#and every one of its scales is another unfortunate soul that had succumbed to the waves

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Awaiting the Thirteenth

The warrior looked over his comrades but did not dwell on the sights and sounds and smells for too long. One of them had wet his loincloth, the other smelled of feces. The chorus of their pained groans and cries pierced the empty blue sky.

Removing the serrated arrowheads from their flesh had left them bleeding profusely, and the few minutes left in their lives would soon pass without grace. How unfortunate that they would not make it, one might say.

Cowering behind a tall boulder, the single only uninjured warrior tried to spot where the sharpshooter stood exactly. Deadly rain in form of arrows had hailed upon them from the old tower jutting out of the rocky ravine. And the archer hid. He hid well.

Muttering that he would be back to save them, the warrior ducked between other jagged stones and approached the tower with more caution. His dying comrades protested and begged for help, but he uttered an empty promise of return.

Greed and a selfish drive for survival kept his mind on the prize. And mourn not for those he left behind, for they would have done the same.

Where stone proved too low to guarantee cover from more arrows, the warrior crawled through the dirt and gravel like a worm. It took him underneath stone jutting out over a ditch and allowed him to near his goal with painful slowness. By the time he reached the yellowed sandstone walls of the old tower, he was caked in dust, closely resembling a ghost, far removed from the labored sounds of pain from his dying companions.

He hugged the walls with his back, his dagger drawn. Craning his neck to watch and await a sign from the archer, such as him poking his head out of any of the narrow windows lining the tower’s face, the warrior slowly paced around the tower to find a gate, or portal, or another passageway.

But no form of entrance had shown itself by the time he circled fully around the entire foot of the tower. Confusion marked his face like many brave adventurers before him. How difficult it was for him to imagine a place not built for such a common man.

He sheathed his dagger and began his perilous climb, finding many a hold in the crumbling stonework.

Stifling his own grunts as he took a small eternity to ascend half the tower’s height, he chanced upon a window wide enough for him to clamber inside.

His blade emerged again from his side, gleaming with the bright rays of sunlight pouring in through the open roof. Ready for the vicious archer who had shot down his companions with such ease.

Holding his breath, he could hear no foe within the tower’s premises, only his own racing heartbeat, pumping blood through his ears and making his entire body thrum.

But the archer awaited here, kneeling before the altar in prayer, muttering incomprehensible babble. Surrounded by statues of the agents of Old Ones, shaped in unpleasant ways to display their many wings and spidery limbs and bristly thorns that appeared so alien in this world and its clueless denizens. The archer truly hoped for blessings of the uncaring Old Ones, or for emissaries such as those depicted in the obsidian sculptures to finally arrive by his side, oblivious of what purpose this tower served or how his prayers always landed on deaf ears.

No, the archer was oblivious in every way. Oblivious of the warrior who had scaled the tower like the archer had before him, all driven by their individual quests for riches and fame, quick to slay their fellow man and hardened far beyond remorse.

The warrior stood at the edge of a wide, circular room, lined with mirrors and statues fashioned from obsidian or black crystal. Dark marble so polished and smooth that it reflected all sights in the light that poured in from the wide-open ceiling.

The archer mistakenly believed the warrior and his comrades to be dying outside, succumbing to the wounds struck by the cruel arrows of his own make.

The warrior almost managed to ambush the archer, but a piece of gravel that his fur boots had tracked inside the tower now scraped against the smooth floor and then crunched. The archer stopped muttering his pointless prayers. Having lost the element of surprise, the warrior sprung into motion. So did the archer.

The clash of steel resounded in this holy hall once more. In a flash, the archer had forsaken his bow for a short blade of his own. After three sharp clangs that accompanied blade striking blade, the two paced and circled around each other like scorpions, stepping sideways continuously and waiting for the right opportunity to sting with the deadly weapons in their hands.

Both had ended countless lives in their greed-fueled adventures, so callous were they. No sign of flinching, no hint of retreat. Two men locked in combat and ready to end one another’s life.

Not even their precious prize distracted them now. Before completing a full circle, the warrior lunged at the archer. Blades clanged again, deflecting swing after stab after swing. The archer retaliated with a deft counterattack and stopped, dead in his tracks.

Blood trickled down the blade from his armpit, running down the hand of the warrior who had come to take his prize from him. The archer’s knees buckled before his fate could truly sink fully into his consciousness, but the warrior kicked him away from himself. Driven by survival instinct and fury, he pounced on the archer and delivered more stabs to end his life with certainty.

Chest heaving, breathing heavily, the warrior slowly rose from the body of his defeated foe, the enemy’s blood still dripping from his dagger. Slowly, he wondered if he had not rather kept the archer alive and drawn his demise out longer, inflicting worse upon him than an undeservedly swift death. Why is it that mankind obsesses with revenge that eclipses the deeds preceding it?

Long must he have stood there, catching his breath, fully absorbing the dizzying exhilaration of surviving his deadly combat. That was when the greed returned.

As it always did.

Drinking in the details of this chamber, his mind caught a glimpse of clarity. A brief reprieve. While the purpose of this tower eluded him far better than his opponent’s flesh had failed to evade his blade, the warrior now began to fathom some of the circumstances surrounding his slain foe.

The archer’s meager belongings rested in a corner, wrapped in ragged cloth and hides. These items bore only few clues to his sleeping and eating habits, suggesting the life of a monk who rarely ventured outside the tower to hunt and feast upon raw flesh, and retreat to this chamber to pray and sleep. But to what he prayed, only the eerie statues and indecipherable runes knew, for he had no scrolls nor scriptures hidden in his satchel.

Finally, the warrior’s eyes came to rest on the prize. On the far side of the wall stood a stone portal—gateway only in design—an arch of smooth black rock that led into a solid wall. Before this portal stood the altar, flanked by the eldritch statues.

And upon that altar rested the prize.

