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[TW]  Delirium

Offline Malfius Sep 15 2020, 10:50 PM
#1
  • Rogue
  • Age: 37
  • Gender: Male
  • Race: Dire
  • Rank: Cult Leader
  • Total Posts: 22
  • Played by: Onii
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A dark throat hung upon amidst the low-hanging vines, gaping and red and suspended by a nature-made noose from above. Hard breaths loud, like an elk in rut or a doe with her throat caught in a wire, breath drawing out like a visible frost--black. Moss hid the tatters like matted hair, hanging down from the old limbs of the trees surrounding, this tight-lipped clearing of deceptively-succulent fruits, rushing water, and plump rabbits with heady scents. A shadow frozen above the earth's face, pierced with holes long and deep; and the red rushing out, spurting like squashed fruit, had since begun to slow their cry, darkening before reversing their size.

Long talons grasped at nothing, dangling from the head-first ascension of the titan's entire form. It had looked like some unspeakable deity lost to time, tucked away in an uncharted place at the edge of a dream. A dark coat of sin bristling with raven midtones, a form larger than many of the trees surrounding it, and its eyes open just a cut, allowing a slash of golden light to filter through. Something had ripped the antidiety apart--or was it self-inflicted madness? Fangs gnashing at invisible tethers, or a hunger that left its throat full of its own meat. Slashes down the long bridge of its face, a hanging achilles heel and high-velocity slashes throughout. Like a bird stripping itself of all its feathers, or a dog ripping its skin to rid itself of fleas. Chaos, addiction, or w r a t h, or something in between them all.

In the end, it was nothing that could not be fixed. And as the earth gave into its False God's insatiable demand, the greenery within the dimly-lit grotto had begun to pale and shrink, the tips of long grasses graying like autumn and winter had flashed back to back. The hacking of a burrowed animal sounded in the deafening quiet like a wildfire's smoke had singed its lungs, and the once-plump vines from the trees above had become crispy and loose around the Dire's throat that they had ensnared to lessen gravity's draw of blood from the wide, deep gash at its throat. A gash that, now, was shrinking with the trade of the earth's life in exchange for the Dire's dissatisfaction. Feeding, feeding, always hungry, never full. Searching, prowling, h u n t i n g for shapes just out of sight, catching prey beneath his paws that not even he was cognizant of whether that was or was not the thing he had been hunting the nights before. Did the faces matter if you would remove them anyway? The names if they were never uttered, the connections if no one came to help them. He seemed aimless, the serpent's own tail just as much a morsel as anyone else would be, thrust into madness driven by drugs and crimes unpunished.

...but the Hinterlands had heard The Godslayer's manifesto, as quiet as they were, even the sections not uttered to the Ahkura who loyally followed with thoughts of exemption from the apocalypse being their reward. And as he fed there, snorting the life force of Gilead like a line of dopamine, his reward came in the form of rejuvenation that would be spotless...as well as the flash of imagery in his head, sensations and pleasures and pain that came stamped with the energy he r i g h t f u l l y took from the soil and the trees and the very air around him. Things the earth had seen, felt, stored in its breath.

At times especially like these, with how thin the veil between Here and There was now...the crisp sounds of movement in a sea of growing petrification and beyond-death were an afterthought. Something approached, and he was both not present and yet very present at every angle in this clearing.
The Godslayer was not alone. And despite how he did not move to greet the clearing's entrance, he knew it wasn't an individual of the cult.
They would have known not to d i s t u r b his feeding.