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 Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2014 1:40 am
TW: 2goreyQuote: 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: Sun Jan 05, 2014 3:07 am
He is the Elvenking & he is so much more, if only the world would listen-see-know. He is the Elvenking but the defining pieces manage to fall away, a discarded crown here, a discarded cloak there, abandoned in the hallway.
He is the Elvenking & so he seeks his throne: it is the most natural of all progressions. It is his right as a Sindarian among the mortals, over the Silvan elves, over the world if it would just have him-- it is his everything-- hopes & dreams & needs. Power is everything. The powerless are nothing.
He steps into the room & it is familiar, but only in ways that are of little to no consequence at all. Barefoot by then, Kostya's cold feet cautiously navigate the uneven ground. The road to the throne is paved with rubble and forgotten stone, abandoned there so long ago, left untouched & unturned for all these years. It beckons to him in a way that is hard to swallow
and the throne is unconventional but it will do, it will have to do,
and he takes his rightful seat upon his rightful throne,
and,
the room is not just a room.
(It has never been just a room.)
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Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2014 3:16 am
He is here, now, in the space in between frost and time, captured in suspended animation and wound tighter than the soft refrains of a piano in Z minor. He is pulled sideways, slanting through space, separated into ten pieces without any eyes between them. He has been lost for twenty three point six seconds, and counting. The fields that cradle his bodies are lavenderlimesorrow, where they reside firmly between the blink of an eye and a caught breath in the lungs.
He is here & naked & alone, he is the sole inhabitant, the copies fade in and out of existence, stark colours, poor replications, imitation copies. They do a poor pantomime of his existence. One of them smiles and inside the gaping mouth is a moth that consumes him, all of him, all of them. The wind kisses his skin and pulls from him his last dying breath, coiling around his body and lays him down to sleep.
Now I lay me down to sleep. Now I lay me down to sleep. Now I lay me down to sleep.
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Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2014 3:25 am
He was nothingness and nothing more, he was nothing of value or of intrinsic worth, he was no one of interest and it becomes the only thing he knows, the only thing he can repeat, a record stuck with the pin trying valiantly to progress but the grooves are deep and the blood runs deeper, the blood runs black, the blood runs because it has six legs and knows where he sleeps.
It knows where he sleeps and anywhere he might choose to go.
The blood is his but it didn't come from him, its sticky-wet paws slapping against the ground as he flees, the ground is a möbius strip locking him into an unavoidable game of cat and mouse, it is a game with two pieces locked into a repeating battle, one is fated to win one is fated to die and one is fated not to play at all.
What is the fate of the mouse that chooses not to embark.
What is the fate of the cat who has already grown fat and it sizzles in the pan, a hooded figure cooking breakfast in the kitchen where Kostya had grown up, scythe resting on the island as if it were nothing more than an umbrella. Bacon and eggs are ready, and the face that tells him has no features at all, skin completely smooth until it melts like wax to reveal the inevitable skull below, a visage of death at home within his basement room, pan on the camping stove and like a cup it runneth over with organs still pulsating.
He runs but there is no way to go, the hallway to the outside grows longer and longer still, the fingers touch his back and he screams but they echo in the forest.
There is no door but he hears a knocking clear as day, coming from beneath him, and he doesn't want to look down but cannot control the motions of his body, and he is running backwards but moving forwards and there is nothing left, there is nothing left, the curve of a scythe caressing his spine.
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Posted: Sun Jan 05, 2014 4:05 am
There is a blade coolly assessing him, weighing his organs for his worth and each is found wanting. It is tracing the patterns of his bones rearranged within the open cavity of his body with the pried back flaps of skin and a jigsaw puzzle rib cage, rattling with each and every breath.
The grass is cool against his skin, the sky above him is eternal sound, a dirge of the unwanted.
No longer running, no longer seeing, no longer capable of rational thought or expression, he is empty from the crown of his head to the tips of his removed nails. They have been pried from his fingers and his teeth have been plucked from his skull and he smiles at his captor.
It does not smile back. It leans in, trying to smell for the fear that is no longer there, but it has to be sure. Its features are bland and unassuming, so generic that no one could ever describe him with any sort of accuracy, the kind of face that is lost in a crowd, and his body bends.
Humans are weak. They are useless. In the end, they all die powerless and afraid.
(He is not afraid.)
(Not yet. But there is time.)
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