In a giant orb, shiny and of unmeasurable value, he saw himself reflected. Unlike the mirroring marble floors—now covered in a growing pool of blood—his own image was distorted and warped.

Droplets of blood had splattered during the deadly struggle and landed upon the orb. This was the prize. Instead of running down its glassy round sides in creeping rivulets, the drops of blood just clung there. And then they vanished, sucked into the obsidian void of the orb, defying everything the warrior believed to know of his world.

He stifled a shout of surprise and strained his eyes to study it, eager to unravel the mystery of what he had just witnessed.

But in studying that perfectly spherical shape, he only perceived his own features staring back at him from the fist-sized gem. He gasped when his reflection blinked, unlike himself.

He stepped closer, bewildered, and fascinated. His eyes sparkled with daylight, blinded by his greed, and enthralled by the greater secrets this orb may hold. Emptying his soul to make sufficient room for his newfound treasure to occupy.

Like those before him, he needed to have it. To call it his own. Any concern for his fallen comrades lost long behind him, his eyes focused on the crystal, seeking for other alien movements that betrayed its otherworldly nature.

His own reflection blurred and dissolved, making way to other places.

In there, he saw other worlds. He saw himself, as a grandiose king garbed in lavish garments of silk and bejeweled finery. In there, he saw himself enthroned at the center of attention, experiencing the wildest of earthly delights. Sweat beaded on his brow as he watched unspeakable pleasures play out, visions of things that lurked in the darkest recesses of his mind, screaming for release. His body tingled with want.

The stone portal that was no portal opened, its marble gates swinging wide, allowing a powerful light to flood out from it. The warrior shielded his eyes and held his blade out before him while a small legion of men and women swarmed out from his gate.

Each one of them more beautiful and ravishing than the last, they encircled him. They danced and pranced. They twirled and pirouetted and giggled, and their movements soon signaled approach. Not in any menacing way, but crawling towards him in begging, bowing, kneeling, displaying fealty to the warrior. Disarming the warrior, using neither word nor weapon, they soon sheathed the bloodstained dagger by his side where it belonged.

Many hands explored every inch of his body, eliciting pleasured shudders. Other figures got so close that he could feel sweet breath upon his skin while their lascivious forms nestled up against his own.

What began as a haze, drunken with lust, soon saw the warrior slipping into a delirium.

When he came to his senses again, bathed in blood and sweat, he found himself alone in the circular chamber. Alone with the orb.

Startled awake, he checked himself for injuries, but discovered nothing but the scratches and bruises he had suffered from invading the tower; unharmed by both the archer and the slew of strangers who had briefly abducted him into a world of previously unknown satisfaction.

Feet and hands and limbs had spread and smeared the pool of the archer’s blood everywhere. There was little trace of the dead man’s body in sight, save for hints of his flesh and bone having been torn asunder, devoured whole, and any remains being discarded through the chamber’s narrow windows.

The warrior’s chest and hands and legs were all slick with bodily fluids and he stumbled back onto his feet, once more taken by the orb’s allure.

At first, as it always did, he saw only his own reflection. His empty eyes, hollow and glinting with new sparks of greed, mingling with lust and deeper depravity. A mess, his hair matted down with blood and sweat, and fluids staining his stubble-framed face.

How much time had passed? He had no inkling.

Seeing new motions within the orb cut that thought short of finding an answer. Once more, his reflection melted away like a fog being pierced by a ship sailing through its mists. And upon that vessel, he sailed, as a captain, accompanied by a brave crew to new horizons and ever-greater fame, singing his praises and seeking merriment in adventure and the carousing bound to follow.

Enraptured with these visions, he could not tell that the portal beyond the altar never opened, even if his senses lied to him and told him otherwise. Whenever the gates parted for him, he traveled to other worlds, yet never leaving this chamber.

In his mind remained a sliver of sanity, the single only ledge he could hold onto any longer to ground him in this reality. But his hands slipped from it with ever-growing ease, unable to clutch onto the cautionary thoughts that may have saved him from his doom.

That sliver in his mind realized he could not leave. But as simple as the power of this place, and that orb—as effective it was in keeping foolish men bound to it. To do what was needed of them, to await the next here.

For we had seen that look before. Through mirrors, we see from our world into thine. And long have we watched, many times have we seen that exact same expression. We can watch as the thoughts form behind his wrinkling forehead, then die little deaths in his delusions as he feasts upon the illusions that our orb feeds his feeble mind. We can read how he comes to terms with having taken too long to rescue his faithful companions. How easily he rationalizes his deeds and abandons all other regret that ever haunted him.

And as he gazes upon that black orb, it peers back into his feeble little soul, scraping its darkest corners for his deepest desires. His face speaks volumes that we could fill, were we only interested in your petty tales: he wonders if what he experienced is real or not. He had a taste, staggering sensations that cannot be undone—and he will not let go again. He will drink in these experiences that he thirsts for.

And in his eyes, we still glimpse that same glimmer of doubt, that shred of skepticism. We can watch it wane, like a candle shedding its final light before time and a tiny flame snuffs out with the last of its molten wax. If only he knew what was good for him, he would turn in flight. Alas, this warrior is strong in body, but he is not wise. He had that taste of things he could never have otherwise, awakening a burning desire, a great thirst that can never be quenched.

If only he knew better, he would realize that none of it was ever real. That his thirst will only ever grow greater, binding him ever deeper to this orb. Always only learning just enough to realize that there is a prize to be won, but never enough to fully grasp that this is a prize he can never attain, because the prize is not meant for him. Alas, he can dream, but his dreams will never be real.

Watching his plight might offer brief amusement, distracting us from our own yearning for release.

Unlike him, our return is no dream. It is inevitable.

