Salieri Von Rilich
New Member
Stories written at 4-ish PM. unedited, so mistakes may be present.
Tell me what you think.
First of Two:
Ash.
Silence.
Void.
Cold.
An ashen field, stretching far to the horizons.
An ashen field, as silent as tomb.
An ashen field, under a sky of void.
An ashen field, still air frigid.
A great cathedral of burnt marble,
Hanging on the lip of,
an abyssal scar in the land,
Stained glass rivers stagnant on empty floors,
Threadbare tapestries long faded,
Burnt crosses,
Silent halls,
skeletons knelt in submission.
A geiger counter ticks gently.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Dust.
Dust on floors.
Dust on tables, desks.
Dust on pews and crosses.
Dust on corpses.
Dust stirring.
Tick
Ticktick
Tickticktick
Movement.
Energy.
Warmth.
Awakening.
Ticktickticktick
Tickticktickticktick
Ticktickticktickticktick
Warm Blue Light.
Dust in a whirlwind.
Skeletons knelt in praise eternal,
Of a god that had not saved them.
Bony faces bathed in the Cheknov glow,
And there it stood, resurrected.
A figure, humanoid, tall and thin.
And in front of a cross stood a pheonix, born again from the ashes of atomic fire,
Memory.
We saw god die that night when the atoms split.
We found a new god in the demons of the sundered nucueli
We built the bombs on a dead angel's wings.
And we unleashed hell,
We saw damnation in the mushroom clouds,
rising over the land like a new, blighted sun.
And we saw bliss in the energy of annihilation.
And fate cast her dice.
Footsteps in ancient dust.
A geiger counter, whirring uncontrollably.
Skeletons crumbling to dust,
Baptised in the dark fire of their new god.
Paths treaded carelessly.
Great concrete shrines to our new gods,
Cities of Neophytes to deities inscrutable.
Acolytes in tyvek robes, baptised in the cold, blue light.
Divinity became wrath,
Shrines became weapons.
Fear.
Paranoia.
Anger.
Great nations, built on their own worship of the same gods,
Talk.
Men In suits.
Greed.
Spite.
Talk.
Men in suits.
Soft words laced with venom.
Razors in the candyfloss.
Betrayal.
Rage. Violence.
Great nations burning, their new gods smiting them,
Prayers fall on deaf ears.
Baptism, by atomic flames.
Annihilation, by atomic flames.
We faced our demons and we saw only our reflections.
Second of Two:
The figure awakens on a beach in a strange land. He has not been here before. No one of his kind has. His naked form stands, the obsidian sand flowing back into the imprint his sleeping form left. He takes a step foward, and without much concern or notice from the man, the sand cuts into the bare soles of his feet, and he takes another step, vermillion puddles in his fading footprints. He walks to the ocean, and he looks at the sky, void pierced by small stars shining faintly against the endless night. A violet star shines coldly at zenith, and the figure steps into the waves, one foot after the other, until he was waist deep in the warm, luminous green ocean, and he tried to remember.
The scent of mint. Bright silver steel beneath his tyvek-clad feet. Flourescent glare casting its harsh light on the clinical white walls of the room, and an altar, so out of place in this room, its grey and red stone bearing a small, dark shard, like a fragment of the heavens smashed loose and made profane in this most mortal of planes. His gloved hand reached outwards, and God reached back. Their hands meet in the brilliant white glow of annihilation.
Where had that came from? The figure could not say. He saw what looked like himself, but was not, could not be him. He was alive. The man in the memory could not be. The two beings were the same, knew the figure. That left him with death. And then what? What had became of him? He could still think, and he could feel. But did that mean anything? So could the machknes, and they were not alive. Was he a machine? He steps out of the ocean and picks up a long, jagged shard of the black glass, the soft pale flesh of his hand yeilding under the fel edge of the rock, and he feels himself bleed without much pain. He raises the stone dripping crimson to his chest, and without hesitation, shoves it into his heart.
Flickers. Sensations. Running on red stone cliffs, drinking from the cold blue water of a glacial waterfall.
Stars and void. Falling. Technicolor flora beneath a glowing white sky. Searing magma in vast oceans. Falling. Existence epiphenomal to conciousness. Darkness. Sleep.
Pain. He could feel pain. Searing agony at the deep wound, and he had never been happier. He collapses onto his hands and knees, panting and bleeding. He smiles, and he falls flat onto the dark razors of the beach sand, purple sun slowly roasting his exposed flesh.
Great dark beings in starless void. Shapes non-euclidian, indescribable, infinite. Voices in languages never spoken before or after. Explanations unheard by the finite figure floating alone in the vast gulf of endless nothing in which dwells God. He heard dreams and nightmares without remembering more than the fact that somehting was spoken. Being cast down from high. Reasons for this he did not know. He knew nothing in that instant.
He eventually continued to walk, away from the endless glow of the ocean, leaving his bloodied footprints in the black sand. He leaves the rock in its place, sweet crimson fluid oozing down his specteral white form, cast turquoise in the strange light of the dark land. The beach gives way to dark dunes, and the figure climbs these, every inch of skin stripped away by the razor sand, until all that was left was red flesh dripping ruby. He could feel the sting of cold air on exposed flesh, but he cast it from his thoughts with frightening ease, and he stood atop the towering dune. And lept.
Nonexistence hits hard in the dissolving chest as black sand runs liquid and stars blossom again into his vision. The sensation of burning, all over his flesh, hot fire running his body molten, and in the crucible of the void, that which was weak is burnt away. Haze of existence lost in measures. And He is recast again, reason and method unknown. Existence remade in no-one's image. He feels his new form freeze into its mold.
The sensation of falling.
