in a harsh whisper, mouth pressing into a tight line, brows furrowing into a pained expression. “You shouldn’t have wandered so far from the camp, y/n, we could’ve lost you, I could’ve lost you.” He trailed off toward the end, tears spilling over.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just wanted to fetch some herbs for my research. I didn’t realise how far I strayed.” The apology tumbled from your cracked lips. The sight of him so upset, so broken at the thought of losing you started a trail of your own tears rolling down your pale cheeks. You hated seeing him like this.

“I just want you to be safe, that's all I’ve ever wanted for you.” He muttered, lips kissing your hand again, wetter this time from the evidence of his sorrow. “Please, never scare me like that again.” A plea that sent your heart stuttering. Why did you have to be such a burden? The source of his grief? “I won’t, I’m sorry for being such a royal fuck up. I never wanted to be such a pathetic mess around you.” A sob racked your body shooting a burning soreness through you. His face fell, not understanding how you could think so little of yourself.

“No. Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so strong and you’re the most brilliant, intelligent and beautiful woman I’ve ever known inside and out.” He fought against your self-hatred. The words brought a broken grin to your face as you laughed. Beautiful. Strong. Intelligent. Brilliant. “You think I’m all those things? Even beautiful?” You asked.

“Gods, y/n, I worship the very ground you stand on, every word you utter is like poetry to my starved soul. Everyday I see you, my heart leaps in glee. Your smile is incandescent, providing the very light that feeds the flowers in my lungs. I am completely and entirely enamoured by you and everything you do. I adore you. I love you.” He rambled harshly whispering the last part. You gulped, the speech rendering your heart and lungs idle. Eyes searched his for any sign of a lie, but you found none. All the breath in your body left and you beamed at him.

“I love you too, Jask, I’m utterly mad about you.” You admitted, blood returning to your cheeks in a blush. This sent the bard into another fit of tears, this time happy that you returned the feelings he had hidden for so long. It was your turn to bring his hand to your lips in a delicate kiss.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, the question sending sparks to every nerve ending in your body. A nod confirmed your answer and he moved from his seat, leaning over you on the bed. Brushing a stray hair behind your ear, his eyes scanned every inch of your face, a loving smile tugging at his lips. Then he met your mouth with his own. It was slow, tender and heart-filled, he treated you as if you were glass, afraid of hurting you. At this point you didn’t really mind and you pulled him in, letting the repressed feelings take over as you deepened the kiss. Breaking apart and gasping for air, the two of you laughed, the action making you wince as it jerked your body.

“Sh now, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on what we’ve been missing when you’re healed, darling. Rest.” He chuckled with a wink, laying one final peck to your forehead before lying beside you, resolving to never leave your side until that day.

#Jaskier #Jaskier x reader #the witcher #fluff #whump #angst #jaskier pankratz #julian alfred pankratz

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fanoftheoccult · 4 years

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When I was young, living on the back roads of southern Indiana, the woods behind my father's house was the perfect escape from the harsh reality of living with the man. My childish imagination would provide endless amounts of entertainment while I pretended to be a knight, gladiator, or even pirate. My weapon of choice was always whatever stick sturdy enough to swing around and smack tree trunks with a satisfactory thud. My father and his girlfriend never cared how long I was out adventuring, which never bothered me in the least. Many a long day was spent running about the trees, fighting an invisible, yet irrevocably vile villian until hunger would force me back home and to retire for the evening, the fight picking back up the next day.

This tradition continued until I felt as f I knew every branch and trail in the expansive woods. I felt invincible in my playing, and never felt fear when I would inevitably kick up a wild animal or two with my thrashing about. With that in mind, the creature I would encounter changed that and instilled a fear of the wild that persists even now and while my hands shake at the rememberence of the events, I will attempt to tell you the story of when I met the entity known as the Queen of Green.

It was the summer of 2006, school had been closed for break and the July heat was mixing with the humid air, making an almost choking thickness to the air. However, this was nothing new and it did not prevent me from carrying on as I did. I was a few hours into playing, a few hours from my house, the closest place of relative safety, when I began to smell an odor all too familiar to one so versed in woodland exploration. The pungent, almost sour odor of decay. Usually, I would shy away at the first sniff of such things, for hunters and rumors of wilder animals were common in this woods and it would have been more unusual to smell such an stench. Today, though, the odor was particularly vibrant.

