October 19, 2019, 04:45 PM
(This post was last modified: October 24, 2019, 03:23 AM by Scarab.
Edit Reason: made this a read only & archived
)
scarab's stomach rumbles and he twitches in his sleep, his dream fading at the edges like wisps of smoke until he realizes in his sleep that it is not smoke at all but seafoam, hissing and bubbling, roaring in his ears.
dream scarab swims thru the thick seafoam, breath held, throat burning raw with the water he's accidentally swallowed, eyes stinging with ghost memory. his head breaks the surface — scarab gasps — and he is spat upon the loamy sand, his growing limbs tangling with that of a corpse in the early but tell-tale stages of rigor mortis. a shiver slithers down his spine and, hungry, his stomach rumbles once more. scarab begins to dine upon the flesh, seeking to sate his hunger. there is no gratification to be found in the dream world but he eats until the corpse begins to stir. with a start scarab recoils; tasting the stale, salty flesh upon his lips.
impossible!
the corpse rises to it's paws — missing a bit of flesh from its ribcage and turns to face scarab, jaws agape and eyes filled instead with twin will-o-wisps. essence of the dead. jackal... the dead hiss at him, not one voice but the voices of hundreds. thousands. the voice of legion. it causes the hair on his nape to bristle even in his sleep. deathreaver...
with a greedy gasp of air, scarab's eyes shoot open, his heart pounding in his chest, loud in his ears. for a second he is afraid, lapis lazuli gaze roaming wildly, cloudy with disorientation. a few forced, deep breaths later realization dawns upon him and the racing of his pulse slows as he buries his face into his petrified sandpiper, trying to block out the hissing echo of words the corpse in his dream had spit at him. his stomach rumbles again and for the moment he studiously ignores it.
dream scarab swims thru the thick seafoam, breath held, throat burning raw with the water he's accidentally swallowed, eyes stinging with ghost memory. his head breaks the surface — scarab gasps — and he is spat upon the loamy sand, his growing limbs tangling with that of a corpse in the early but tell-tale stages of rigor mortis. a shiver slithers down his spine and, hungry, his stomach rumbles once more. scarab begins to dine upon the flesh, seeking to sate his hunger. there is no gratification to be found in the dream world but he eats until the corpse begins to stir. with a start scarab recoils; tasting the stale, salty flesh upon his lips.
impossible!
the corpse rises to it's paws — missing a bit of flesh from its ribcage and turns to face scarab, jaws agape and eyes filled instead with twin will-o-wisps. essence of the dead. jackal... the dead hiss at him, not one voice but the voices of hundreds. thousands. the voice of legion. it causes the hair on his nape to bristle even in his sleep. deathreaver...
with a greedy gasp of air, scarab's eyes shoot open, his heart pounding in his chest, loud in his ears. for a second he is afraid, lapis lazuli gaze roaming wildly, cloudy with disorientation. a few forced, deep breaths later realization dawns upon him and the racing of his pulse slows as he buries his face into his petrified sandpiper, trying to block out the hissing echo of words the corpse in his dream had spit at him. his stomach rumbles again and for the moment he studiously ignores it.
“it's a quality of the gods
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
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