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06 January 2006 @ 02:44 pm
Ceremony (Lunar: Eternal Blue) by Racoati  
Not something I expect to go down as my greatest work; this is so MST material, but it's not meant to be too serious, just exploratory deviance. Sometimes, you just have to let the beast go free, lest it gnaws through the bars of its cage, and you never get it back inside. If it knows it's going to get a little run from time to time, it'll be that much the tamer. This is me taking the beast for its walkies. XP Oh, and also trying to get the hang of writing-as-deity without getting too bogged down in the purple, or at least making the purple more palatable (note: the operative word is "trying"; I don't make any claims to having succeeded, but this is practice).



Dedicated to Hiroki Kikuta's "Oracle", from Secret of Mana: Officially The Best Evil-Doer Theme In The World, Ever™.


Ceremony
by Racoati



They came.

He could feel their approach, like mites alighting on his skin, flukes that burrowed through his brain. Every chamber of this place was as a recess of his mind, each corridor a neural pathway; linking one, to the next, to the next, a spiral upwards to his very core. Each step upon this not-flesh was a brush of thorns, harsh and tearing; he licked his lips, those pallid growths that marked a useless void -- his speech, as with any god, came not from internal muscle, not from the rasp of skin against gristle -- and tasted blood thereon. Neither did gods bleed; but he knew the tang of blood, and felt its symbolism appropriate. Yet the pain was not without its pleasure, the violation of his tower not without some recompense; the afterglow that sprung from agony, the fires that surged when one was challenged and made good the killing strike.

And strike he would, and delicious it would be; the heat and sweat that would condiment their skins as he cracked their bodies open like worlds, treasures of their flesh oozing hot onto the ground, left to pool and congeal, every ripple felt. Or maybe he wouldn't let them cool, licking up the sanguine floods as they spilt, feeling hot gore sate him, fluids fill him; teeth grinding bone, rending nerves already torn and snappish, plunging tongue and maw and snaking limb into whatever husk of them remained. Yes, he could taste it now; that thick, metallic gush, the cleansing taste of human flesh, pure and unblemished and almost painful to touch. Even more to devour, the virtue of Her kind too righteous for one such as he to endure, his feast a bittersweet riot of hurt and glory and fear. Yes, even as he thrilled he would fear, fear the wrath of the Holy One, the one who inevitably would end his reign. He was not so blind as to ignore this, the truth that throughout the eons Good and Evil would duel, each gaining, for a time, the upper hand, but neither ever truly succumbing. One day, She Who Was would return for him, and banish him to the Void, where none is and none has been and creation is impossible; there he would not wait, for nothing cannot wait, but would lay latent instead in the realm of possibility, and over time humans would come to remember him again, in their fickle hearts and foolish minds, and a universe in agony would birth him once again. It was the way things were, the dance that predated everything; each time it was excruciating, and each time it was ecstatic. He feared the next upswing of the cycle, even as he knew it inevitable.

But right now, this fear was only savour to his passion, for his victory lay at hand; the spoils strewn out before him, tempting morsels from among which to pluck and relish. He sensed them nearing, now, little motes of power that danced upon his eternal shell, fireflies to be snatched out the sky and bounded in glass, the glass to be shaken and watched as they spun and dazzled and the glass broke their frail forms and bent back their limbs and beat them down, cell by cell, into a mush of shrieking synapses. He sensed the bright lights that burnt within each heart, and thought on how he would extinguish them, how he would torment each fragile toy until the light within them flickered and expired. Maybe he'd crush some of them quickly, revelling in the cleanness of the blow, how the light burst and scattered in one satisfying snap; how the tiny, displaced shimmers leapt across his skin, unknowing of their master's fate, until they slowly puttered and died. And maybe some of them, the ones whose forms pleased him most and whose resistance was the strongest, he'd tease and dangle before their fates in a gruelling series of tortures, snatching them from the jaws of oblivion once and again until they begged for death themselves. Oh, there were so many ways that he could break them, and so few of them to spare. With any luck, they would not be the last who would confront him.

And until such time, he had his plaything. Sweet Lucia, rich and ripe with all that was Althena's, that dared to taunt him with its virtue even now. Look at him with such defiance still, would she; those green eyes burning with a hatred incomparable to that of mortals, not the undirected thrashings of human vengeance but a sword finely edged, a fire so pure and righteous that it burnt only that which it targeted. He would worm his way into the core of her, enrobe each fine and noble thought in his own sweet liquor, let it sear away the goodness and leech into her pores, permeating her, filling her. Let her every synapse scream at this invasion of her soul, let her every instinct rail against this perversion that consumed her, turned her own mind against her and tortured her with delicious cruelties, evils to which she would eventually long to succumb. Let her body pulse and writhe as he poured his essence into her, watched her eyes roll back in loathing and her limbs jerk in useless protest; she would cry out then, in some sickened parody of pleasure, and he would lay back, long and lazy, and make sure to smile at her, a smile that mocked all reason for a smile.

Maybe he'd keep this one, long after any wisp of her remained, any notion of who she had truly been, deep inside. He'd keep her for a bauble, a useless shell to fill with his corruption, and to watch as her mind contorted with non-remembrance of why it pained her, why every time she looked upon his splendrous form her whole body shook with revulsion. Yes, he'd enjoy that.

But right now, he would deal with other matters. New treats awaited him, new lives to dash out against the altar of his godhood, new glittering souls to be muddied and warped by his torments. Maybe he would make Lucia watch, and she would feel each blow as he did, through flesh entwined rapturously with her own. Every drop of blood, every splash of bile, would stain her soul forever.

They came.

He waited.


~fin
 
 
Current Mood: deviousevil
 
 
 
Not Falling Off Ledges, Power and Wisdom: muwahahahaeclective on January 6th, 2006 07:29 pm (UTC)
*pokes dragon* *bits of flesh fall off*

...nope, not convinced....
(Deleted comment)
Not Falling Off Ledges, Power and Wisdom: am i porn yet?eclective on January 6th, 2006 08:05 pm (UTC)
*has poked a dracolich with a spoon*

...well, at least that really is an original sin....

*is consumed by zombie flesh*
(Deleted comment)