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 Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2013 5:34 pm
Quote: A strangely large room, the shaped structure of the other rooms is not found here, instead it appears to be an actual cave. In the distance you notice a throne sitting upon a dais, closer inspection reveals that it's made of bones. You feel drawn to sit on it with a growing need that becomes a compulsion. As you seat yourself, a dark whisper touches your mind, silencing your weapon. You find yourself triumphant on top of a writhing sea of dying mortal bodies. Moments later you find yourself outside the room. You do not remember what was inside it. For a week, you have strange nightmares that you cannot recall.
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Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2013 5:53 pm
11/22/13
She made a convincing argument, that America. The basement was in a sorry state of affairs, and he liked to "do his cleaning thing" as she so succinctly put it. Instead of starting immediately, Konstantin wanted to survey the damage and determine a plan of action.
Kostya peered at the crude butcher paper he had taped to one wall of his dorm, a roughly drawn map of each of the possible rooms, with notes in marker around each one.
Things would have been fine, had it not been for room B 069.
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Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2013 6:50 pm
11/23/13
He stepped into the room & it was not a room. He stepped into the room and dread washed over every extremity, creeping up his veins, clawing into his heart.
This room was not a room.
It was a burial ground for something darker than the night & colder than snow.
One step, two, three, a dozen, and the throne grew closer, carved not from stone nor hewn from wood, but crafted from bones of all shapes, all sizes, all sources. His fingers itched inside his gloves and the paper and pen Kostya used for notes fluttered to the ground.
A dozen more steps, a dozen more, and the cave felt so large & the throne was the place he wanted to be. To sit upon it would fulfil every dream (nightmare) he'd ever had. It would be the end of all his worries, a way to wash away the woe that plagued his heart.
Syntax queried with a worried series of emoticons, scrawled in the font that printed itself in the eye of Kostya's mind, but still, he shuffled onwards. He stood before the throne of bones and wanted to kiss it where it touched the ground, to worship the king that once sat here, but instead.
He sat upon the throne, and the world turned to white, to dust, to stars, to--
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Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2013 7:27 pm
11/24/13
"You are one of ours, now," whispers a voice that he can't place, but it tastes of purple & sings like rain, careful hands around his temple, caressing it, a soothing kiss that turned him into something more than what he had been. "Were you worth it?"
"I am more than the sum of my parts," he said, & Kostya knew it was not English he spoke, but the voice understood & spoke Russian in turn.
"You are nothing but under utilized parts." The fingers drag across his skin & there are three hands, four, five, pulling him apart. The urge to scream intensifies, but he has no mouth, he has no shape at all. "We will build you anew," the voice says & it scratches against the back of his mind. He has become dust, slowly ground into nothing & the kiss of rain against his skin is a touch that is comfortable. The rain is sweet & the rain burns & it sloughes away his skin. "But first we must strip you of all that you were. So that you can become more than what you are."
The landscape went on for miles, the space was enclosed, the world was darkness and stars, the room was--
--
He woke up with a start, heart sparking in his chest like a live wire. He had not slept well. Coated in a thin sheen of sweat, Kostya stumbled out of bed, his head swimming with the fleeting memories of a dream (nightmare) already departing into the ether. He slid to the ground, knees bent against the cold, stone floor of his cell.
What had been in that room, yesterday? It was an empty place within his mind, a blind spot with nothing there. Whatever was in there had taken something from him.
A knot in his belly made him unsure he wanted to know what it was they took.
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Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2013 7:35 pm
11/23/13
The whisper that cut Syntax off wrapped itself around Konstantin's mind, wreathing it in darkness. He looked down, and below him was the grandest sight he had ever seen.
Dying humans, as far as the eye could see. They writhed like a pile of bugs, bags of flesh and splintered bone: twitching, bleeding, perishing. There was no more throne, only his might as he stood atop them, boots crunching against a nose or fingers or toes.
A constant echo of whimpers and sobs made their way up through the miserable pile of flesh, the stench worse than anything: week old decay, s**t, piss, vomit. Humans were disgusting. They were vermin, and he had crushed them as any predator should.
It wasn't personal: they had been so weak where he had been strong. In this world, he was the victor. No one could hurt him here, wrapped in barbed razor wire and undefeated, untouched by the worries of lesser creatures.
Kostya had been forged in flame, and so he would bathe in their blood.
It was his right.
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