Just one more soul to perish here is all it takes. One more brave adventurer to venture into this forsaken tower and take this valiant warrior’s life by way of steel. Then, finally, after centuries of awaiting in this disgraceful banishment, the pact’s conditions shall be complete. The blood of twelve souls, spilled upon these marble floors, to feed the orb and open the true gate. The way to the world between worlds, through which we may cross.

What he envisions to open, finally shall. No blinding light to flood from it, only a deeper darkness that your kind dreams of in their nightmares. The matter that sleeps, deep between the stars.

Why, human, are your kin so eager to spill the entrails of your own kind? Slay each other as adversaries in face of your insatiable greed? Do you not understand that acting together as one makes you more powerful? In rare moments, your species seems to grasp this insight, but such wisdom appears to be all too fleeting. Your baser instincts and petty distractions are all too swift to overshadow any enlightenment you may glean.

The thirteenth unwitting fool shall arrive soon enough to follow in this adventurer’s footsteps. A chain of twelve dead humans to grant us release. Their blood upon the orb our key. Then we shall return. Then we shall arrive in your world. Wash over it like a flood. Drown it in blood.

Soon, human.

Soon enough.

You can always journey there to see for yourself. Perhaps you can defeat this warrior? Perhaps you can defy the orb’s power?

Is this what you wished to know when you summoned us? Or may we threaten you further with more heraldry of our return?

—Submitted by Wratts

[hiraeth-wayfarer]

Hiraeth Creature #1077 - Deep Dreg

"The light of the Moon guides the souls of Hiraeth to their final resting place— within in her embrace there is enough room, love, and forgiveness for every soul no matter how many generations live out their lives. Unfortunately, not everyone’s course fairs easy, and some souls drift into the shadows of wild places or the dusty halls of old ruins, becoming moonblind ghosts, lingering in the corporeal world with an incomplete body and mind. Even more terrifying can be a cruel fate at sea, and one’s soul drifts too far down into the ocean’s near endless depths. These souls are said to become the Deep Dregs, who hide themselves as odd looking fish. From the side they seem disguised, and to an outworlder the visual language may not read, but looking at one frontwards reveals the shape of a soul, and sends most Hiraeth folk into state of unease or panic. Looking at one straight in the eyes for too long is said to bring on madness, and laying hands against its skin creates an electrical feeling as its essence tries to latch onto another’s. It is a soul in a form never meant to be taken shape, but it has out of necessity—gaining the want to function and interact with the corporeal world again, even if it means becoming a beast.

If one managed to catch a Deep Dregs, the most merciful thing would be to restrain it until night and hold up to the Moon, but many of these poor spectres are free to roam the ocean whole. What many don’t know is that Deep Dregs occasionally gather in a great flock, but far away from any reasonable place to see them. They are drawn to the Harbour Lands, which hides away across the waves of the western Sea of Naga. Some haunt the flooded halls of its underground chambers, while many at night try to scale the rocky walls of the towering island. The guardians of this place, displaced souls themselves, buffet the swarms of ghosts away every night. The Deep Dregs grow so restless in their climb that they barely heed the Moon, their determination overwhelming their senses. One of the few explorers to reach this place, travelling on a vessel called “The Sunrise”, spoke a little about the Deep Dregs, but mainly referred to them as odd phantasms and lonely ghosts that they did their best to ignore, recognizing their form from old sailor’s tales. Only on a few occasions did they have to ward them off with magic when they came too close, though they didn’t seem to regard them as much more as a slightly unnerving hinderance, but getting by them regardless. They figured they had come from the old shipwrecks found around the stone cove littering the border of the island, their fellow seafarers succumbing to despair, not realizing their was a greater reason in this unknown kingdom that would send a feral soul into a frenzy. The Harbour Lands were more than just a beacon for explorers, and a greater toiling here had begun many ages ago."

[renaissancedweeb]

Prompt #19: From Light into Darkness

     The scenes of battle played on in an endless chorus, pockmarking the land with small craters while the ceruleum blue fires of Garlemald raged and covered the earth in ash. It was the same song, the same dance, and even the same dance partner. Well, almost the same.

     “This ends here, Warrior of Light. I will no longer allow you to interfere.”

     Behind his draconic shaped helm Artevael breathed heavily. It was positively vexing how hard he was being driven still by this Ascian in Zenos’s skin. It was as if Rhalgr’s Reach had just been invaded and monstrous heir of Garlemald had just stepped through the smoke--their first meeting. Then and all subsequent meetings had ended with his defeat, and even their final battle had not seen him deliver the killing blow. Now not only was he forced to fight a nightmare he had thought laid to rest once more, but one of his worst enemies wearing that nightmare. At least this time he had damaged the man’s helmet.

     He stared into the single cold blue eye through the red eyes of his closed visor. This was it. There would be no more chances after this fight. He would either win once and for all or Jasper would be visiting his parents to tell them where he is buried. It was not an ideal situation, but it was what he had and as always he would make the best of it.

     Leaping high into the air, he called upon the strength of dragons from his soul crystal, and as he made his descent flames began to form at the point of his lance. The fire fanned out from that singular point, swirling around him as he fell, faster and faster, and then he hit the earth. An explosion erupted around the point of impact, yet Zenos merely withstood the shock and waved away the flames with a sharp cut from his sword that Artevael blocked, sending him backward rather than being cut clean through. Landing from a backflip, he took to the air in another jump, but rather than going for a dive he moved under Zenos’s sword, sweeping his leg and bringing his lance around but the other remained on his feet as he stepped back.

     Artevael continued the sweep until he was standing once more, both feet firmly planted on the ground, and he met a downward slice with his own lance moving upward. He recovered first and turned his step inward, spinning in a circle with his lance giving him more momentum then moving in for a hard thrust. Zenos danced away from the attack, but he had felt the weapon find just the slightest bit of purchase on amor and so Artevael pressed his attack, taking a smaller leap into the air then bringing his weapon down hard. Unfortunately he was pushed back again, however instead of pressing in for another physical attack he summoned forth the spirit of the dragon that resided in his soul crystal and launched its azure, serpentine form at his opponent. As Zenos reeled from the unexpected blow, he jumped once more and began another dive that was deftly dodged as his window of opportunity slammed closed.

