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1The Keep of Voices. Empty The Keep of Voices. on Sun Jul 28, 2019 1:48 am

Xιon

Xιon


D-rank


Xion sat alone in his home. Evening time. He was eating the dinner like he thought it was poisoned. Each forkful was tinier than one would feed a baby and even then he nibbled it, pausing before taking any more.


The meal was measly. Though he prepared it, it didn’t look satisfying in the slightest. That is not to say he was repulsed. It was just mundane. He was careful not to allow the food to touch his lips. If this is the way he ate every meal it was easy to see why he was so thin.

His eyes panned the room. He hadn’t noticed how barren it was. A wide living area, and all he had was a couch and lamp. Stoic eyes trailed over the sorry sight, desiring something more. His mind was still hung on the fight he’d had with a kunoichi named Chiaki, a medical ninja with more to her ire than just healing wounds. His breath was scaffolded just remembering the adrenaline, at having the blood pump. Every cell shouted in unison, the meek sensation of being struck, and the wind soaring past him as he gave the Void control, and allowed it to use him nimbly.  Despite not wanting to give in to the Deep, he admittedly felt lifted when he let it run amok. If only for a short time. It was like releasing a breath he were to be holding for so long.

His eyes were wild. He could feel the dark creeping its way into the forefront of his mind. His will. He was fine with letting it do what it wanted, in wide open areas, with ample room to run around. But at a time like this. No. Absolutely not. He force-fed himself what was left on his plate. He had to remember that he was control.

‘̆ͅB̧̛ut ăͅr̫͗ë̖́ ͓̎y͉̓oụ̐?͍̋ ̰̎Ẃ̜ho̝̔ ̲͆is͖̆ to̘̽ sǎ̺ỵ͞:͎̐ whe̠͗n͓̚ a̘͝ ̟̄ẘ̙olf wants [t̤̃o̠̓ e̩͐a̟͞t͇͝]͜͠,̜͋ ̧͡ẁ͕it̤͋h̾͜ ̜͘f̍͜ô̘o͉̽l̖͡ḭ̂sh̯͒ ̺̕ṡ̺h̭̑eep [̢͗prey] ͙̿ ̞̍ju͕͒s̄͜t̬͊ wa͢͝itin͉̍g̠͑ to be ͈̑[eă͟t̲̕ë̮n͓̐]̢̋?’

His forehead was suddenly slick with sweat, wrinkled with worry. Anxiety. His mouth pooled at the temptation of the voice.

‘Stop’ The voice tittered. But he’d said it as well. It was like a labyrinth of damned souls and lost voices speaking at once. Disturbing coalescence. Then he silenced himself with both trembling hands, but the voice resisted.

A savory, tenderness that surrenders to ̹̟̉̒y̧̌͘ͅó̬͚͡ú̬̺̎r̭͓̽̿ ̺͔̾̚t̢͉̒̾é̬͙͋e̻͓̓͂t̤̓̅͢h̨͓̉̇ ̼̜̎͂l̼͎̃̓i̼̓͑͢k̢̟̉͂ē͕̏͜ ̛̠͖̋b̢̧̆̃ǔ̦̥̽t̡̞͂͝ẗ̙͈͂e̘̺͋͆ŗ͂͆͜.̗͇́̾ ̣͍̀̽T̞̹͘̚ä̡̮̋s̻̽̌͢t͖̤̊̏e͖͙̍́ ̰̝̐͌t̙̫̔͐ḣ̻͈͞a̺̟̐̑t͙̜͐̾ ̛̫̼͑c͍͇͆̀á̦̔ͅn̠̄̍͢ ̦͕̎̕p̗͒̓͟u̠̞̅̚t͚̼̔͗ ̨̣̇͞a̖̽̽ͅn͕͂͋͜ỹ̨̱͆ ̹̫̀͠o̱̹͛͠t͚̺͊͋ḫ̥̓͂e̟̦̋̑r̮͚̾̌ ̛̩̖̇t̢̻̽̀ỏ̖̮͡ ̰̺̃̉s͙̩̾͆h̢͍̃̅á̢̯̽m͇͂́͢e̫̍͞ͅ.̛̳̎͜ ̜̞̎͞I̳͎͗̆t̪̫͘͞’̥̲́̎s̬̱̃̔ ͎̱͗̎ḷ̦̓͆a̧̭̋̃ï̟̐ͅd̬̒̊͢ ̢͈̓̀b͕̏̈́͢ã̢͊͟r͔̪̍̕ẽ̟͈̿,͍͕̈́̂ ͕̉͢͞ő͍̣͂ů̖̘̾ẗ͔̗́̃s͈͓̄̿i̢̞̊͐d̙̗̅͑e̪͒͆͜ ̺̮̽̿t̳̂̒͢h̳̙̎̽o̼͔̅̈́ŝ̮̠͐e̱͕̾͌ ̟͙͌̓d͍̖̃͛ò͕͈̍o̰͍̚͞r̖̳̍͌s̖͕̆̌.̢̤̓̇ ̦̤̆̔F͖̳͗̈l͔̊͟͠é̜͕͒s̡̯͋͌h̦͎̾͠ ̳͉̉̎t̝̳̋̍ơ̤̱̌ ̬̙͑̒ř̺̹͠i͚̯̅̚v̻̘̕͠á̪̥́l͔͆̒͜ ̧̫̈́̆e̜̬͂͠v͙̥̽͆e̙̰̽̃n̬̥̂̈́ ̮̖͛͋ẗ̩͓̓h̻͙͐̿è̘̖͋ ̜̣͂͡f̯̮̓͂i̝̳̇͠n̘̜͛͡ē̻̳̑ṣ̢͌͡t̡͙́͒ ̨̛͐͟s̥͕̋̕t͓̹͝͝ę͔̀̑a̟͈͛͊k̟͎̀͘,̧̡͛̏ ̪̹͌̓Ö̰̲́͗’̛͉͔̅ ̠̠̈́̽c̖̩̔̒ö̥̬́́v̗͓̿͊e̠̮͋̃t̙̰́̈è͔̯̈́r̫̯͌͝ ̙̩̌̉m͍̠͐͒í̡̤̉n͎̼̂͝ȩ͕͗̈.̡̳͐͊’͕̤̐͠