A humanoid form crawls from the cold oil of the spring, his body coated in dark, sticky oil, and he stands upon the crimson grass, feeling like raw meat beneath his heels, and he looks upwards, breathing in the metallic, earthy scent of the land. There are massive white spikes of stone piercing from the earth, bones of some dead god, covered in ivy as blue as veins. Great beasts like spiders covered in grey mushrooms drift slowly across the landscape, grazing occasionally on small squidgy things hiding in bizarre fleshy grass. Small black streams and pits dot the plains stretching out around him. The figure looks at his chest, and there is only a black ring where is heart should be, and he looks again at his hands, drippimg in the thick black oil of the pit. The sky above ripples with red lightning on clouds aflame in hues of orange and gold. The figure walks away from the pit, his footprints blqck on the red ground. He comes before a spire, and without a second thought begins to climb, hands on the ivy, feet in the rock. He reaches the top, and he sits there, staring at his hands. He can see the flesh again, now longer cast turquoise, but a pale lilac, and softer than they had ever been before. What was he becoming? Why? Why him? What had he done to deserve this?
Words. Venom. Voices, raised in anger. Things said to be regretted later. A hand raised against a freind turned foe. Action in place of speech. Silence. Anger. Two figure, walking away from one another, from what was said. Walking to regrets yet to manifest.
No. No, he had never hurt anyone like that. He wasn't a bad person. He just did hia job, and he lived his life. He didnt hurt people. He didnt hurt anyone, He didnt deserve this.
The creature in thw tank was malformed , and the man in the white coat shook his head in dissaproval. The creature howled and tried to claw its way out as the caustic gas filled the chamber, but the white-coated figure just watched as the creature was terminated, noting how long it took to succumb. He moved onto the next tank.
But, that thing was a weapon! He was just recycling a prototype! How could he be blamed for that? He remembers againnthe look in the creature's eyes. He saw its flesh melting again. He remembers the pencil mark on the paper, 15.23 seconds. 15 seconds. That was all it took. On that creature and every one down the line too. He had killed them. He stood again, and walked to the tip of the spar, and looked at the grass below. He smiles and steps back, draws a deep breath into his lungs, and he runs, legs compressing at the precipe, launching him into a jump, down to the land below, rushing up towards him.
Blue haze. Light.
The sensation of falling, again in the dark space full of dark figures, deep waters in the gulf of nothingness. And this time, He can hear.
HERE HE IS AGAIN.
YES, THAT IS HIM.
WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS?
I DO NOT KNOW. HE DOES NOT KNOW.
THEN UNKNOWABLE IT MUST BE.
DOES HE HEAR US?
YES.
DOES HE UNDERSTAND?
NO. HE IS NOT QUITE READY.
NO, I SEE THAT NOW.
WHAT WILL HE BECOME, I WONDER?
NOT LIKE US.
THAT CANNOT BE ALLOWED.
I THINK HIS FORM IS BEING DRAWN BACK TO THE LOWER PLANES.
YES... HE IS LOSING SUBSTANCE.
WE WILL WATCH YOU WITH INTEREST.
HE COULD NOT UNDERSTAND THAT.
I KNOW.
...
Dissolution. Flesh gone liquid, mind sparking electric, ignition. Flames cold, ashes hot. Conciousness lost in the inferno, and in the smoke, things shift.
Blue haze.
The sensation of fallling.
Embers and charred stone below him, smoke in the sky. The figure attempts lift himself off the boiling ground. Blue haze fills his vision, and he sees the void fill his vision. Then back again, on hot concrete, a city below him, burnt and hollowed, huge, red vines covered in massive thorns twist around everything, through eveything. Bodies hang from tendrils, limp forms impaled on spikes, streets stagnant and red. He can taste rot in the air up here. He sways and stumbles, shocked by the devastation. Before he hits the ground the blue haze appears again, blinding him. When the light fades out again, he is on his knees in the street, the sickly sweet tang of blood in the air, warm fluid clinging to his flesh. He retches and coughs, and drops of cyan fluid splash into the vermillion ooze in the street. He starts vto stand, and his vision flickers.
Himself, but not himself. Lilac skin aglow with luminous cyan veins, eyes solid yellow, blazing bright.
Off balance, looking up at the sky.
His skin covered in gaping wounds, cyan flying upwards in liquid globs.
Impact. Cracks form in the glass, light spills from the gem. More cyan seeping into the crimson river.
Visions.
Another figure. The shard. Diffrent place, diffrent time. The whole of existence blooms into his vision, and it is terrifying. He floated above it all, detached, never to be part of it, never to be free from it. Great waves of sadness and fear. The Second approaches the first, but is frozen in place. The first looks at the second, searing crimson eyes meeting the Second's yellow gaze. The Second feels himself tugged back, pushed back into the physical plane.
The sensation of flight.
He was tired of this. He had not slept in days. He did not feel hunger or thirst, and that made him sick. He heaves and vomits more of the vile Cyan liquid, its taste sour and bitter in his mouth. He couldn't feel pain at all anymore. All he wanted was death, but the reaper would not for him come.
His naked form lay curled up on the pale pink sand of the forest floor, a shimmering rainbow of crystalline leaves dancing above him, set to a brilliant background of void and stars. He wimpers and can do nothing my laugh, giggling at the futility of it all. He throws up again, and rolls onto his back. The sand below him was cold, and he did not care. A swarm of spectral lights swarm above, pausing to drain the glowing nectar from the frail gems of the flowers. He smiles at this.
Blue haze-no.
No. He would not do this again.
NO.He was tired of being dragged along by forces he couldnt see.
NO! The figure resists, slams his will against the light, clinging to the sandy ground, fighting the pull, the drain. He feels himself being dragged away, but still he clings. He feels stretched, about to be torn apart.
