The cry of her rage. Her white knuckles gripping the blade. Blood. Blood, and then the sound of wet meat meeting the ground. Now spoilt, unproper.
The continuity of Kahn'a's consciousness was breaking. Dotted with suffering, this implacable hatred coming from the stomach, tensing the body with the acid it carried. There was also sorrow. Sorrow in a little boy stranded in his head, alone, terrified, wondering why he was hurt. And why he was hurt some more. The innocence of that child was waning, yet he was already not white. His hands were stained red. But he had faith. Faith in the world of man. He had been seduced by the distant radiant flame. He believed in its magical power. He approached it, slept under it, made it his... Until it licked his flesh burnt.
Gone like whispers uttered in the screaming winds, all feelings and thoughts left the Miqo'te's body to bow to the master of this new kingdom carved out in pain and blood. It bore many names, but the one pulsating in Kahn'a's mind was Chaos. A black, deep...
...
You know what? Nevermind. One, two, three, four...
...
A piercing scream of agony filled the room in an instant, leaving no ear spared. You thought weaved cloth, as thick as it was, could muffle the song of the dying? It might, in truth, but their words resonate in men's heart regardless, for they are universal. And like with any language of man, the only difference observed was the interpretation. For some, it meant an intense joy. The sound of victorious feet trampling over conquered ground. Rhythmed with the cadence of failing heartbeats, it was a fuel for them to keep going.
For others, it was the most frightening sound in existence. The vicious corner of dark imagination even paled next to it. Kahn'a was one of those people. And so, while he was being carved and salted, he felt sad over his bruised self. A maddening out of body experience, and yet he was still in there, tearing his lungs out from the burn of salt and exposed flesh. How could the chair remain so still, the young man was harming himself further trying to desperately break free.
Kahn'a became unaware of things, his eyes were clenched shut. Not that opening them would serve it good, he had blood all over his eyebrows, all pearled up from the shallow yet painful cuts. All he picked up that came not from his own body was a voice. A demonic voice. Ah, and a hand on his throat.
Then it went away. He was still alive.
Wheezing like a newborn, Miqo'te gasped for air, the necessary air that he could not refuse, and that kept him up for this lovely show of humanity. Could he speak? The answer to that hung in the air, his body was acting incoherently. Clenching jaw, creaking teeths, then wide open mouth for more air, and the sinister of clashing teeth to imprison his voice again. Just like that, Kahn'a became as much his own goaler as this demonic avatar, wrapped in warmth and alluring.
He wanted to speak, and wanted not.
...
Sorry. This is what the Keeper was trying to word through his struggling over air.
The continuity of Kahn'a's consciousness was breaking. Dotted with suffering, this implacable hatred coming from the stomach, tensing the body with the acid it carried. There was also sorrow. Sorrow in a little boy stranded in his head, alone, terrified, wondering why he was hurt. And why he was hurt some more. The innocence of that child was waning, yet he was already not white. His hands were stained red. But he had faith. Faith in the world of man. He had been seduced by the distant radiant flame. He believed in its magical power. He approached it, slept under it, made it his... Until it licked his flesh burnt.
Gone like whispers uttered in the screaming winds, all feelings and thoughts left the Miqo'te's body to bow to the master of this new kingdom carved out in pain and blood. It bore many names, but the one pulsating in Kahn'a's mind was Chaos. A black, deep...
...
You know what? Nevermind. One, two, three, four...
...
A piercing scream of agony filled the room in an instant, leaving no ear spared. You thought weaved cloth, as thick as it was, could muffle the song of the dying? It might, in truth, but their words resonate in men's heart regardless, for they are universal. And like with any language of man, the only difference observed was the interpretation. For some, it meant an intense joy. The sound of victorious feet trampling over conquered ground. Rhythmed with the cadence of failing heartbeats, it was a fuel for them to keep going.
For others, it was the most frightening sound in existence. The vicious corner of dark imagination even paled next to it. Kahn'a was one of those people. And so, while he was being carved and salted, he felt sad over his bruised self. A maddening out of body experience, and yet he was still in there, tearing his lungs out from the burn of salt and exposed flesh. How could the chair remain so still, the young man was harming himself further trying to desperately break free.
Kahn'a became unaware of things, his eyes were clenched shut. Not that opening them would serve it good, he had blood all over his eyebrows, all pearled up from the shallow yet painful cuts. All he picked up that came not from his own body was a voice. A demonic voice. Ah, and a hand on his throat.
Then it went away. He was still alive.
Wheezing like a newborn, Miqo'te gasped for air, the necessary air that he could not refuse, and that kept him up for this lovely show of humanity. Could he speak? The answer to that hung in the air, his body was acting incoherently. Clenching jaw, creaking teeths, then wide open mouth for more air, and the sinister of clashing teeth to imprison his voice again. Just like that, Kahn'a became as much his own goaler as this demonic avatar, wrapped in warmth and alluring.
He wanted to speak, and wanted not.
...
Sorry. This is what the Keeper was trying to word through his struggling over air.