     The pair stood apart from one another, Artevael’s chest heaving while Zenos looked as composed as ever. That he was in a body that should have been dead meant nothing, Art supposed, but then he had never quite understood exactly how Ascian possession worked. It was something to be pondered later as he caught movement from his opponent. Bringing up his lance for a quick guard if necessary, Artevael’s heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Zenos lift his sword and take a particular stance. It was the final showdown.

     Sometime during their fight the clouds had rolled in turning an already dark night more black. Both men had their weapons raised, firelight from the battlefield glinting off their armor. It was probably similar to how Carteneau had been some five years or more ago, just with the glaring absence of Dalamud and only the pair of them.

     They stood like statues forever poised and ready to strike, then it was done. Both warriors moved faster than the untrained eye could discern, and the clouds parted as they seemingly switched sides of the arena with no blow being struck. Then Artevael fell to one knee, his scaled breastplate cracked and his breath leaving him in one sudden blow. If he had touched Zenos the other man did not show it. Instead he activated his magitek weaponry and sent a wave of ceruleum flame at Artevael that he could not avoid in time which sent him flying and left him sprawled on his back, lance just too far from his fingertips.

     “Her blessing can only carry you so far,” Zenos, no, Elidibus stated as he strode forward, helmet having cracked the rest of the way and a fresh line of blood over his brow. “Farewell, Warrior of Light, and know that all I do is for the same reason I have always done; the protection of this star.”

     Before Artevael could utter a word in reply, could even reach for his weapon, the sword went through his cracked armor and pierced his chest. His eyes went wide, the revealed moonlight making them glow with an eerie shine, and then everything began to fade. There was no more breath, no more light in his eyes, and the moon faded from view while every inch of him grew cold. There was also a certain sense of peace that washed over him; he was finally free.

     A feeling of familiarity washed over him, warm and inviting, and when he became aware he could make out a familiar glow. Hydalen was waiting for him, it seemed, and he wondered if She truly would let him succumb. Would She let him flow into the Lifestream, let him go to whatever Heaven or Hell that awaited him? Would he see Haurchefant once more? He was suddenly giddy with anticipation. He had never had a death wish, he had too many people important and still living for that, but now he was no longer bound by duty because what could even Hydalen do against death?

     Just as he was beginning to revel in his newfound fate, he felt the warmth begin to recede. Something was wrong. The gentle, familiar glow was beginning to fade and then he felt it. Icy fingers, cold and sharp, digging into him and making him scream in agony. He saw tendrils of light reaching out, trying to grasp him--he even thought he saw a familiar hand reaching out to him--but whatever had him would not let go. Instead it dragged him back, away from the warmth and away from the light into the frigid blackness where all his senses were stripped away.

     He did not know how long he traveled or to where. Time and space became meaningless with the only truth being the ice that pierced him to the core. It reminded him of Zenos’s gaze and he shuddered once before finally succumbing to whatever had hold of him. And, after what felt like an age, he felt his body still, become well and truly still. When he opened his eyes he was greeted with three familiar faces, one of whom was dark eyed and grinning wide.

     “Well,” Thancred said as he held out a hand. “Took you long enough to get here.”

[edennohebi]

after only 12 days of suffering, one would figure that the snakes would leave you to adjust to your surroundings. they had offered you promise of freedom from not only your impediment, but from the hell around you -- all for the price. you were instructed to commit a murder; to stain your hands in red & get away with it, as if they had been pure & cleansed all along, your sins washed away without ever coming to true light. that was their “bargain” -- philosophies whispered themselves on the wind’s trail, only uttered in the hissing of snakes that ‘grand wishes had come at a grand price.’ it appeared that your captors were stubborn on the matter: there would be no flexibility, no loophole for you to worm your way through in an attempt to be rid of this binding, constricting world.

yet even then, no one had stepped up to the plate. why, you had wondered? were they waiting? planning?

whatever the reason may have been, you wouldn’t be gifted the time to think it over: clearing eyes himself had demanded that you all find your ways to the castle grounds. though he was not the Queen, it was within your best interest to listen; the cries of snakes that filled even the deaf’s minds had insisted so & his violent nature had suggested it even further. of course, he had threatened: when you were ordered to come, you would obey it no better than a dog would. if you had refused ( or perhaps if you had no idea of it due to your disability; but that mattered not to him. whether it was your choice or not, you would be forced just as anyone else ), then his snakes would drag you there themselves: they cared little for the livelihood of pawns on his chessboard. snakes would wrap themselves around your limbs & sink their teeth in, & your body would skid through dirt, mud & stone until you were where you so needed to be. whatever state you’re in at the end of it matters not to him, but simply that you are there at all, even if it was against your will.

it seems that the courtyard is packed with your fellow players, the sea of bystanders bustling & drowning out any audible conversation pieces to pick up on. not that it was necessary -- not with how clearing rises from the ledge he’d seated himself upon, & the way he stalks forward so effortlessly; even to the blind, every step he took still carried his presence through vibrations on the ground.