The sound of crystal breaking.
The cold, pale pink sand below him, the shimmering rainbow of leaves above.
He was still here. He hadn't been moved. He laughs, howls in joy, despite his fatigue, despite his sickness, despite all of this, he was happy. He had regained some measure of control, and that pleased him immensely. He picked himself up shakily, holding his hand in front of his face, turning it back and forth. There was something..diffrent about it,
The color was brighter. And he could feel. He could feel. Every movement hurt, and it was a good thing. Motes of golden light float off his skin. He was alive. He could feel the hunger tearing at him, and he knew he was dehydrated. The agony of life never felt quite as good.
Rational thought. He was hungry, hurt and thirsty, and he would probably die without sustenance, yet he could barely stand without collapsing from fatigue. There was not likely to be food here. He had to move again, he had to summon the haze. But could he control it? He decided that it could be risked. He focused on moving, on the hunger and the thirst, trying to shift his reality again, to where he could satiate himself.
Blue haze.
Falling.
Here he was again, out of his depth.
They are here still hiding in the dark.
The voices sound again, and this time they are understood.
WELL
HERE IT IS.
OF ITS OWN VOLITION.
IT IS FREE, AND YET IT HAS RETURNED.
IT DID NOT WANT TO.
BUT IT DID.
YES.
WHY?
I DO NOT KNOW.
WHAT SHOULD WE DO WITH IT?
ERASE IT.
REMAKE IT AGAIN.
BANISH IT LIKE THE FIRST.
NO.
WE COULD USE IT STILL.
IT SERVED THE ORIGINAL PURPOSE.
BUT THERE ARE OTHER THINGS THAT MUST BE WITNESSED.
BUT WILL NOT THE FIRST DESTROY THIS ONE?
NO.
YES.
THE FIRST ABHORRS THE SECOND.
THE SECOND DOES NOT KNOW THE FIRST.
BUT HE HAS SEEN IT.
SIGHT IS NOT KNOWLEDGE WITHOUT MEMORY.
THEN WHY ARE HIS EYES VALUABLE?
BECAUSE WE HOLD THE MEMORY.
HIS EYES ARE DECAYING.
WE WILL FIX THAT.
GIVE IT WHAT IT DESIRES.
ALLOW THE BEAST TO FEED.
The figure understands what is said in his rational mind, but instinct fueled by starvation drives him to focus on the food in front of him, trays of exotic cheese and cakes, sweetmeats and fruits, wine in a chalice of gold. He tears into the food, fighting the hunger down, and he gulps wine between bites of food, trying to kill the thirst.
This was food. This was drink, sustenance. When he was truly satitiated, the food dissolves back into the dark, and the voices resume. The figure's rational mind now knew the danger he was he in, and he knew he must listen.
WELL.
IT CERTAINLY MATCHED THE BEAST COMPARISON.
YES.
THIS THING..IS OUR EYES.
YES.
THE FIRST WILL DESTROY HIM WITHOUT EFFORT.
THEN WE WILL BE BLIND AGAIN.
...
SEND HIM BACK TO THE PLANE OF THE LESSER.
BACK TO THE FIRST.
BACK TO HIS END.
DEATH IS NOT CESSATION.
Blue haze.
Falling.
Standing alone on the cracked dirt in front of the great jade mass ahead of him, all twisted angles and spikes and holes. A faint breeze becomes a chilling howl through the huge bulwark of jade.
The figure, form wrapped in an iridescent cloak of the night sky, warm against his skin. His hand finds a blade, as long as he was tall, and perfectly balanced, and just as dark as the cloak. He feels different again. The voices had talked of remaking him. His body no longer hurt, and he could think clearly. He was the target of someone else. Someone those things knew. These things were to protect him. He was the eyes of the Voices. They saw through his eyes. He knew that the first was waiting for him inside of the jade bulwark.
The figure strides through the jagged gate, cloak billowing slightly, the great sword dragged along behind him, a ring of shadow behind his head, and his face a single brilliamt yellow eye. His talons click against the jade, echoing through the vast tunnel. The tunnels stretch on for hundreds of miles inside the glistening shell. But the Second knew his path. He felt the Voices guuding him in his subconscious, and he did not fight them. They were using him, he knew he was just a puppet. But he still clung to life, even in this form. He could think on this walk, the only sounds his footsteps and his the howling winds. He should be cold. But the cloak of the void was warm. He should be weary, but he felt almost weightless. his mind again shifts back to his purpose. He did not know if the voices were good or evil and if that mattered. Did anything? He keeps walking, and he feels himself getting closer. The First was nearby. He knew what would have to be done.
The jade wall behind explodes into a cloud green shards.
The First floats through, his citrine form hanging limply below the blazing white ring behind his head, his crimson eye ablaze. A tattered cloak of pure light hangs around his form, and a long blade of light like a claymore was gripped in his left hand.
The Second stares at first, and he feels his arm lift his blade, and his body with it, up. And in a slow arc his arm slams the blade back down into the jade, sending a seething black rift down the jade floor, which explodes upwards in a volcanic eruption of shards and shadows.
The First dissappears in an explosion of white orbs, which stick to every surface they hit, and spreads into white portals.
The Second hits the floor as every portal aims at another, and a blast of crimson plasma arcs from portal to portal. It burns for less than two seconds before the portal become again the First.
The Second drags space ahaead of him backwards to slash at the First, and their blades collide in a flash of cheknov blue. And almost in unison, First and Second warp backwards, blades wielded two handed, and a thin line of white meets a thin line of black.