I followed the smell to an old building deeper into the woods. Strange I had not seen such a building before as scavenging oddities from forgotten places was always an exciting hobby of mine but I was hesitant to enter as the smell grew stronger and stronger still with every step, as if a giant collection of carcasses were piled just beyond the door, broken and half fallen in from the years of disrepair and natural reclamation of the forest.

Past the door, the building shared many similarities to the church down the street from where I lived, complete with pews and podium. The pews were pushed to the sides of the building, as if to make room for a vast being invisible to my eyes. Even though sunlight shined through cracks in the roof, I still could not make out anything further in.

Walking past the pews and toward the podium, I had a sense that something was watching me, like I was not as alone as I had thought. On approach of the center of the room in from of the podium, I could make out strange symbols and glyphs were carved into the wood of the podium and, to my surprise, I realized the podium itself was of one solid piece of wood, a stump from a tree that long ago grew through the floor of the building and once stood mighty and regal over the people who must have took communion here. Finally, I had reach my destination and went to place my hand on the podium when I heard it.

A gutteral and choking sound, like the sound of someone with a cut throat in movies would make, suddenly caught my attention and I turned to see that there was a deer of an unusual size laying on the floor against one of the walls. Blood was pooled around the great beast as it struggled to hold on to whatever life it had left. Startled, I looked around franticly to search for whatever predator could have done this. After seeing nothing else but the deer, I drew closer. Now, as a somewhat experienced woodsman, I understood that a dying animal can be most dangerous in it's desperation, but I felt nothing but a calm as I approached.

The deer, whom at this point I could tell was a large doe, had stopped trying to stand and played on the floor before me, life spilling out from a wound on her belly. It was then when I saw the true horror of the creature. Rot had set in, and it must have done so a long time ago. Most of the muscle and flesh have been eaten away by the millions of writhing maggots and flies that choked the air near her and the doe's eyes had no glimmer of life, and yet here it was, against all odds. Alive. I had turned to run from the building, away from just whatever the fuck was going on, and thinking back, I should have. However, it was then when I heard it's voice.

"Why are you frightened, fawn?", the deer asked me in a voice so surreal and beautiful that I nearly forgotten the gory mess that was it's body.

"Because I don't think you should still be moving", I quickly stammered. In my childish innocence, I wanted to believe that honesty will see me safely through this.

The doe snorted through what was left of its nose, blowing a yellow bile out as it did so and replied with a regal undertone of authority, "What you see is the work of evil men who used to worship me. Their spirits still haunt this place and they keep me their captive. You have answered my call, you have come to help me"

Slowly, I backed away saying, "I'm sorry, but I never heard a call, I was just poking around, but I think I need to leave."

As I turned to rush out, the floorboards before the door, my one exit, gave a groan then exploded as many saplings rose from the ground and quickly grew together into a wall. I knew then that there was no escape outside of the doe just letting me go.

"Well, um, what was it you needed done?", I stated turning back to the doe, each word dripping with defeat as if my fate was already sealed.

The doe tried to sit up, more viscera spilling onto the floor and the monstrosity rolled over to reveal what looked like a hunting knife, carved from an antler and buried to it's hilt into the stomach of the doe.

"Human child, you but merely need to undo what your kind had done to me. Pull this object from me and I can finally return to my kingdom. I know that you hate it here and crave adventure. I can give you what you want if you but do this one task", the beast cooed with as much persuasion as it's current state allowed.

I walked over to the hurt animal, for though the doe was obviously supernatural, the sight of a beast suffering has always struck a heartstring with me. I knelt down beside the doe, it's pleading eyes filled with hope and the occasional maggot wriggling out from the corners.

Gripping the handle of the knife, I pulled as hard as I could, but the knife was stuck fast, as if something was pulling on the other side of it. Blood and pus began to seep out from around the handle as I strained against it, the smell of death worsening to the point where it made my eyes water.

"You've almost done it, fawn, and be quick about it, I can hear them coming!", said the panicked animal.

As if on cue, I began to hear footsteps all around us outside the building along with what sounded like a dull pounding on the sapling wall that had previously prevented my escape. The sound of the thudding was rhythmic, as whoever was making their way through that barrier had found their groove and my heart thumped just as fast as I realized where I had heard the sound before. It was an axe, and I only had moments before whatever was trying to get in was on the inside with me and the wounded wonder.

