"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
07-11-2015, 07:50 PM (This post was last modified: 07-11-2015, 07:59 PM by Infection.)
I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
It tried to wander. It tried to live aimlessly in the meadow, but there is a fire still burning in the pit of its soul. All else is black - dark - but for the small kindling flame of lust.
It wants that taste of power again.
It has an insatiable hunger for more.
So what leads it here, of all places? It was never a king of the Valley; it was a predator, a spectacle to them. It never controlled their hearts or their fears. They didn’t bow down to the murderous king like so many others. The Valley has a different breed than the Chamber and Tundra. The kingdom is new territory for it to poison and infect. It wants to sink its teeth into the land’s bitter flesh and taste a new type of blood.
Little does it know that there really isn’t new blood here.
Not when its father is the current king.
A raspy breath is pulled into its rotted lungs. There is no realistic way that it’s still alive, not with maggots feasting on the exposed sinew and tendons. Sun-bleached bones starkly contrast against the remnants of its black coat. But the creature still moves as though it’s truly of the living. One step, then another, then another. It’s forcing air down into its mutilated lungs until it suddenly stops near the border. Proper mannerisms aren’t what suddenly tether it to the edges of the kingdom, but consideration and curiosity. When it looks back at itself, it’s eyes a sickening green, it sees what the years have done. It changes with time, shifting from dead to living.
Unfortunately for the Valley it looks mostly like a corpse.
The odor of decay follows it. Small flies flurry to the old splatters of blood smeared across its mouth and chest. For a fleeting moment Infection considers biding time until another revolution has transpired and until its body is whole again. If it waited, the Valley wouldn't know what they were opening their gates to. But how could they turn away such a heathen, such a weapon? A gnarled pink tongue dryly sweeps across its cracked lips before inching forward into the Valley's territory. Manners have slipped from its mind because it has never cared much for them at any point in time, in life or in death.
It will be something here. Its prowess will begin to return and the world will see the return of its bloody nightcrawler.
Then fear will return to their hearts.
Then its hunger can be satisfied.
infection
infection by aeris | html by insane | picture c darkcloud013.deviantart.com
She isn't terribly familiar with decay. In fact, she has yet to see any kind of death, or even any kind of injury. Perhaps she had, in the life before this one, but that life is fleeting, flying away, slipping further with every day. It's been destroyed by the Four Certainties, the things she knows absolutely: the name of her father (Carnage), the name of her mother (Librette), the place where she lives (the Valley), and her own name (Aletheia). These are the four truths, and she's rather content with them. It's impossible to miss the smoke, to miss the ephemeral moments that may never have been. It's impossible to miss something you think you might have imagined.
But the fact remains that she was deposited in the meadow unceremoniously by something or someone unknown, left there to stumble off with nothing but the four certainties and smokelike memories of what was, or at least, might have been. She'd found her way here without issue, as though a map was stamped into her brain (and maybe it was, with how often Librette found her way here and how surely Carnage was tied to this place). And here she'd remained ever since, learning every inch of the land, sometimes encountering Thorrun, who seemed more or less the only other regular inhabitant of the place.
That, and she'd been to the field. A whole lot.
She's just heading to the field again when she smells it – a strange scent that tickles her nostrils. If she were a normal horse, no doubt she'd want to run the other way, to flee the scent of death. But she doesn't know what death is, and she certainly doesn't know that it has a smell. She doesn't know anything, just that it smells (very, very vaguely) like a horse, and she feels obligated to investigate.
When she sees it, she pauses for a moment and tilts her head to regard it curiously. She is not repulsed; she has no frame of reference for something that should be repulsive, and even if she did, she'd have too much morbid curiosity to care. Perhaps she should care, perhaps she should be traumatized – but it doesn't occur to her. None of her natural instincts and warning signs fire. She is simply intrigued.
She moves with easy steps toward the stranger. She is a pretty girl, young, grey, dainty and delicate. Her face is constantly neutral, unimpressed even when she studies something that grabs her interest. Her eyes are cold, icy, blue. She comes to a graceful halt once she nears it, smelling the sharp scent of something she cannot identify.
Closer now, she looks the horse over in more detail. She notes with fascination the way the maggots seem to crawl, the way the flesh seems to hang, the way it all seems to hold together in a way she's never seen before. She finally puts it together: this might be something unnatural. But still it doesn't concern her; after all, she herself seems to suck the life out of anything she touches, plant and animal (including horse) alike. Even now, the grass under her hooves is beginning to very gently wilt.
And so, her face cool and dispassionate, she offers him a nod of greeting. "Welcome to the Valley." her voice is flat but pleasant, like the voices used on audiobooks. She pauses a moment before speaking again, and when she does her tone is that of one observing something. Not terrified, not judgmental, no more nor less affected than a typical horse might be when speaking of the weather. "You don't look like you should be alive."