The Jade bulwark's central tower explodes into massive shards, suspended in place around its former position. Both First and Second now stand at opposite ends of a crater of melted jade, hovering slightly above the superheated gemstone.Their eyes lock, and space folds.
Blades collide too fast for one to see without the abilities of a seer. The air blossoms with Cheknov light, as the pair dance in a flurry of strikes and warps, leaping from shard to shard and leaving faint golden motes everywhere that they reshape space. They seem to be evenly matched, and the Second, realizing this, folds space again, this time in flight, leaving a blast of shadows in his wake. He ends up in a jade room filled with statues...of figures much like himself. And the "First". He kneels on the floor, and hand still on the blade, sunk into the floor. He was panting, even without a mouth. He could not kill the First like this, they fought too similarly. He had to do some thing diffrent. He feels the first looking for him. He laughs quietly and stands, and space folds around him again.
This would work. He would not show himself. He need not. He could see the first. In the hal, thick jade walls on either side. Boom. Shards explode as he manifests the void for a half second, a mere flicker. The First howls as he he is struck, and molten orange fluid leaks from the cuts, dripping on the the floor. The rest of the hallway runs molten, blue sky above visible again.
And the first sees him, even this state, even flickering like this, the First could see. And before the second could react, the first warps foward, trail of orange droplets behund him, hanging still as the white blade runs through the lilac skin of Second, cyan globs exploding outwards.
The orange drops splash onto the fused jade as the First withdraws the blade.
Second falls to his knees in teh cyan puddle, fluid still leaking from the gaping hole in gut. His translucent intestines are held in only by his shaking arm. He can feel the excruciating pain where he was impaled, and he felt like he was freezing from the inside. He had to stand, to fight. He had to live. He staggers to his feet, while First hovers a few meteres away, watching. The crimson of the First's eye sparks, and the beam nearly collapses the Second. Another blast, and The Second sways, leaning on his sword. A third spark, and the Second's head snaps up to lock eyes. The red beam was met with a storm of yellow energy, Forcing the First down to the floor. The Second looks down at the first, raises his left hand to the sky.
He did not know what he had planned. This could not work out in his favor. He was going to die, he could feel the pull of the void dragging at the back of his skull, the weariness of decades in seconds. He would collapse unless he made his move first. There was the First before him. No need for restraint.
Golden motes form and fade to black around his hand, spreading down his body and upwards in a great golden spiral. Every shard of suspened jade caught in the maelstrom of potential. And there it was, he coulde do it now. Every shard spirals towards his fingertip, and he smashes the entire weight of the great jade tower upon the First, slamming him down into the depths of bulwark. And here, the Second fell upon the roof, a cyan puddle spreading below his limp form, cloak of void sprawled over the victor of a winnerless fight.
This was not death. This was something diffrent. The Second looked at his own body, quite dead on the lip of the great pit in the tower. He could see a faint glimmer down below, but that did not concern him. He needed only to Live again. He could still feel space around him and he might be able to..yes. Yes he could. They would if he didnt. He dragged the corpse into this echoed plane. He could feel anger ripple up through the planes. They did not like being blind. He laughed and smiled, and reached his tendrils towards the corpse, and let his conciousness envelop the flesh.
The Second stood up again, whole again, lilac form still wrapped in the cloak, and the sword slung on his back, the ring behind his head a series of floating shards like the jade. His yellow eye glowed dimlyin the night air, hazy with dust kicked up during the fight. His skin shone too, and he stood on the lip of the pit. He could feel the First still, its life still a beacon in the desolation of this world. And he opened his mouth, featureless lower face dividing into a proto mouth, threads of flesh hanging loosely when he opened his maw, fusing seamlessy back when he was silent.
"I can see you. Arise, and let us face Them together."
This was not what the First wanted. His energy was still there even if the body lay broken. The jade was in enough pieces though, that he could..yes. Yes. He could. The Crimson arcs between pieces, and the entire thing rises again, shards reformed into a colossal jade wurm, rocketing up from the depths of the tower. Its maw of jagged, spiraling shards stares the Second in the face, harsh red glow cast over everything.
The sword held in both hands, raised high, obsidian blade swung, down, drawing globs of liquid shadows from the ether, and at chest level, the Second braces his feet on the jade, as a beam of black blasts from the tip, exploding a great mass of jade from the wurm.
The wurm leaps at the Second, and he barely dodges it, the edge of one of the great shards tearing a dripping cyan gash in his arm.
The Second warps backwards as the wurm erupts from the floor, sending razored fragments skyward.
Another narrow dodge, sliding frictionless backwards, then rolling side ways as the massive wurm leaps up again. The Second sees the three holes in the floor, the massive spiral of green crystals still raising itself from the depths. Anothet eruption, and The second slides under the arch that its body create, teh touch of his blade elicting a red flash, as section of the wurm destabilized, exploding into jagged shards. Warp foward, dodge the hail. Charge the sword, draw from the echoed planes
-and feel the shadows welling up into the light. Nullification. That is what he was, he was a nullifier. Those shadows were not absence, but rather antigen of light. The blade, he could feel its power well to the point. Wait for it..
There.
Arms swing into place, as the wurm leaps again skywards. Leap. Midair, the wurm angling towards him. Aim. The thin tracer beam carves itself into the air, then widens into the godsblade of vitriolic shadow, the center of the worm flares crimson, filling the air with brilliant ruby haze, and The second feels lighter, the floor lifting up below, fragmenting, as the Wurms energy swelled outwards, downwards, and the wurm explodes silently in a jade shower, and all is red.
The Second stood there, dripping cyan from his wounds, in the silent husk of the great jade Bulwark, a kneeling figure of compact jade, dark enough to be black. A red light shines dimly within, as if from some oceanic abyss. The Second looks at the immobile figure, and places his hand on its smooth, glassy head.