( was he to relieve you of your burdens for this? the answer was clearly no -- those who could not see, could not hear, would receive a different telling of this foreboding story. were the best tales not ones you were forced to interpret? the serpent promised wisdom -- & so he would deliver upon those who were fortune, & those who weren’t would need to grasp at straws. )

❝   have you finally decided to surrender yourselves? ❞ it’s a sick joke -- he knows more than well that he left no options of refusal. his boots scuff against the ground as he stops. ❝  how kind of you.to showcase your miserable forms at last -- honestly, how long had i waited for this? ❞ a self-satisfied hum rumbles out of his chest, eyelids lowering. ❝  decidedly, far too much. still, i welcome you & that curiosity of yours. ❞

❝  though, ❞ his eyes graze among the crowd, as if counting heads, ❝  i’m certain some of you haven’t the faintest of idea of what’s going on -- tragic, is it not? to be so robbed of your senses, unaware of your surroundings -- so i can’t help but to wonder, what’s stopped you from regaining them? ❞ his eyes narrow, pupils sharpening in acid-shaded hues. ❝  could it be fear? are you all too cowardly to butcher those around you, like mice? or is it a misguided belief that you may all survive on a pacifist’s agenda, & we will grow bored & set you free in due time? ❞ the words tumble out in between laughter, cruel entirely as he heaves out a sigh of, ❝  such stupid things. ❞

❝  perhaps you need a farther push -- an example of how this is not a waiting game. ❞ as the words hiss off of his tongue like poison, snakes emerge from the darkness once more. their beady eyes lock onto one soul in particular; one that saeru had handpicked from the very start of it all. 

“ --- huh ?”

in an instant, they move -- their speed is beyond comprehension in itself, striking out & wrapping around HIYORI’S ankles & wrists tight enough to bruise & break blood vessels. 

“ NO -- ! s--stop, it hurts! what are you doing? stop it, let me go! ”

as quickly as they come, they pull back with their grip entirely vice -- her body is forced forward, pathetically so, chin knocked into the harsh, unforgiving earth & her body dragged towards him. as he glowers down at her, those who would have attempted to stop him, to object, are found to be bound by snakes as well -- they constrict themselves around the crowd’s ankles to root them in place. interference is far from preferred.

a hand reaches down, & fingers knot in her hair to yank her up onto her knees & face the crowd. this is a show -- they will bear witness to this event whether they want to or not.

❝  the thought has crossed your minds once before, has it not? this game promises you freedom -- but is death not an ‘out’ of this world? perhaps, you’ve wondered, what will become of the dead’s bodies? ❞ the smile he wears is sick & twisted, teeth bared for all to see his fangs. ❝  i wonder, i wonder! ❞ though his tone had remained on a manic, gradually raising high, it soon drops into a whisper: 

❝  have you ever watched a child die? ❞

( he knows well of the mothers here, of those with weak hearts for children -- their suffering will be delicious. )

“ stop it !!! ”

she’s sobbing now, trembling within his hold -- incessantly begging a variety of ‘please stop’ and ‘don’t do it’ born from the lies she was prior fed. why was this happening ? she wasn’t a part of the game , right ? kagerou wouldn’t lie to her about that, he wouldn’t of done this --- and hibiya! oh god, hibiya -- he’s here, he’s right there in the crowd. she’s sorry, she’s so sorry, she hadn’t even had the nerve to approach you and apologize for FAILING . 

but here she is, letting him down yet again. with vision blurred by tears and a frightened gaze -- his name wants to leave her lips, but it hangs dry in her throat. she’s sorry -- for once in her last moments she can’t force a smile nor mouth her final words for only hibiya to witness -- only succumb to what very well may be her millionth demise.

the moment he dares to release her hair, serpents rise above to wrap around her, lacing & lacing time & time again, squeezing & crushing bone as they further harshen their hold. fangs rip through her skin & suffocate her in complete darkness as they gather, one after another. it becomes apparent then, that they are mere entities: ones that use their shadows to consume her whole, shrouding her figure in complete, utter darkness. it’s a disgusting sight in its own right, to see one’s body outlined by nothing but scales & hungry reptiles; & oh, how clearing laughs & laughs, looking so pleased with himself. he even sighs.

❝  a shame, truly, that those of you without hearing, ❞ a hand raises & a finger taps to his headphones. ❝  cannot bare witness to these magnificent screams of agony! wonderful, truly wonderful! ❞

clearing allows himself to laugh -- his moment of pleasure as the snakes slowly begin to disperse & melt off of her very form like nothing more than ink. they drip & drop onto the ground around her like a blackened puddle, staining her now whitened skin. 

what was once a girl by the name of hiyori now stood something far different -- though structurally the same, her hair had been singed, & her skin had been dyed a white & icy blue hue. whatever life radiated in her eyes is long gone, dead with her very soul; instead blank, lifeless eyes & an even more lost expression remained. if you were to stand too close to her, perhaps you would feel a chill. 

dying down from his laughing fit, the snake sneers & draws closer once more -- hands resting upon her shoulders far too casually. ❝   ahh -- i can see it in your face! surely, you must all be wondering what’s happened to this child, hm? simple: when an ego dies, the corpse is useless -- & “we”, ❞ he drawls the word with specific emphasis, as if he wishes to hold no direction association, but is making a point, ❝  desire bodies -- what better than those with life torn from them?  ❞

his fingers drum against clothed shoulders, & his head falls to the side. ❝  this must be a relief to some of you, yes? my, how unfortunate in your case -- as their memories & selves has been wiped. they are nothing more than husks -- but please, be at ease. at least you’ll still see them, you know? ❞

he leans forward somewhat, smile still intact. ❝  of course, this brat is a special case -- she has been gifted a snake that contains a world, whereas your measly lives will not be so lucky, only left with the bottom of the barrel. really, it is quite funny, ❞ his nails dig into her shoulders. ❝  those of you who believe so blindly in your faith -- did you believe that this was Hell? a child like this, bearing your proclaimed innocence -- she is your “Heaven” that you so desire. but she-- ❞ his hands slither upward, fingers knotting over her throat & his palms squeezing against her neck, 

❝  --can die just as easily once more. ‘Heaven’ is a concept here, one that can be crushed. ❞

but his hands drop once again, & his body pulls back, curling into himself. his mouth opens, & then it hesitates -- a tremor can be felt in the ground, & the air suddenly spikes up in heat. you can feel the sky becoming foggier, more blurred as the temperature rises & haze scorches at your skin. clearing, however, seems anything but startled -- his brow furrows as he glances into the distance, but his temporary scowl twists into a satisfied smirk.

