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 Posted: Tue Dec 10, 2013 3:14 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: Tue Dec 10, 2013 4:14 pm
The shape of a fist was embedded into his wall, spiderweb cracks sprawling out from its center. It was the only evidence that remained of Robert's presence, excepting the turmoil and cautious optimism in his heart. He would not hope, because hope was a blade that would double back upon him, a dagger that would slide into his body until it was embedded between his ribcages.
He never thought he'd say it, but Robert had been correct. There was no need for the squabble to be so evident, so public before the judge and the jury. It didn't involve anyone but them-- especially not him, no matter how much he insisted it did-- and so it would be best to contain the flames of any heated arguments from this point on.
If only talking in person was as easy as others often insinuated that it was.
It was a new day, though. A new day, with new possibilities. Kostya shut the door behind him, deciding to go on a walk wherever his feet would take him.
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Posted: Wed Dec 11, 2013 12:31 am
Mindlessly dragging his fingertips along the wall, Konstantin ventured further into the dark areas of the basement, to the less travelled corners still covered in cobwebs and the age of time. The hallway was damp and dark, and it seemed to stretch on like a yawn frozen in time. He passively kept Syntax summoned for the pale, blue light his weapon provided, illuminating the ancient bricks that had been there since the time of the first hunters.
A trickle of perspiration slid down the back of his neck.
He would need to adapt, that much was clear. Nature's way of determining if you were worthy of survival: fight or flight, sink or swim, win or die. Nature threw you into a no win situation, forcing you to choose. Forcing you to excel beyond expectations.
If he attempted to exist in a world with ( Mimsy + Robert ) + Kostya, where it had previously only been ( Mimsy + Kostya ), he knew that he'd be entering a zero-sum game. If that was the game set forth by his current reality, the only way to win would be not to play, or at least, to play in a way that was unexpected. She was a whirlwind of malice and he had seen the damage of getting caught in the swirl of her blades, had been in the eye of the storm, had been cast out to the outskirts of her vortex.
Of all options, he would selfishly choose the eye of the storm, each and every time. He needed to prove to her that he was worthy of being taken in again, and adapt his needs around what was presented.
It dawned on him that he wasn't above the shame of begging for scraps. It was better than being alone.
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Posted: Wed Dec 11, 2013 1:47 am
The hallway had no end, and each cell door he passed blended further and further into the walls. It dragged on, that hallway, a boundless expanse unconfined by the laws of time and space.
His footsteps were so quiet, their echoes dying immediately in the deafness that surrounded him. Every limb was a heavy burden to bear, a leaden weight that swung like a pendulum. Insistent. Hypnotic. A metronome. There was no way he could stop, now, for a compulsion pulled him closer, hooking into the meat below his ribs and above his navel with a firmer grip than he had ever known. It pulled him along, reeling him in, and Kostya was a fish in the sea, struggling with the line. Water roared around him, magenta splashed with lime, and the hook slid through his flesh to gut him from belly to nose, the barb embedded into the roof of his mouth like a kiss crafted from metal and forged in woe.
There were no hands for Kostya to clutch with, nothing but ineffectual fins as he lay gutted on a table, innards slowly leaking ichor and the chef had many faces, two faces Mimsy, one face nothing, twice he was a song. A requiem an elegy a nocturne played in harmony, each note struck as a chord on an organ of skulls. The notes resonated outwards with the force of gale winds, blowing down the walls and sweeping Kostya up, lifting him higher until he was elevated above a writhing throng, the melody taking on a fever pitch. The fever broke. The femur broke.
Kostya woke up screaming, thrashing in his bed because the pain was real, the pain was palpable, the pain was his hands turned to pulp, fleshy pink and a slurry melted away from the bone, nothing but osseous matter as the hands crossed over and multiplied to take flight, each hand a replicated shadow of another, a variegated spectrum of hand-bones and metacarpals cobbled together into wings.
They curled around him. They became him. He was filth wrapped in a bag, ripe for the picking and ready for the harvest, prepared for the ascension into a greater being, into a state of unadulterated transcendence. Somewhere a chair creaked and in that instant he had lived and died, somewhere a flower bloomed and his time had arrived.
The time was on its way, the death knolls were ringing but the bells were not for him. The wings unfurled behind him, each hand clawing and grabbing as Kostya tore his way through the layers of the unworthy.
There was a throne and it was bone, calling to him.
This was to be his purpose. This was to be his place. This was to be--
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