Blue haze.
Tell me what you think.
First of Two:
Ash.
Silence.
Void.
Cold.
An ashen field, stretching far to the horizons.
An ashen field, as silent as tomb.
An ashen field, under a sky of void.
An ashen field, still air frigid.
A great cathedral of burnt marble,
Hanging on the lip of,
an abyssal scar in the land,
Stained glass rivers stagnant on empty floors,
Threadbare tapestries long faded,
Burnt crosses,
Silent halls,
skeletons knelt in submission.
A geiger counter ticks gently.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Dust.
Dust on floors.
Dust on tables, desks.
Dust on pews and crosses.
Dust on corpses.
Dust stirring.
Tick
Ticktick
Tickticktick
Movement.
Energy.
Warmth.
Awakening.
Ticktickticktick
Tickticktickticktick
Ticktickticktickticktick
Warm Blue Light.
Dust in a whirlwind.
Skeletons knelt in praise eternal,
Of a god that had not saved them.
Bony faces bathed in the Cheknov glow,
And there it stood, resurrected.
A figure, humanoid, tall and thin.
And in front of a cross stood a pheonix, born again from the ashes of atomic fire,
Memory.
We saw god die that night when the atoms split.
We found a new god in the demons of the sundered nucueli
We built the bombs on a dead angel's wings.
And we unleashed hell,
We saw damnation in the mushroom clouds,
rising over the land like a new, blighted sun.
And we saw bliss in the energy of annihilation.
And fate cast her dice.
Footsteps in ancient dust.
A geiger counter, whirring uncontrollably.
Skeletons crumbling to dust,
Baptised in the dark fire of their new god.
Paths treaded carelessly.
Great concrete shrines to our new gods,
Cities of Neophytes to deities inscrutable.
Acolytes in tyvek robes, baptised in the cold, blue light.
Divinity became wrath,
Shrines became weapons.
Fear.
Paranoia.
Anger.
Great nations, built on their own worship of the same gods,
Talk.
Men In suits.
Greed.
Spite.
Talk.
Men in suits.
Soft words laced with venom.
Razors in the candyfloss.
Betrayal.
Rage. Violence.
Great nations burning, their new gods smiting them,
Prayers fall on deaf ears.
Baptism, by atomic flames.
Annihilation, by atomic flames.
We faced our demons and we saw only our reflections.
Second of Two:
The figure awakens on a beach in a strange land. He has not been here before. No one of his kind has. His naked form stands, the obsidian sand flowing back into the imprint his sleeping form left. He takes a step foward, and without much concern or notice from the man, the sand cuts into the bare soles of his feet, and he takes another step, vermillion puddles in his fading footprints. He walks to the ocean, and he looks at the sky, void pierced by small stars shining faintly against the endless night. A violet star shines coldly at zenith, and the figure steps into the waves, one foot after the other, until he was waist deep in the warm, luminous green ocean, and he tried to remember.
The scent of mint. Bright silver steel beneath his tyvek-clad feet. Flourescent glare casting its harsh light on the clinical white walls of the room, and an altar, so out of place in this room, its grey and red stone bearing a small, dark shard, like a fragment of the heavens smashed loose and made profane in this most mortal of planes. His gloved hand reached outwards, and God reached back. Their hands meet in the brilliant white glow of annihilation.
Where had that came from? The figure could not say. He saw what looked like himself, but was not, could not be him. He was alive. The man in the memory could not be. The two beings were the same, knew the figure. That left him with death. And then what? What had became of him? He could still think, and he could feel. But did that mean anything? So could the machknes, and they were not alive. Was he a machine? He steps out of the ocean and picks up a long, jagged shard of the black glass, the soft pale flesh of his hand yeilding under the fel edge of the rock, and he feels himself bleed without much pain. He raises the stone dripping crimson to his chest, and without hesitation, shoves it into his heart.
Flickers. Sensations. Running on red stone cliffs, drinking from the cold blue water of a glacial waterfall.
Stars and void. Falling. Technicolor flora beneath a glowing white sky. Searing magma in vast oceans. Falling. Existence epiphenomal to conciousness. Darkness. Sleep.
Pain. He could feel pain. Searing agony at the deep wound, and he had never been happier. He collapses onto his hands and knees, panting and bleeding. He smiles, and he falls flat onto the dark razors of the beach sand, purple sun slowly roasting his exposed flesh.
Great dark beings in starless void. Shapes non-euclidian, indescribable, infinite. Voices in languages never spoken before or after. Explanations unheard by the finite figure floating alone in the vast gulf of endless nothing in which dwells God. He heard dreams and nightmares without remembering more than the fact that somehting was spoken. Being cast down from high. Reasons for this he did not know. He knew nothing in that instant.
He eventually continued to walk, away from the endless glow of the ocean, leaving his bloodied footprints in the black sand. He leaves the rock in its place, sweet crimson fluid oozing down his specteral white form, cast turquoise in the strange light of the dark land. The beach gives way to dark dunes, and the figure climbs these, every inch of skin stripped away by the razor sand, until all that was left was red flesh dripping ruby. He could feel the sting of cold air on exposed flesh, but he cast it from his thoughts with frightening ease, and he stood atop the towering dune. And lept.
Nonexistence hits hard in the dissolving chest as black sand runs liquid and stars blossom again into his vision. The sensation of burning, all over his flesh, hot fire running his body molten, and in the crucible of the void, that which was weak is burnt away. Haze of existence lost in measures. And He is recast again, reason and method unknown. Existence remade in no-one's image. He feels his new form freeze into its mold.
The sensation of falling.