He looked at his knife and fork. Meek in use compared his appetite. It’s almost as if he felt no need for pretentious manners. As if there were to be a prime piece of meat in front of him, he’d grab the cut with his bare hands, and rip chunks off of it with his teeth.

He felt like his senses were being toyed with. He could see it. Smell it. Perfectly seasoned, juicy and seared brown on the outside. Just the way he liked it!

He felt skin run down his neck, breathing him in. Chilling. It groped his face, his shoulders. Sluggishly dragging their dark hands among him.

‘Who’s to say--if you have the [tools] to catch your prey, that you haven’t the right?’

Xion didn’t say a word.

‘Fill yourself with [rapturous] deligh̬̎t! Õ̮’̫̍ to̮͚̔̐ ̨̌̈ͅs͇̟͘͝e̛͈͋͟e͓̯̓̐ ̯͖̾̕t̡̼̆̉h̛̳̩͞ȅ̗̖͝ḭ̟̆̂r̯̤͛̿ ̠͇̓̆f̼̖̎́a̙̯̾̂c͎̈́͒͟ę̻͊̿š̛̭̤ ͕͈͗͒ċ̜̈́ͅo̦̪̾͆n̦̦͑̐t̠́̍ͅö̳͕́̏r̡̺̔́t̘̺̅͡ ̞͚́̉i̪͖̐͠n̬̆͝ͅ ̣̟̈͆p̳̮̂̾à̳̅͟i̠̟͒͆ṇ̛̥͑.̢͚̿̋ ̡̹̿̓O͕̓̐͜’̧̞́̃ ̙͌͜͡t͕͓͒̔o̲̦̓̒ ̳̟͒͗s̹̳͑̀ẹ̙̇̀ē̱̗͞ ̱̻̉̀t͈̭͛͡h̗̻̀̾e̳̬̓̌i̤͓̽͋r̫̩̿͞ ̲̠̑̚l̛̙͋͢î̯̣̏m͙͓̓̽b̹̮͗͌s̢͚͐͐ ̹̳̄͋f̬͙́͗r̳̰͒͐a̼͋͒͟ỵ̯̒͗ ̙̝̅͂ú̠̘̓n̡͔̈̃n̡̥̈͝a͈̜͊͗t̰̹̐̎u̺̯͆̇ŗ̛̉͟a̛͍̘͊l̻̍̂͢l͖͖͑̓y̘̦̒͞.̹͙̚͝ ͈͚́̏Õ͈̬͘’̛̤̭͋ ̜͋͊͢t̻͈̀̂ö̡̼̽ ͙̱̿͂ś͎̦̌e̩̞̊̔ę̺͑͞ ̩̦̉̎t̥̦́́h̩̰͗̐ẻ̡͓͘î̮̫͊r̢͑̾͟ ̢͖̒͠f̖̑̓͜l͖̩͒͝ḁ͋͜͠m͕͈̃̓ĕ̫̌͢s͍̈́͜͡ ̡͈̋̋ḡ̨͇̄ȯ͔̕ͅ ̬̹̋̇o̧̺͛̾ȗ̡̬̀t̮͒͢͠,̠̺̒̌ ͚̹̓̅ē̦̫̋x͕̞̏̇t͚̝̀͝i̘͗͢͝n̲̳̚͝g̡̦̒̎u̢̻̍̕i̟̲̅̚s̫̯̋͞ĥ̝̤́e͓͍͡͠d̬̥̉̔ ̡̅̐͟w͓̆̏ͅï̫͔̀t̨̯̚͞h̜̱̉̋o̘̪͑͞u͔̲̔͒t͕͎̂̎ ̝̟̓͝e̛͕̼̾v̨͔͒͡e͖͚͑͌n̙͈͆̈́ ͚̹̉̊a͖͓̓͞ ̠͕͛̓ẁ̻̱͠i̞̳͌̄s̛̯̤̔ṕ̛̺ͅ ̛̰̤͂o̻̮͛́f̢̻̿́ ̰̱̅̿s̰͕̋͐i̙̹͋̕l̠̙̀̎v̺̄́ͅé̙͕̍r̗̯͆̀y̰̙̓͡ ̰͕̈́s̰̻͗͑m͚̥͂͋ŏ͇͇͝k̤͍͑͐e̪̩̋͞.̜̼̈́̆ ̢̝̔̃F̦̪͋̕u̗͇̇̂l̬̰͆̒f͍̟͊̚į͎̑͞l̨̦̐͐l̝̝̎͛ī͇͓̋n̙̟͊̿g̩̒̋͟ ̡̻̽̅r̨̎͟͠e͕̞̋͘a̡̱͌̂l͙̻̍̅i̹̱̍̓t̞͊͘͢y̲̻̆̅!͇̗̈́̀