It can hear the soft patter of her heart, unfazed by the rotting stench that fills her nostrils. Her breath doesn't catch and her eyes don't widen in disbelief or wonder. Standing in front of her it's as though Infection is entirely normal, but it can feel her pressing gaze. She's observing it like hundreds have before her. For decades it had been a spectacle, a strange relic of Beqanna, that should have certainly been left in the dirt.
Months have melted into years. It almost forgets the changing of seasons until a dry, hot breeze threads through fragments of its ribcage and tattered flesh. This is the world again. It once held this forsaken shit pile in the palm of its hands once, but that was long ago. Now, it holds nothing. No power. No glory. Only memories of what it once was. This, however, is more than this girl can say. The expression on her face is a blank slate, an unwritten story. It regards her quietly as she offers a welcome to the Valley. The clicking of its teeth in thought fill the silence briefly until it idly crunches down on a squirming white maggot.
"Am I alive?" It doesn't know whether it's thinking aloud or responding to her question. Being alive is having the necessity to eat, procreate, and and continue a life cycle. Certainly it doesn't need to eat, but it wants to. Procreation is an added bonus but a rare thing to come by when its body is so torn and ragged. Life cycle? It never truly ends. "So I am," the grating of its voice claws her ears. There is nothing alluring or smooth in its neglected, raspy voice.
Unable to hold back, the deathcrawler inches toward her. Its mouth finds the arch of her neck quickly like a moth to a flame. It doesn't notice the trail of drool lying in its wake while it trails down her withers. When was the last time it touched a female? She is young - too young - but still its body shudders to life. "Who are you?" The question is spoken with lips of poison. It truly cares not who she is or what her name is; no one really matters.
Then its hunger can be satisfied.
infection
infection by aeris | html by insane | picture c darkcloud013.deviantart.com
Thorunn, at least, has the sense to be afraid.
But not enough sense to turn away from a stranger in her kingdom. She views it as her own, something she can claim and hold tight to. Her mother and father put too much work into it for her to just wander away from it and leave it to suffer. No, this is her kingdom as much as it was theirs, and she will stand in it and protect it.
She runs through what her father told her, alert and on edge, the hair on her withers prickling ever so slightly. The whites of her eyes are apparent, her steps are high and on edge. She is trying (helplessly) to master some sense of calm as she approaches the duo. One, a rotting flesh monster, another - that strange girl who claims to be her half sister. Thorunn rejects the idea, she doesn't feel the same kinship with her she had with Nayl and her other siblings she'd met. Of course, after Val no one will come close.
Still, Thorunn is forever cautious, and does not approach the two without her guard well up and ready. No matter how silly she looks.
"I didn't catch your name," she says. It's in her nature to be combative, though usually in a less forward way. This, though? This was an exception to any and all rules she had.
Thorunn
immortal, mind-reading immune daughter of Covet and Librette
Perhaps it's because she stands outside of death. Perhaps it's because in her world, the stars are hollow and memory is just a memory. Perhaps it's because she has no sense of her own mortality that she simply cannot place his. But for whatever reason, not only does she not fear him (or his appearance), she actually enjoys his company.
Is he alive? He asks, and a tiny smile plays on her lips. He shouldn't be, she knows enough to know that. But he also appears to be, at least in the same way that all impossible things are alive: in defiance of what they should be, in defiance of anything and everything. Flying in the face of reason, flying in the face of reality, flying in the face of the natural order. And perhaps this is why she values him, because she too flies in the face of what should be, and in even more ways than he knows. He is speaking again and she tilts her head, listening. Yes, he is, he decides, and she watches him with her icy eyes.
She doesn't move when he approaches. As he closes the distance, she simply continues to watch him, her face impassive. She knows what happens when anything touches her. She didn't know at first, at the very beginning, but she's learned. In her own way, Aletheia is every bit as unnatural as Infection, although she doesn't look it. She was not born, at least not in the traditional way. She simply appeared one winter's day, grown, and shocked to discover what cold was. She had parents, but she did not remember them. Her only ties were four certainties: her name, Aletheia, her home, the Valley, her father, Carnage, her mother, Librette.
And, perhaps as a consequence of some part of whatever strange process had landed her so unceremoniously in the meadow or perhaps as a consequence of something else entirely, she sucks the life from the world around her.
Her body does it gently, tenderly, and automatically. It is a power that can weaken, but never a power than can kill. It is a power she cannot control; perhaps it is even more like an allergy, as though the world is allergic to her, as though she just doesn't fit here, and the world simply cannot take it.
But what will happen, then, when two negatives touch? When two things that shouldn't exist…not only do exist, but find each other and come together? What does he feel, when her body tries to suck his life from his lips, like a strange reversed lover's kiss?
She feels nothing, but that's not unusual. To her, stealing life is as natural as breathing. She still does it, taking from the grass, from the creatures around them, even though there is no life to take from Infection.
She doesn't think to move, to jump away when Thorrun joins them. Perhaps it is strange to her half sister (for Aletheia has no such qualms about accepting Thorrun as those Thorrun has about her) to see such a strange looking stallion touching her as he is. But Aletheia has no time to consider strangeness. She is comfortable here, and so she is not moving. Her icy eyes swing over to Thorrun as the girl talks.