A humanoid form crawls from the cold oil of the spring, his body coated in dark, sticky oil, and he stands upon the crimson grass, feeling like raw meat beneath his heels, and he looks upwards, breathing in the metallic, earthy scent of the land. There are massive white spikes of stone piercing from the earth, bones of some dead god, covered in ivy as blue as veins. Great beasts like spiders covered in grey mushrooms drift slowly across the landscape, grazing occasionally on small squidgy things hiding in bizarre fleshy grass. Small black streams and pits dot the plains stretching out around him. The figure looks at his chest, and there is only a black ring where is heart should be, and he looks again at his hands, drippimg in the thick black oil of the pit. The sky above ripples with red lightning on clouds aflame in hues of orange and gold. The figure walks away from the pit, his footprints blqck on the red ground. He comes before a spire, and without a second thought begins to climb, hands on the ivy, feet in the rock. He reaches the top, and he sits there, staring at his hands. He can see the flesh again, now longer cast turquoise, but a pale lilac, and softer than they had ever been before. What was he becoming? Why? Why him? What had he done to deserve this?
Words. Venom. Voices, raised in anger. Things said to be regretted later. A hand raised against a freind turned foe. Action in place of speech. Silence. Anger. Two figure, walking away from one another, from what was said. Walking to regrets yet to manifest.
No. No, he had never hurt anyone like that. He wasn't a bad person. He just did hia job, and he lived his life. He didnt hurt people. He didnt hurt anyone, He didnt deserve this.
The creature in thw tank was malformed , and the man in the white coat shook his head in dissaproval. The creature howled and tried to claw its way out as the caustic gas filled the chamber, but the white-coated figure just watched as the creature was terminated, noting how long it took to succumb. He moved onto the next tank.
But, that thing was a weapon! He was just recycling a prototype! How could he be blamed for that? He remembers againnthe look in the creature's eyes. He saw its flesh melting again. He remembers the pencil mark on the paper, 15.23 seconds. 15 seconds. That was all it took. On that creature and every one down the line too. He had killed them. He stood again, and walked to the tip of the spar, and looked at the grass below. He smiles and steps back, draws a deep breath into his lungs, and he runs, legs compressing at the precipe, launching him into a jump, down to the land below, rushing up towards him.
Blue haze. Light.
The sensation of falling, again in the dark space full of dark figures, deep waters in the gulf of nothingness. And this time, He can hear.
HERE HE IS AGAIN.
YES, THAT IS HIM.
WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS?
I DO NOT KNOW. HE DOES NOT KNOW.
THEN UNKNOWABLE IT MUST BE.
DOES HE HEAR US?
YES.
DOES HE UNDERSTAND?
NO. HE IS NOT QUITE READY.
NO, I SEE THAT NOW.
WHAT WILL HE BECOME, I WONDER?
NOT LIKE US.
THAT CANNOT BE ALLOWED.
I THINK HIS FORM IS BEING DRAWN BACK TO THE LOWER PLANES.
YES... HE IS LOSING SUBSTANCE.
WE WILL WATCH YOU WITH INTEREST.
HE COULD NOT UNDERSTAND THAT.
I KNOW.
...
Dissolution. Flesh gone liquid, mind sparking electric, ignition. Flames cold, ashes hot. Conciousness lost in the inferno, and in the smoke, things shift.
Blue haze.
The sensation of fallling.
Embers and charred stone below him, smoke in the sky. The figure attempts lift himself off the boiling ground. Blue haze fills his vision, and he sees the void fill his vision. Then back again, on hot concrete, a city below him, burnt and hollowed, huge, red vines covered in massive thorns twist around everything, through eveything. Bodies hang from tendrils, limp forms impaled on spikes, streets stagnant and red. He can taste rot in the air up here. He sways and stumbles, shocked by the devastation. Before he hits the ground the blue haze appears again, blinding him. When the light fades out again, he is on his knees in the street, the sickly sweet tang of blood in the air, warm fluid clinging to his flesh. He retches and coughs, and drops of cyan fluid splash into the vermillion ooze in the street. He starts vto stand, and his vision flickers.
Himself, but not himself. Lilac skin aglow with luminous cyan veins, eyes solid yellow, blazing bright.
Off balance, looking up at the sky.
His skin covered in gaping wounds, cyan flying upwards in liquid globs.
Impact. Cracks form in the glass, light spills from the gem. More cyan seeping into the crimson river.
Visions.
Another figure. The shard. Diffrent place, diffrent time. The whole of existence blooms into his vision, and it is terrifying. He floated above it all, detached, never to be part of it, never to be free from it. Great waves of sadness and fear. The Second approaches the first, but is frozen in place. The first looks at the second, searing crimson eyes meeting the Second's yellow gaze. The Second feels himself tugged back, pushed back into the physical plane.
The sensation of flight.
He was tired of this. He had not slept in days. He did not feel hunger or thirst, and that made him sick. He heaves and vomits more of the vile Cyan liquid, its taste sour and bitter in his mouth. He couldn't feel pain at all anymore. All he wanted was death, but the reaper would not for him come.
His naked form lay curled up on the pale pink sand of the forest floor, a shimmering rainbow of crystalline leaves dancing above him, set to a brilliant background of void and stars. He wimpers and can do nothing my laugh, giggling at the futility of it all. He throws up again, and rolls onto his back. The sand below him was cold, and he did not care. A swarm of spectral lights swarm above, pausing to drain the glowing nectar from the frail gems of the flowers. He smiles at this.
Blue haze-no.
No. He would not do this again.
NO.He was tired of being dragged along by forces he couldnt see.
NO! The figure resists, slams his will against the light, clinging to the sandy ground, fighting the pull, the drain. He feels himself being dragged away, but still he clings. He feels stretched, about to be torn apart.