Doubling my effort, I put my foot against deer and yanked with all my might, my foot squishing into the soft and rotten belly of the beast, though it gave no complaint. Finally it seemed to be enough and the knife slid out, pulling pieces of old entrails with it. Not a moment too soon either as I heard the wall behind us begin to splinter and give way to whatever "spirits of evil men" the doe had warned about.

I don't know what I expected next. I grabbed the knife and turned to face the intruder when I came face to face with my father. He looked different than before and had a look of concern mixed with worry that only a father looking for their child could muster. Then the look changed to one of terror. As long as I live I will never forget that drastic change because his face was the last human face I ever saw. In a blink of an eye, it was like I was pulled from that world, away from the carcass that had held the Queen, as I have come to know her.

I awoke in a forest unlike any I had meandered through before, trees growing so high that the sun didn't make it to the ground, with leaves and bark that was unlike anything on Earth. Spongy to the feel and would bleed if peeled back, as if the trees were made of hardened flesh. I dread to think too much about it. The queen came eventually, free of her former shell. She thanked me for helping her and gave me a stick just like what I used to play with, then bade me farewell and left me here.

Months must have gone by though it seems the seasons and weather never change here. Nights are cold and quiet while the days are hot but just as quiet. It's as if there is nothing else here. When I first arrived, I chose a direction to walk but I am unsure if I am even going the same direction still. While the trees provided all the shelter I could need, food and water was another matter all together. The bark of the trees are edible enough, though tasteless and the "sap" as I called it was nourishing. Once you got past the copper flavor. I think I might be here forever, walking through this endless forest until I simply don't anymore, with but one constant thought spurring action in me.

I want to go home.

#random tale #notes app #oc

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rukafais · 5 years

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ascension

The Wyrm dies. The Pale King lives, and breathes, and hungers.

cw: violence, mild-moderate gore (depending on tolerance), death, the pale king eats sentient bugs and doesn’t care

[ao3 mirror]

He does not know how long he spends crafting his own shell, the doll that will hold the vast depths of his consciousness. Time is irrelevant to someone as old as him. He has sat and watched kingdoms rise and fall, in his long, slow travels. He has seen endless sunrises and endless sunsets. He has seen centuries passing in the slow beat of a heart. Nothing has ever been able to hold his devouring, infinite curiosity for long. The world is small and banal and grey.

(He feels his body dying, feels the signals that mean the end of his life is close. But death is simply transformation, one form being changed for another.

He expects his second life to be more of that same banality.)

He carves it with mechanical precision. A crown that mirrors the mouth he will lose. Chitin as white and pristine as the form he will shed. Joints and segments assembled with delicate care to make it look like the bugs that scurry to and fro under his ancient eye, but not quite; something new, something unique.

Something fit for godhood.

As his own organs fail, he crafts and places, with painstaking care, new and smaller ones. (This shell will bleed, and breathe; it will have all the things that living bugs have, but it will stand apart from them. It will never fall as they do, because in truth its core, its heart, is his own unending will.) As his body begins to decay, he makes the last touches on the body that is waiting to be born. (Ash flakes from his inert form, already falling. Already beginning to cover the place he has chosen to die.)

He looks it over, infinitely patient, to make certain there are no flaws or cracks in his design.

The darkness of death gnaws and claws at the edges of his mind, unraveling it little by little; he is not afraid, because he does not know what it means to fear, what it means to be mortal, what it means to die.

The Wyrm dies. Its carcass rots, slowly, and the world is smaller for losing it.

What is born from its remains has no name, and an ancient mind, and shines painful and bright like a star fallen to earth.

Life is faster here, measured in the space of breath, the space of heartbeat. He wanders among his own ash, content to observe from a distance, until he finds himself with a strange weakness, an odd sensation.

A wyrm does not need to eat much. They are creatures impossibly large, impossibly slow, more like landmarks than living beings. They simply exist. But hunger had seized him, now and then, in the passage of time - and he had consumed what was in front of him. He had not bothered to catalogue taste or texture, or even what it was that he had eaten.

(Scarlet fire illuminates the ruin of a land devoured, far to the south, where his journey began.)