Aletheia notes, absentmindedly, that her half-sister seems terribly afraid of something.
"I didn't catch your name either." she speaks directly after Thorrun, her steady, unaffected voice calm despite the incredible situation. She has made no move to stop the stallion from touching her. The trail of drool does not matter to her. A maggot falls onto her back, and a hint of its life seeps into her before it bounces all the way to the ground. A smile plays on her icy lips; her voice is almost playful as she turns his question back on him. "Who are you?"
He is no stranger to want for power. It was a sweet drink, sweeter even than the sweetest of nectars or the finest of wines. It is heavy like cream, coating the tongue and then the throat, coming to rest in the belly. To some, it will curdle with time. To others, it will create an insatiable thirst, one that cannot be sated with sips alone. No, those who long for it will throw themselves to their knees if only they are able to drink the well dry. Even when he should be sleeping, his mind is awake. Even when he should be resting, he is creating and controlling his fire. The endless hunger in his belly will not be denied, though he does have some measure of control over it. For though he is ruthless, he is also clever. A dangerous combination for others, perhaps, but it will serve him well in the grand scheme of things. The wolf is known to don wool if it will bring him closer to the sheep.
He feels a new presence her in the Valley, and his nostrils curl in disgust. It is a rotten thing, grotesque in every possible way. But he doesn’t shrink away into the shadows quivering in fear, nor scream. Instead he smiles calmly, watching from a distance as the corpse lingered along their borders. The fire stallion spent a good amount of his time here, for patrolling the borders seemed to be the best place in which he could utilize his powers. As he observed, two mares came forward, and he grinned a wicked grin at their overall braveness. The one Flamevein didn’t know (a half sister, though he certainly didn‘t know that), but the other he was at least somewhat familiar with. What a motley group they’d be, all half siblings though they couldn’t possibly know it. Finally he sees the thing move towards the unknown mare, and Flamevein steps forward. Not out of chivalry, but perhaps a certain bit of morbid curiosity. On a whim he allows fire to crawl up his legs, caressing and winding this way and that. He steps up beside the mares, keeping his distance but clearly marking himself as one of theirs. “Yes, yes…a name, if you please. With all due respect, something like yourself wanders into our kingdom, well…we would kind of like to know for what reason. Starting with a name.” he said coolly, flicking his eyes over what was left of the creature before him. The fire-veined stallion wasn’t the least bit afraid, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t disgusted.
07-20-2015, 09:33 AM (This post was last modified: 07-20-2015, 09:34 AM by Infection.)
I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
Once, it never had to introduce itself. Once, all of Beqanna knew of the Chamber's monstrous king. Once, it felt like it ruled the world.
It had its taste of power. It was a tyrant, a weapon of chaos and disarray. It held two kingdoms simultaneously and began a legacy. Many quivered under its deadened stare, but that was decades ago. This world is practically new. Beqanna has long since forgotten the mass murderer and the sins it had committed. It's starting anew in a sense, but it wants to return to how it once was when the fears of Beqanna were held in its palm.
It has forgotten how to socialize in the time away when the maggots were feeding on its limp corpse in the forest. Nothing but bones had been left and yet it still came back to life and it still has its memories. It remembers Morbid Reason, One, Crimea, and Starlace. It remembers its time as a king, but it fails to remember how to hold a steady conversation. With a building hunger all it wants to do is eat, to kill, but the welcoming party is growing and barricading it in.
Aletheia doesn't move underneath its lips even as Thorunn arrives with concerned eyes. It spares her a lasting glance while its muzzle lifts away from the girl's body. There was a connection when skin and skin met. Like desperate fingers reaching for its soul Aletheia's body tried to keep it pressed against her. A brief glance allows their eyes to meet before it returns its attention to Thorunn. "You never asked." A line of drool slips through a torn chasm in its mouth with a grubby maggot following close behind.
It wants to find Thorunn underneath its touch, to feel her heartbeat and feed on her discomfort, but its finds itself tethered to Aletheia still without even realizing it. Its chest is leaning against her side as she peers up at it and returns its question without an answer. A brow lifts as the tickle of magic threads through its rotted body. Is she the reason it can feel another slab of flesh slough off and hit the ground, or was that just a part of its deathly cycle?
A third member arrives, but this is a male driven by his curiosity. His mannerisms are far kinder than it anticipated. An archaic tongue slips across its chapped lips in amusement. "You ask so sweetly," it chides with a low, grating chuckle. When it blinks it realizes that they are all staring in wonder, in confusion, in concern. A breeze navigates from the mountains and dances through the hanging strips of skin on its body. "Such curious children," it begins as a shrug ripples through its shoulders, "I'm Infection."
The infection that will soon plague Beqanna once more.
infection
infection by aeris | html by insane | picture c darkcloud013.deviantart.com