The sound of crystal breaking.
The cold, pale pink sand below him, the shimmering rainbow of leaves above.
He was still here. He hadn't been moved. He laughs, howls in joy, despite his fatigue, despite his sickness, despite all of this, he was happy. He had regained some measure of control, and that pleased him immensely. He picked himself up shakily, holding his hand in front of his face, turning it back and forth. There was something..diffrent about it,
The color was brighter. And he could feel. He could feel. Every movement hurt, and it was a good thing. Motes of golden light float off his skin. He was alive. He could feel the hunger tearing at him, and he knew he was dehydrated. The agony of life never felt quite as good.
Rational thought. He was hungry, hurt and thirsty, and he would probably die without sustenance, yet he could barely stand without collapsing from fatigue. There was not likely to be food here. He had to move again, he had to summon the haze. But could he control it? He decided that it could be risked. He focused on moving, on the hunger and the thirst, trying to shift his reality again, to where he could satiate himself.
Blue haze.
Falling.
Here he was again, out of his depth.
They are here still hiding in the dark.
The voices sound again, and this time they are understood.
WELL
HERE IT IS.
OF ITS OWN VOLITION.
IT IS FREE, AND YET IT HAS RETURNED.
IT DID NOT WANT TO.
BUT IT DID.
YES.
WHY?
I DO NOT KNOW.
WHAT SHOULD WE DO WITH IT?
ERASE IT.
REMAKE IT AGAIN.
BANISH IT LIKE THE FIRST.
NO.
WE COULD USE IT STILL.
IT SERVED THE ORIGINAL PURPOSE.
BUT THERE ARE OTHER THINGS THAT MUST BE WITNESSED.
BUT WILL NOT THE FIRST DESTROY THIS ONE?
NO.
YES.
THE FIRST ABHORRS THE SECOND.
THE SECOND DOES NOT KNOW THE FIRST.
BUT HE HAS SEEN IT.
SIGHT IS NOT KNOWLEDGE WITHOUT MEMORY.
THEN WHY ARE HIS EYES VALUABLE?
BECAUSE WE HOLD THE MEMORY.
HIS EYES ARE DECAYING.
WE WILL FIX THAT.
GIVE IT WHAT IT DESIRES.
ALLOW THE BEAST TO FEED.
The figure understands what is said in his rational mind, but instinct fueled by starvation drives him to focus on the food in front of him, trays of exotic cheese and cakes, sweetmeats and fruits, wine in a chalice of gold. He tears into the food, fighting the hunger down, and he gulps wine between bites of food, trying to kill the thirst.
This was food. This was drink, sustenance. When he was truly satitiated, the food dissolves back into the dark, and the voices resume. The figure's rational mind now knew the danger he was he in, and he knew he must listen.
WELL.
IT CERTAINLY MATCHED THE BEAST COMPARISON.
YES.
THIS THING..IS OUR EYES.
YES.
THE FIRST WILL DESTROY HIM WITHOUT EFFORT.
THEN WE WILL BE BLIND AGAIN.
...
SEND HIM BACK TO THE PLANE OF THE LESSER.
BACK TO THE FIRST.
BACK TO HIS END.
DEATH IS NOT CESSATION.
Blue haze.
Falling.
Standing alone on the cracked dirt in front of the great jade mass ahead of him, all twisted angles and spikes and holes. A faint breeze becomes a chilling howl through the huge bulwark of jade.
The figure, form wrapped in an iridescent cloak of the night sky, warm against his skin. His hand finds a blade, as long as he was tall, and perfectly balanced, and just as dark as the cloak. He feels different again. The voices had talked of remaking him. His body no longer hurt, and he could think clearly. He was the target of someone else. Someone those things knew. These things were to protect him. He was the eyes of the Voices. They saw through his eyes. He knew that the first was waiting for him inside of the jade bulwark.
The figure strides through the jagged gate, cloak billowing slightly, the great sword dragged along behind him, a ring of shadow behind his head, and his face a single brilliamt yellow eye. His talons click against the jade, echoing through the vast tunnel. The tunnels stretch on for hundreds of miles inside the glistening shell. But the Second knew his path. He felt the Voices guuding him in his subconscious, and he did not fight them. They were using him, he knew he was just a puppet. But he still clung to life, even in this form. He could think on this walk, the only sounds his footsteps and his the howling winds. He should be cold. But the cloak of the void was warm. He should be weary, but he felt almost weightless. his mind again shifts back to his purpose. He did not know if the voices were good or evil and if that mattered. Did anything? He keeps walking, and he feels himself getting closer. The First was nearby. He knew what would have to be done.
The jade wall behind explodes into a cloud green shards.
The First floats through, his citrine form hanging limply below the blazing white ring behind his head, his crimson eye ablaze. A tattered cloak of pure light hangs around his form, and a long blade of light like a claymore was gripped in his left hand.
The Second stares at first, and he feels his arm lift his blade, and his body with it, up. And in a slow arc his arm slams the blade back down into the jade, sending a seething black rift down the jade floor, which explodes upwards in a volcanic eruption of shards and shadows.
The First dissappears in an explosion of white orbs, which stick to every surface they hit, and spreads into white portals.
The Second hits the floor as every portal aims at another, and a blast of crimson plasma arcs from portal to portal. It burns for less than two seconds before the portal become again the First.
The Second drags space ahaead of him backwards to slash at the First, and their blades collide in a flash of cheknov blue. And almost in unison, First and Second warp backwards, blades wielded two handed, and a thin line of white meets a thin line of black.
The Jade bulwark's central tower explodes into massive shards, suspended in place around its former position. Both First and Second now stand at opposite ends of a crater of melted jade, hovering slightly above the superheated gemstone.Their eyes lock, and space folds.
