Zedalith
#-#
Strixiel
The basement door is tall and lies away from the festivities of their gathering. Dark specters drift in, trespassing toward the blockade and into the darkness beneath the concrete. Formless aberrations gather – some as small as ants, whose movement is more akin to gliding than walking. They slip beneath the tiny crack left under the door, while others simply walk through the door. A familiar cat-legged aberration finds it, tail swishing while it slips into the basement head first.
There is a padlock stapling the door to its hinges. A yellow “off-limits” sticky note is pasted to its front, words drawn in pink ink. Behind the door, there is a small set of stairs to step onto until meeting the ground. Too many objects to count linger amidst the dampness and darkness of the basement floor. Boxes of clothing, furniture, abandoned textbooks, and trash.
Aberrations gather in front of a secondary door, at least a dozen, small and rat-like–they linger behind the threshold. Their heads are pointed downwards and their glowing eyelids become dim–as if they are praying in reverence. Their heads tilt in rhythm, listening, appreciating, savoring a sound so sweet ... and only heard by them.
An odd aura emanated from behind that door. There was a chill frigid enough to summon goosebumps against the most enduring flesh. The aberrations savored it, maws wide and salivating. They took in deep breaths with wiggling noses and eager faces. Some were shy and instead hid within the shadows of the basement. Happy to simply admire from afar with skittish hands and a careful glance.
Leolla nods attentively. There is the wiggle of a brow and the shutting of an eyelid. She holds her own chin between the grip of her index finger and thumb while the digits massage against her skin. At the mention of “Harvard,” her eyes grew larger. She mouths the word, tests it on her tongue and her eyes become aflame with a mix of mockery and jealousy. A tiny, dark tar-colored insect blooms from her mouth and crawls onto her cheek. An aberration, small–and doomed to quickly fade. “Your … father?” She beams with narrowed eyes and a sideways smile. “Told...you…to come, here?” Dry laughter grasps her by the lungs and quakes throughout her body. She hugs her arms closer to her own chest as if to stifle it, but the motion fails and it continues, each chirp is long and drawn out. Mockery is dense in each note as if the laugh had been rehearsed and practiced to be laced with as much venom as possible. “Girl, you need to learn how to become a better liar,” she waves the back of her hand against her own mouth and wipes it clean of spittle. Moments pass as she collects herself. “...You serious?” She asks with a scrunched nose and tilted head. A loose hand finds her hip and she turns slightly at the waist. “There’s all of this degeneracy and you show up looking like a choir girl,” she states smoothly. “And you’re surprised when someone is curious? Hell, how did you even make it past the front door? You don’t happen to have a wad of cash stuffed somewhere in there? Paying bribes?” Her eyes narrow in playful suspicion. “Look. This is your first time in a place like this. And it’s obvious that “daddy,” did not, in fact, push you through the door,” Leolla affirms with a confident huff. The taller woman hovers over her and stands at her side. A lanky arm draws nearer, wrapping around her neck but not yet making contact–the arm hovers. Leolla eyes her expectantly. “You’re here for friends are you not? You want to meet a “diverse” crowd. So why don’t you let me show you, have a drink, and loosen up? And if you meet expectations, perhaps I can show you something interesting,” the taller woman laughs lowly and pulls away her arm. She creates distance between herself and Alma–room to breathe. A new melody electrifies the air, one with pulsating beats and ethereal vocals. As her eyes light up with recognition, her body begins to sway. Her humming starts soft but begins to grow as she loses her focus on the rhythm. “Ah, this one,” she murmurs, a genuine smile replacing her mocking expression. Her movements become more pronounced and her hips start swaying. Her arms rise and fall like the limbs of branches swaying amid a gentle breeze. Fingers trace patterns in the air. With a tilt of her head and a beckoning gesture, she invites the young woman to join her. She reaches out, not quite touching Alma, but creating space for her to step into. “Come on, Ms. Harvard,” she calls with a voice that is a blend between a challenge and encouragement.