He finds himself hungry, but he does not know what bugs eat to sate themselves, so he tries what he can. Rocks and plants are acceptable - they are broken down by efficient processes, far beyond the level of any imperfectly created being - but his body craves something else.

Finally, he turns his gaze to the mindless creatures that fly and crawl, that he had dismissed as being below his attentions. Prey, something in him says.

They are so easy to kill.

He punctures soft abdomens and snaps thin necks with deadly precision; once he understands their patterns, their ways of running or hiding or foolishly attacking, they are no challenge to him at all.

Once he is bored of killing them, he begins to catch them. Fascinated with how they squirm to get away from him, making their strange small sounds, he takes them to pieces over and over until his curiosity is satisfied. Legs and wings and scattered parts litter the ground, and their fluids are dark stains against the stark whiteness of his shell.

He piles up the bodies, devoid of movement or life. He eats until he feels hunger subside, and looks at the remains with nothing more than faint disapproval. So inefficient, so distasteful. So messy. But it will do.

While he cleans himself, he hears the sound of something new. Something cautious to approach. So he sits, still as a statue, barely breathing, and waits.

(He already sees them as prey. He already sees them as beneath him.

That will not change.)

This one has a voice - not like the chittering, squeaking things. It speaks, and forms words. When he reaches out and seizes it, it struggles. It, too, is mindless in its own way, but in a different way. It has a spark, a light inside, dancing in its eyes.

He lets it speak until it runs out of words. He dismantles it without care for its sudden noise, until it stops moving.

An impulse comes over him - from the shell and not from the mind that pilots it - and he extends still-stained mouthparts and bites into the limp body. It is still warm. He takes another bite, and another, and another, until bright blood spills from broken chitin. It glows with light.

The light is not his. It is foreign. Different. It burns hot and bright.

But he wonders if that light could be replaced.

The gears of his mind spin in furious thought as he devours his prey. (He thinks so much better, now that he’s eaten. A machine must be oiled; so too, the body must be fed. A lesson learned, if a tedious one.)

He finishes his meal.

In the mess and viscera of the dead, he receives his first taste of divinity, and hungers for more.

He remembers gods, of course. How could he not? An old, slow mind has little to do but dream, to observe the few sparks of light that are capable of ensaring his attention.

A blinding-bright and singing sun; an endless, dark flame; the rolling winds and storms that thunder across dreams of empty plains. Water that lives and shines in verdant green. And more. Endless gods and endless lives.

They thrive with their worshippers; there is devotion. There is power.

The ingredients are so, so simple. Find simple bugs and give them a land to live, a beacon to follow. In return, they are devoted servants, and their belief becomes strength.

One bug alone, simple and barely capable of thought, is still weak. Lulled into obedience by that brightly-burning sun. But there are more - there must be more - or she would not be as powerful as he remembers her to be.

He watches for more bugs - the ones with that light inside, that potential for more. He is careful to hide among his death, so his white carapace will blend in, because they are more cautious about danger than the squirming bugs and beasts driven by instinct alone and nothing else.

(He learns, too, to devour them until no scrap remains, so the bodies cannot be found. They save their dead, the empty shells with no spark inside, for a reason he does not comprehend. The living bugs place flowers, or decorations. They carry away the bodies. They do not come again.)

He catches them and listens to their babbling, absorbing the language. Sound falls into his head like rain into an empty well, filling it until he can craft the words himself, until he can comprehend them.

He is making himself new. He is making himself like one of them, until he can reveal himself to not be one of them at all. A predator, a mimic, an old soul with centuries of thought and cunning inside a new and pale shell that seems weak as prey.

He thinks faster and moves faster than he has ever had to in this new existence, fighting against time, learning, learning, always learning. A perfect machine, every gear and every part in place, constructing a perfect camouflage.

It is infuriating, frustrating, thrilling. It is nothing like he thought it would be. It is a life so different from what he was.

He practices the words until they sound right. Then, with the patience of a hunter laying a trap, he waits.

The prey approaches.

“Help me,” he rasps, soft and feeble. (His voice is soft only because he has not practiced the words too much, because it is beneficial for him to sound soft and clumsy and helpless, to stumble and fall.)

They hesitate, for a moment, and then they offer him a hand. Acceptance. Curiosity. All things he can use.

Good.