Blades collide too fast for one to see without the abilities of a seer. The air blossoms with Cheknov light, as the pair dance in a flurry of strikes and warps, leaping from shard to shard and leaving faint golden motes everywhere that they reshape space. They seem to be evenly matched, and the Second, realizing this, folds space again, this time in flight, leaving a blast of shadows in his wake. He ends up in a jade room filled with statues...of figures much like himself. And the "First". He kneels on the floor, and hand still on the blade, sunk into the floor. He was panting, even without a mouth. He could not kill the First like this, they fought too similarly. He had to do some thing diffrent. He feels the first looking for him. He laughs quietly and stands, and space folds around him again.
This would work. He would not show himself. He need not. He could see the first. In the hal, thick jade walls on either side. Boom. Shards explode as he manifests the void for a half second, a mere flicker. The First howls as he he is struck, and molten orange fluid leaks from the cuts, dripping on the the floor. The rest of the hallway runs molten, blue sky above visible again.
And the first sees him, even this state, even flickering like this, the First could see. And before the second could react, the first warps foward, trail of orange droplets behund him, hanging still as the white blade runs through the lilac skin of Second, cyan globs exploding outwards.
The orange drops splash onto the fused jade as the First withdraws the blade.
Second falls to his knees in teh cyan puddle, fluid still leaking from the gaping hole in gut. His translucent intestines are held in only by his shaking arm. He can feel the excruciating pain where he was impaled, and he felt like he was freezing from the inside. He had to stand, to fight. He had to live. He staggers to his feet, while First hovers a few meteres away, watching. The crimson of the First's eye sparks, and the beam nearly collapses the Second. Another blast, and The Second sways, leaning on his sword. A third spark, and the Second's head snaps up to lock eyes. The red beam was met with a storm of yellow energy, Forcing the First down to the floor. The Second looks down at the first, raises his left hand to the sky.
He did not know what he had planned. This could not work out in his favor. He was going to die, he could feel the pull of the void dragging at the back of his skull, the weariness of decades in seconds. He would collapse unless he made his move first. There was the First before him. No need for restraint.
Golden motes form and fade to black around his hand, spreading down his body and upwards in a great golden spiral. Every shard of suspened jade caught in the maelstrom of potential. And there it was, he coulde do it now. Every shard spirals towards his fingertip, and he smashes the entire weight of the great jade tower upon the First, slamming him down into the depths of bulwark. And here, the Second fell upon the roof, a cyan puddle spreading below his limp form, cloak of void sprawled over the victor of a winnerless fight.
This was not death. This was something diffrent. The Second looked at his own body, quite dead on the lip of the great pit in the tower. He could see a faint glimmer down below, but that did not concern him. He needed only to Live again. He could still feel space around him and he might be able to..yes. Yes he could. They would if he didnt. He dragged the corpse into this echoed plane. He could feel anger ripple up through the planes. They did not like being blind. He laughed and smiled, and reached his tendrils towards the corpse, and let his conciousness envelop the flesh.
The Second stood up again, whole again, lilac form still wrapped in the cloak, and the sword slung on his back, the ring behind his head a series of floating shards like the jade. His yellow eye glowed dimlyin the night air, hazy with dust kicked up during the fight. His skin shone too, and he stood on the lip of the pit. He could feel the First still, its life still a beacon in the desolation of this world. And he opened his mouth, featureless lower face dividing into a proto mouth, threads of flesh hanging loosely when he opened his maw, fusing seamlessy back when he was silent.
"I can see you. Arise, and let us face Them together."
This was not what the First wanted. His energy was still there even if the body lay broken. The jade was in enough pieces though, that he could..yes. Yes. He could. The Crimson arcs between pieces, and the entire thing rises again, shards reformed into a colossal jade wurm, rocketing up from the depths of the tower. Its maw of jagged, spiraling shards stares the Second in the face, harsh red glow cast over everything.
The sword held in both hands, raised high, obsidian blade swung, down, drawing globs of liquid shadows from the ether, and at chest level, the Second braces his feet on the jade, as a beam of black blasts from the tip, exploding a great mass of jade from the wurm.
The wurm leaps at the Second, and he barely dodges it, the edge of one of the great shards tearing a dripping cyan gash in his arm.
The Second warps backwards as the wurm erupts from the floor, sending razored fragments skyward.
Another narrow dodge, sliding frictionless backwards, then rolling side ways as the massive wurm leaps up again. The Second sees the three holes in the floor, the massive spiral of green crystals still raising itself from the depths. Anothet eruption, and The second slides under the arch that its body create, teh touch of his blade elicting a red flash, as section of the wurm destabilized, exploding into jagged shards. Warp foward, dodge the hail. Charge the sword, draw from the echoed planes
-and feel the shadows welling up into the light. Nullification. That is what he was, he was a nullifier. Those shadows were not absence, but rather antigen of light. The blade, he could feel its power well to the point. Wait for it..
There.
Arms swing into place, as the wurm leaps again skywards. Leap. Midair, the wurm angling towards him. Aim. The thin tracer beam carves itself into the air, then widens into the godsblade of vitriolic shadow, the center of the worm flares crimson, filling the air with brilliant ruby haze, and The second feels lighter, the floor lifting up below, fragmenting, as the Wurms energy swelled outwards, downwards, and the wurm explodes silently in a jade shower, and all is red.
The Second stood there, dripping cyan from his wounds, in the silent husk of the great jade Bulwark, a kneeling figure of compact jade, dark enough to be black. A red light shines dimly within, as if from some oceanic abyss. The Second looks at the immobile figure, and places his hand on its smooth, glassy head.
Blue haze.
