03-15-2021, 07:15 PM
lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He's slow, as he moves past the cells. How many has he kept here? He doesn’t know the number, exactly, it’s more a blur of faces, those who stood out in some way, in their worship or their defiance. Still, their memories are etched in the stone – some literally, in the scuffs of the rock, or the dark stains, and he calls those memories forth for a moment. The rocks echo with the ghosts of them, their voices crying or screaming or laughing – some had laughed, in the end – in a gruesome chorus, no voice distinct. The sound swells, then fades, and his eyes close briefly in memory.
He has his places, his touchstones – this is one of them, perhaps. Not as much as the wasteland – that had been his first place, his formative place – but he plans to connect them, someday, knit himself a landscape of his predilections. It will be tiresome work, but he has time in handfuls, and would like to see what such a network would look like.
When the echoes are gone, he answers her, his voice thoughtful.
“Any number of reasons,” he says, “I want them. They did something to deserve it. As part of their test. Sometimes they ask to come.”
There are other reasons – sometimes they are part of something larger, sometimes it’s a bargain, the price they offer to pay.
“I’ve thought of keeping you here,” he says, “it might suit you, in a way. But something’s always kept me from it. Another of your mysteries.”
Because he keeps returning, doesn’t he? That is mystery enough, when boredom is rampant and quick-growing, yet again and again he finds her and he hurts or loves or kills her, or all three, and this is something he can’t explain, why she stays in his mind the way she does, and way she is with him, on the wrong side of the cage.
c a r n a g e
@[Ryatah] sorry for taking almost two months..............i dont know what "writing" is anymore