Leolla nods attentively. There is the wiggle of a brow and the shutting of an eyelid. She holds her own chin between the grip of her index finger and thumb while the digits massage against her skin. At the mention of “Harvard,” her eyes grew larger. She mouths the word, tests it on her tongue and her eyes become aflame with a mix of mockery and jealousy. A tiny, dark tar-colored insect blooms from her mouth and crawls onto her cheek. An aberration, small–and doomed to quickly fade. “Your … father?” She beams with narrowed eyes and a sideways smile. “Told...you…to come, here?” Dry laughter grasps her by the lungs and quakes throughout her body. She hugs her arms closer to her own chest as if to stifle it, but the motion fails and it continues, each chirp is long and drawn out. Mockery is dense in each note as if the laugh had been rehearsed and practiced to be laced with as much venom as possible. “Girl, you need to learn how to become a better liar,” she waves the back of her hand against her own mouth and wipes it clean of spittle. Moments pass as she collects herself. “...You serious?” She asks with a scrunched nose and tilted head. A loose hand finds her hip and she turns slightly at the waist. “There’s all of this degeneracy and you show up looking like a choir girl,” she states smoothly. “And you’re surprised when someone is curious? Hell, how did you even make it past the front door? You don’t happen to have a wad of cash stuffed somewhere in there? Paying bribes?” Her eyes narrow in playful suspicion. “Look. This is your first time in a place like this. And it’s obvious that “daddy,” did not, in fact, push you through the door,” Leolla affirms with a confident huff. The taller woman hovers over her and stands at her side. A lanky arm draws nearer, wrapping around her neck but not yet making contact–the arm hovers. Leolla eyes her expectantly. “You’re here for friends are you not? You want to meet a “diverse” crowd. So why don’t you let me show you, have a drink, and loosen up? And if you meet expectations, perhaps I can show you something interesting,” the taller woman laughs lowly and pulls away her arm. She creates distance between herself and Alma–room to breathe. A new melody electrifies the air, one with pulsating beats and ethereal vocals. As her eyes light up with recognition, her body begins to sway. Her humming starts soft but begins to grow as she loses her focus on the rhythm. “Ah, this one,” she murmurs, a genuine smile replacing her mocking expression. Her movements become more pronounced and her hips start swaying. Her arms rise and fall like the limbs of branches swaying amid a gentle breeze. Fingers trace patterns in the air. With a tilt of her head and a beckoning gesture, she invites the young woman to join her. She reaches out, not quite touching Alma, but creating space for her to step into. “Come on, Ms. Harvard,” she calls with a voice that is a blend between a challenge and encouragement.
Nyctiel
In empty places, the vestiges of life lingered. It hid in the misalignment of books and furniture, in the dirt sullying the wooden tiled floor, and in the glass by the fingerprints left behind with careless touches. Many bodies pass through here; it is a building of science and study. The experience of seeing it so absent and devoid of life was like looking into a mirror, from the other side. Dust motes glide through the empty air and reflect the allotted moonlight. Specters of passersby, dead skin peeled from their bodies and left to molt alongside window seals.
A book tumbles to the floor from somewhere close by. The noise of its paperback cover thudding is loud. It bounces once, then twice, and a second noise is elicited thereafter, like a shock of lightning before the boom of thunder.
The world shatters.
A high-pitched whisper slices through the air with a razor's edge. Then came the explosion of crystal that rained down in glittering shards. Tiny cracks and pops continued, smaller now, cascading from the same area where the book fell. They hit the ground and broke again into a myriad of smaller fragments.
The walls in the room are long and horse-shoe shaped–curved to allow even distribution of sound. Every noise made here is louder, enhanced by the hard reflective surfaces that coat the floor and ceiling. A stage stands on the furthest end, and atop that stage, is the body of a middle-aged man.
He screams with a deep baritone. Their heavy paunch protrudes over their belt and they find themselves thrown to the ground along the edge of a wall. A large classroom auditorium surrounds him and the architecture allows his voice to travel much further than it usually would. Deep red marks trace over his arm and face like dirt roads haphazardly carved into the earth. His glasses hang limply over his ear and sag onto his sternum. He wears a tan sweater over a white dress shirt dyed red from his blood.
The lenses of his glasses are missing.
The man groans and applies pressure to his stomach. His wounds were shallow and superficial–barring the deep red line that tore through his stomach. He was a biology professor, and he knew what to do in situations like this. Adrenaline compelled him to panic. He batted those voices away, taking advantage of his shredded shirt to begin piecing together a makeshift tourniquet.
It was not enough.
Crimson slipped through his fingers despite his attempts to put himself together. His hands did not obey him, bloodloss formed a blockage between his thoughts and actions. He cursed his colleagues for letting him search alone, cursed the industry that compelled his friend to their fate.
Windows, the projector lens, beakers, and test tubes–all shattered, broken by some phantasmal force. Shaking hands abandoned their attempt to grasp the shredded string wrapped around their waist. There was a glaze that wrapped around his eyes and an understanding lingering behind them. He knew that he only had minutes before his skin greyed from the loss of blood.
"DAMN YOU, ACCURSED THING!" He pries the noise from his shrieking neck. His words are hoarse as they leave his throat. Grasping his neck and straightening his spine, he calls out again, "DAMN YOU!" The professor tries a third time, but a fit of coughs cuts him short. He lies there in silence while his hand struggles to clutch the wound, immobile and waiting while his last minutes drip out of him.
Arc 2 : Blood On The Shoreline