He takes it, and allows them to pull him to his feet, and follows them into the dark.

Some day, this will all be his. But the weakness, the softness, comes first. The pretending.

(Already, the darkness in their eyes reflects his light, and not hers.)

The beginning of her end is here.

#hollow knight #togetherslapping words #pale king

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pestilcnts · 5 years

Note

Mourn Me: I’ll write a drabble about my character mourning your character’s death. :)))))

HE COUNTS HIS LIMBS once, twice, thrice; from the arms to the legs, circular in pattern and incessant in nature. First he tucks his fingers into his palms, digging sharp nails into palms that are too pliant to be human. He wiggles his toes, then, in childlike fashion. Two legs, two arms. All accounted for, and yet Mason feels as if that something has been removed from him in the night. Perhaps something below the shoulder - though his arms move in the reflection of the window. Perhaps something in the spine - through when he stooped to lace his boots this morning, he felt no loose hinges.

A thought occurs to him. He lifts one hand, still wet with palm-blood, and presses it hard against his ribs. Twelve on one side, twelve on the other; but why does it feel as if there should be an empty space betwixt the third and fourth? He feels muscle, from without and from within; his body is a mess of rotting mismatch, and yet he prides himself in knowing where it all is meant to be, and when it is missing.

You have no heart, Buchanan. But of course I do. I rearrange it when it betrays me.

He presses hard against his ribs once more, feeling the feeble thrum of his heart pulsing against his fingertips. This is what is missing, he decides; this is the phantom pain which persists in all its ghosts and memories, even after it has been gone for some time.

Some time - how long has it been? How long has he stood at this window, watching the procession below? The people in the square weep; but Mason has never wept in his life. He wishes he could, now, for the loss of his most vital organ. He knows it to be gone, through the thrum of phantom beats keeps him awake at night. He knows it to be down there, stolen from him in the breath of a knife-thrust and a spill of viscera. Phantom limbs are meant to be something external, something seen from the outside, something to be pointed at when the wearer is not looking.

Did he lose his arm in a war, perhaps? Does he ever miss the feeling of holding a woman’s hand? Can he still touch the same with the other?

He’d have rather lost an arm, a leg, a useless bone from his fingers or toes. This is what phantom limbs are supposed to be; when someone leaves, they are not meant to take the heart with them. It is entirely unfair. Most need the heart to survive. Most.

You have no heart, Buchanan. No, not anymore. She took it when she left.

Indignation rings out with every pang of the phantom-heart, the tell-tale memory, against his ribs. She wasn’t meant to leave. And she wasn’t meant to take the shreds of his rot-heart along with her. He had no use for it, and yet he felt himself a hunched goblin, scrapping at garbage heaps for shiny things, valuable things, stashing them away in a belt-pouch to moon at later. A heart was a heavy burden to bear. At the bottom of the garbage heap. A rusted, dented thing. His heart was not a shiny thing to be taken and squirreled away, and yet she’d done it anyway.

Fucking thief.

He remembers a time when she stole a sweet roll from his dinner.

Don’t steal, Sofia. Don’t take what isn’t yours.

She pilfered it from his plate, from right beneath his nose. He’d watched her, let her munch away for but a moment, before reprimanding her, snatching it from lithe fingers and stuffed unceremoniously into his own mouth, half missing. He had laughed at her with his mouth full of dough, waggling his finger in the most brotherly way he could muster. He’d never been good at the brotherly displays. But for her, oh did he try.

But there was no taking his phantom limb back; not now. It’d be passed along the processional, overlooked in favor of the queen in the box, passed off as decoration. No one would question the dead queen with a heart in her hands. Stranger things had happened.

He presses his fingers against his ribs once more, seeking to rearrange, to reach between the third and fourth and squeeze the life from his phantom heart. How can it continue to betray him even when she has taken it with her? How can he still feel pain, feel drawn to the source of it, when she has gone where he cannot follow?

With a choke at the back of his throat, he presses his face, his palms, his chest, against the window. This is as close as he dare get to the processional below. He wants his heart back - but not unless she comes home to him with it.

Fucking thief.

Without her here, he doesn’t want it. There’s no need. And so he allows her to take it, and calls it a gift.

Come back, please. Leave what you’ve taken behind.

#SOFIA.#can we not #sofiabuchanan

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