❝  do with that information as you all will -- if you value your lives so much, i’d advise you kill before you turn into nothing more than a shell. such a fate would be worse than dying in itself, don’t you think? but if you continue dragging this out,” his eyes flick back sharply, pupils mere slits, ❝  one by one, will you be slaughtered by my hand & turned into nothing but tools for the Queen. understood? ❞

the silence in the crowd, the lack of your voice -- he takes it as confirmation.

❝  delightful. now disappear. ❞

slowly do the serpents that kept you locked in place vanish, & clearing turns sharply to take his leave, heading towards the castle. 

> CONTINUE?

UPDATES:

✘ for better or for worse, the kogoeru daze has been born from hiyori’s unwilling sacrifice. ✘ hiyori is now considered dead as the white haze holds no memories or recollection of hiyori’s personality. you can now access the OBITUARIES PAGE. ✘ HOWEVER, the white haze is now an NPC you can interact with through the ENH askbox as well as through hiyori’s blog. she will not be permitted to commit murders and you cannot kill her, but she can participate in trials if she wishes.  ✘ depressing as it is, hiyori had left behind a will. all of her items and coins have been split between @heathazetired , @raginxtempestas and @harukanosekaijiju. you can find the list here: [ GOOGLE DOC ] . ✘ the haze is unstable with a constantly fluctuating temperature now. something must be wrong with the queen’s son. if not careful with where they stay, players can suffer from sunburn or heat stroke.

[atrayo]

Jewels of Truth Statements and Favorite Quotes of the Month of October x2

Hello All,

Since the festive occasion of celebrating the spirits of yesteryears and the merrymaking of All Hallow's Eve is merely one week away. I also wanted to observe at least the religious Christian or at least Catholic holidays of all Saints Day November 1st and All Souls Day November 2nd. Although I started off as Roman-Catholic making it as far as my 1st Communion. Now I belong in my conviction to all the benevolent faiths, philosophies, and traditions of God(dess). I suppose allowing the angels of grace to groom me for over 34 years now their outlook from a macro-perspective has rubbed off on me.

Today I wish to share another trio of "Jewels of Truth" statements as Inspirational automatic writing of angelic wisdom. For those with very little to nothing in understanding about automatic writing or psychography. It is an intuitive psychic ability in terms of taking diction and feeling for the words telepathically. In the 25 plus years of doing this clairaudient spiritual Intuitive art form, I have never ever have had writer's block period! The content speaks for itself using my vocabulary however not my writing style, nonetheless, it is like a merging of the best of my humanity and their divinity. To bring these messages across the threshold of time/space reality aka our world.

The angelic wisdom topics for today are on Truth, Divine Faith, and the Sounds of Creation. This last topic I channeled from the Archangel of Sandalphon as an ascended master. I usually channel from nameless angels of the Heavenly Host, however, I get a celebrity angelic entity every now and again. ;o)

As always may you find peace and comfort when reflecting on the premise being presented regardless if you can fully digest them. It is more about exposure and expanding your spiritual horizons for the novice to adept of other traditions to ruminate upon. Amen.

Truth:

2961) The world at least most of it seeks a truth that will comfort them from the woes of life. Many succumb to settle for biased truths that are presented in essence. This only serves for a moment as a half-truth that given time becomes a warped sense of reality. That leads those who follow it to a whole lie unfortunately only realizing this at the bitter end of their struggles, if at all?

The world can only do better when it lives with a compassionate sense of fairness as a level playing field of equitable grace for all stakeholders. Short of such a humane ethical rule there will be winners and losers living flawed lives collectively. What was once a standard becomes warped by cheats looking for flawed efficiencies that lead to eventual ruin.

Only when the truth is unconditionally presented in a moderated fair fashion can it overcome vile tendencies of injustice. Besides that of other foibles of the human condition upon this half-prepared civilization therein. No other force universally but that of God. Has so much pregnant potency to cause metaphoric mountains to crash them into the seas of hope and despair worldwide.

We the Angelic Host are the arbitrators of Creation meting out truths of all sorts and of all Infinite kinds of the Glory of God everlasting. Always by means of the Mysterious Will of God(dess) that bends not only towards justice as an arch of a living endless grace. But, towards a sacred Absolute Love as the substance of God made manifest in each of us forever.

Truth is only illuminated God as itself come alive as a healing balm and a weapon of discord. It is up to the created Children of God to wield it responsibly or not. Judgment is always final by and for God Almighty collectively in an all Inclusive macroscopic and microscopic manner. However, there is always Absolute Forgiveness as an eternal Love made manifest to reconcile evil with righteousness. Purely through an aperture of an apex original supreme enlightenment of God as him/her/itself in absolute truth. Amen. ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Divine Faith:

2981) To be earnest reveals an initiative whose time has come forward. Only with such an impulse to succeed in whatever scope is your genuine attempt at first glance. Can it be revealed that the inner beauty of what is nearly inescapable of being fully articulated?

Here we stand at the crossroads of the divine and the mundane realities that dare to defy comprehension much less communication. By figuring out our choices with the grandest of sweeping changes of what the world tells us is correct when at times that too is wholly a fallacy. How does one endear the right outcomes when the options at hand are either incomplete, flawed, or plain nearly impossible to reach adequately in one lifetime alone?

The divine is often seen as a short-cut to triumph over the world. However, these ineffable truths are actually farther away than what they seem in temporal appearances. What appears as a simple effort soon bogs down an individual of faith with unforeseen conundrums. Thinking it is only a stroll down the street back to God is part of an illusion of our very own wishful making in naive terms of spiritual being. One unfortunately soon realizes it isn't just a short jaunt of faith, but a saga of a Heroes Journey as a trek of a lifetime.

Regardless of being a man, woman, or child in the world, the crucible is narrow at first until the proverbial wheat is separated from the chaff. A mirage-like no other of actual endless distance that most do not gauge appropriately until one finds solace at a soulful Inn as a pitstop along the route of the holies.

Nonetheless, such perseverance soon showcases the merit of a spirit upon the world the valor not just of the self, but the divine one within. That those with a sense of duty can reveal wonders few dare to imagine. After mere decades of service in whatever capacity is their corresponding love of God in this world. It is not a journey of a thousand steps or miles, but actually a journey of a thousand lifetimes upon this our shared eternity.

Success is achievable however not on your schedule but on the divine ones within the rays of the blessed out of physical reach but within emotional release by tenderness. This holy union may feel tepid at first as an acolyte to say the least as unproven soil. Only when the seeds are hardy can the meeting between divine sunlight and earth with nurturing grace as the living waters reveal back your courage to yourself. Eventually, a blushing first bud emerges as a sprout of new life and this is the first shoots of the heavens urging you to grow and grow some more.

The Divine Holy Ones realize our flawed childish nature now and always so this is why they always make the 1st gesture of grace on our behalf. Whether we realize it at first glance or not. They keep tapping upon our consciousness with an unceasing dedication to awaken us from the slumber of the world. Be it a pleasant dream at the time or an ongoing horrible nightmare of our broken human lives. Offering us a potential happily ever after of a fairy tale not at the very beginning but halfway in the middle of our lives and certainly upon the afterlife. No one is ever too old and too late for a miracle of God to sweep them off their feet. Amen.  ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Sounds of Creation:

2982) To our Ears of all Life itself listen as the echoes of the divine permeates every tonal fiber of the living and the dying upon this reality alone. What is inaudible to the conscious mind of humanity is actually heard by other subliminal parts of the physical forms of your bodies collectively. Much like a sponge of tissues, sinew, and a latticework of veins and some arteries.

The sounds of the cosmos pre-date all life on Earth at least physically. However, the gas stellar winds that now make-up your solar system. Had inputs from its surrounding stars humming at sonic intervals of profound frequencies akin to a fanciful language all of its own kind. Stars communicate by light, sound, and various other disturbances as forms of deep spatial gravitational distortions. Akin to what can be construed as gas clouds or nebulas of various orders of scales dimensionally speaking. From the seen to the unseen spectrums of not ultra-violet light but through sub-atomic darkness of what is there but not shown.

What is gibberish to one listener is an orchestra of immense natural beauty to another set of ears. It is all subjective for what one listens or actually hears when the intentional focus of the mind is truly involved. Now to be certain there are omissions of reason when the sounds of Mother Nature as Creation itself sound absurd to the human ear canals.

Nonetheless, the beauty of sweeping harmonies can soothe the angry from a beast of burden, including that of humanity. Music not only heals the psyche it can expand the capacity for the mind to grow by many subtle dimensional corresponding factors of forethought. When the listener is exposed to audible and certainly specific inaudible tonal modalities one can begin to defy the known norms of logic. Well into robust forms of healing, learning, and creative Intuitions known simply as gut instincts that always pan out as real.

Here too the expanse of the Divine Spirit of God(dess) in each of us defies reasons for existing at all. Nonetheless, here we are together in what seems like silence and separations is actually a cacophony of clashing inaudible tones colliding by means of Creation fully alive as ourselves. Amen. ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. (Channeled by the Archangel Sandalphon)

In creating a place of honor for every issue, and every experience we create a different form of power that is rooted in the whole truth of who we are. ---AI-Jen Poo.

Our fates are tied. We have this strange notion on this planet that our fates are not tied. If it were not so we would not be here together. It's that simple. ---Luisah Teish.

Gratefulness opens me up to receive the flow of blessing and connects me with the source of that flow. ---Rabbi Shefa Gold.

Ivan "Atrayo" Pozo-Illas, has devoted 25 years of his life to the pursuit of clairvoyant Inspired automatic writing channeling the Angelic host. Ivan is the author of the spiritual wisdom series of "Jewels of Truth" consisting of 3 volumes published to date. He also channels conceptual designs that are multi-faceted for the next society to come that are solutions based as a form of dharmic service. Numerous examples of his work are available at "Atrayo's Oracle" blog site of 15 years plus online. Your welcome to visit his website "Jewelsoftruth.us" for further information or to contact Atrayo directly.  

[guyfawkesretro-blog]

Computer Club.

The smell of instant coffee, a teachers weird exotic lunch, the sticky steps leading up to the room, presumably caused by a melted Calippo ice lolly that’s leaked out of a blazer pocket, pickled onion Space Raiders whole and crumbs spread out across the brown, Kicker muddied aging carpet. A poster hangs on the wall, years old now, not even recognisable due to the gamma ray soaked led paint that’s been piled onto the walls over the years, the aging smell of hot micro processors that are being pushed to the absolute maximum, a few dot matrix printers that haven’t graced a sheet of paper since 87’ cry out for some kind of relief, kill me now they scream, why am I here? Then, of course, at last, that brown and yellow machine that’s clearly the teachers microwave but actually looks like a large, thermonuclear ex-soviet radar machine that, when approached, felt threatened and let out a large noise to warn the teacher that somebody was heating up a lump of potassium stolen from the Science store cupboard for no apparent reason. Faded Garbage Pal Kid stickers, big ones, pink ones, mainly Adam Bomb or Holly Wood, sometimes Bony Tony, stuck to all of the desk sides, back of chairs. Every now and again Peter Beardsley would smile at you from the window, with custom drawn eyes and a new haircut, glaring right into your soul – A monument to past students and boys who’d all been up in the annex, it was no ordinary annex however. It was Computer Club. There were no girls allowed in this Computer Club. That’s because it was an all boys school. Ex grammar, stuck with it’s pompous ways and the same teachers since 1917. The computer club wasn’t as old as the schools traditions however, it was a new edition. As new as something ‘new’ can be unfortunately , since it was introduced in the mid to late 80’s and it’s now 1994, the computers in Computer Club are a bit ‘dated’. Although starting at the school in 1994, the BBC Micro (Model B’s probably) was still going strong within the confines of the dusty, coffee stained room. The game of choice? Football Manager. The Kevin Toms micro management sports simulator was still going strong. Every boy was playing it. Nerd, grunger, posh speaking lad with the home PC that nobody is allowed to come round and see, the kid with the Sony Plasystation directly imported from Japan. It didn’t mater. What mattered was that you got a space, you left the class first and skipped lunch, made it up the stairs and planted your arse on the chair before any other kid could get there. Once you you were sat down, settled in and intoxicated by the arm glow of the CUB monitor and the noise of the twin disk drive, no other kid could bully you out of that seat. It was out of respect. You made it to the seat. The journey to the seat was hard, tiresome and painful. The stitching on the fart flaps on your blazer had been ripped by other boys tugging at you as made you way through the school corridors. Casualties were all but common here. Boys would be on the ground. Others would be stuck on the floor as the highly polished parquet flooring took in another defenceless victim who’s kicker boots had no grip to save them. Other boys, scream for help as they stand motionless as their school tie struggles to unravel itself from a boiling hot radiator. It was hell, but if you got a seat, you were respected, admired for your speed and courage to deter any threat of biblical style onslaught from older boys who had the knowledge and wisdom of making this journey throughout the years. You were safe to take Port Vale to FA Cup glory within one hour. Each boy had to pick a bad, terrible club. Probably Port Vale, Stockdale or you know, whatever. Who ever got the furthest with that one hour slot was considered the champion. Especially on a Friday, as lunch was longer than just one hour so the heat was on. ​As the years went by, Computer Club remained in its location but the hardware that formed the basis of the club was changing. Mr Brown, the head of the club and a maths teacher still kept his desk. Upon his throne of instant coffee and strange flavoured soups from Marks & Spencer’s, the Amiga 500 Plus still sat. Nobody was allowed on this. Even the fresh shipment Acorn Archimedes couldn’t tempt him to part. This doesn’t mean he didn’t know what he was doing. The game that was in fashion was now Zarch. Also Lander. I won’t go into it but as you know, Zarch was a ground breaking 3D polygon aerial spaceship dog flight simulator that allowed the player to go anywhere and shoot everything. The era of the football management had gone. No longer was you actively trying to be ‘the man’ by trumping your way up the leagues, you were now attempting how smooth you could fly a 3D triangular spaceship thingy through some trees. Showing off. Smoothly directing your craft whilst using the mouse that had three buttons, two of them completely useless. The attitudes towards what went down in Computer Club had changed too. Boy’s were talking about games rather than playing them. A table had formed in the centre of the room as to provoke a discussion panel. Import games were the talk. JRPG’s dominated the room as the oxygen levels depleted rapidly as the congregation of now tech savy, grey importers spke about what they were playing and what to expect form the CD based generation that we all wanted, but couldn’t get our parents to depart money for. The discussions has moved away from the whole ‘Sega isn’t as good as Nintendo’ narrative. It was all about what was next. What’s around the corner. The room never changed. The same old stickers still littered the desks and the carvings etched into the desks that proclaimed that ‘A. SMITH LIKES GRANNIES’ still gave you the impression that the place bore the brunt of some ferocious arguments and tales, legends throughout the years. Unfortunately, nobody was using the computers. The new fandango RM Nimbus machines were dull, uninspiring and had no games. Nobody cared about the world wide web in 97. The days of programming had well passes into memories. One simple reason. Nintendo 64. Whilst most boys had the Nintendo 64 or a Playstation at home, Mr Bown had succumbed to the idea that nobody cared about the computers up here anymore. Sure, some lads still used them. There was something about using a word processor for absolutely nothing more than making fictional stories about another boys Mother. A firm favourite was to make a pie chart, complete with 3D variations on a huge scale to evaluate who’s Mum was better and then print the charts off, head swiftly down the corridor and pin it to a notice board for pupil reference. Mr Brown pulled a master stroke to keep the club open. You see, as far as the school heads and governors were concerned, ninety percent of the school were crammed around eight computers in a annex, learning to code and browse the web to study for exams, etc - etc. The other teachers didn’t bother coming up to the club. Why would they? Mr Brown, for all of his coffee driven wisdom knew this was the case. As long as the kids were elsewhere at lunch, the teachers had a non-action filed lunch hour with a peaceful meal and coffee. If the boys were upstairs at Computer Club, they were alone – so, Computer Club had to stay open, never to face the axe. Mr Brown knew this. So he did the unthinkable. He purchased a Nintendo 64, four controllers and a god forsaken copy of Goldeneye. The thought of a fourteen year old taking a new Nintendo 64 into school is nonsensical. Mr Brown clearly knew this. So, Computer Club was forever changed. Boys still had Wham Bars, Frosties and Tizer, but didn’t really have any need to use an actual computer. Plans were drawn up. A titme tale of who was playing who. A random chart was developed as to allow the fairness in weapon selection and area selection. You couldn’t just role up and proclaim that that wish to play another boy with Power Weapons in the Facility, no, it had to be verified officially. There was a waiting list for individuals, teams and competitions. All this was happening under the rest of the school staff’s nose and not one of them ever clocked on. Pupils didn’t sat a word. It was glorious. ​Still, spectating was a fun as playing. But if you were too short and couldn’t see what was going on, there was one dusty old BBC Micro siting all on it’s own with a CUB monitor and a dot matrix printer. All ready, all switched on and sitting next to the Micro was a copy of Kevin Toms Football Manager. ​ That was Computer Club.