The voice whispered intimately in Xion’s ear. His breath ticklesly close. ‘So please--why not dine on reality’s finest?’

He stood up, the chair tore away from him with unexpected force. He was leaving. A sobering walk should do the trick. He fixed himself a ziploc of snacks, hoping his appetite would come back.

Night had fallen fast upon the village. No more than an hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, orange and pink, but all colour had faded. Leaving only a matte, black canvas with no stars to be looked upon. The darkness was thick but the street lights tracing the dirt road lit his path, allowing him to see most of the market wears that were closed for the night. Other than the darkness and himself all that seemed to exist was the chilly wind that’s harsh bite could be felt through his cloak. He could feel the hairs on his arm raised and the bite of the wind had left its mark in the form of small bumps that were tingling on his arms, but its bite was more than flesh deep. His blood ran cold through his veins and his bones were chilled. The lights of the lamps may have looked as though they radiated warmth, but their heat did not reach his skin.

There was a lot more people out here then he expected. A lot more. He hurried past everyone, and crossed sides on the road when someone was walking towards him

A seductive, soulless voice rung. ‘Whoever speaks in primordial images speaks with a thousand voices; he enthrals and overpowers. [Humans] are deceptive. But not the Void. You and I, well, we transmute our personal destiny into the destiny of mankind, and evoke in us all those beneficent forces that ever and anon have enabled humanity to find refuge from every peril and to outlive the longest night.”

“...” Xion was speechless.

Another tone chimed in. [Humans] are about themselves, eating just to eat. Slaughtering only for the kill. [Darkness] talks about arċ͔het̢͛yṗ̳e̅͟s̡͐,̨̾ ͔̍f̡̋ù̱nda̲̅m͊͢entå͎l̙̎ [̛̝n̛̰a̟͙͗͆ŕ̩̖́r̟̣̒̓á̙͎̋t̡̞̓̆i͈̘̇̑v͔͆̒͢ẻ̠̥̋s̯̖͋̐]̹̼̉̀ ͚͓̓̃s̭̯̄̎h̻̻̊̉ǎ̢̍͢r͖̎̽͟ḛ͎͂̆d̜̳̊̌ ̛̮̟͝b̰̹̾̈́y̨̗̒͐ ̧̨͛̅a͓͍͐̐ḻ̫́̕l̯̲̈̎ ̞͙͌̊p̖̭̅̚é̡͛͜o̙̯̓̋p͔̓͒͜l̛̠̥̽e͉̜͐̍.̧̤̌̉ ̧̛̜̇À͔͍͡n̺̻͂̕d͓̫̿̾ ͍̙̾͞o̪͔̔̊f̜͇͗͠ ̮͕̈͘ẗ̪͉̒h̘͖̅̍ë̻̞́͡ ̹̜́͝w̥̹̋̔ạ̜͌͌y̝̣͂͞ ̦̗͌̀ț̻̂̀h̡̓͛͢e͔̜̿̎ÿ͚͕́̌ ̻͊̚͜c̹͍͗̀a̖̯̔̐n͉̻͒̐ ̩̦̆̅b̨̳͆͋ę̪͒̈́ ̻͙͑͞u̢͇͆͝s̹̻͞͠e̫̹̐̓d̥͚̏̽ ̧̗̒̏t͚̝̑͗o̲͔̿͑ ̰̰͋͊m̭͙̃̏a̪̯͂̾k̨̻͆̋e̩̪͐́ ̠͉̈̒ḁ̬̐̕ ͎̦̃̿[͉̰̉̍r̹̖̅̋e̙͈͛́á̗̜͗l̻̮͞͡ḯ̜̯̚ṯ͙̔̈y̮̓͜͞]̮͚͐͐ ̡͖̄̒g͙̎͌͢r͕̖͑̚a̩͎͌̋n̪̰͒̊d̯͎̃̀è̟̩͡ŗ̳̃̕,̳̯̈́̇ ̣̯̑̽m̝͚̑͛ô̦̥̕ṛ̘̂͂ȩ̝̌̕ ͎͟͡͞ư̱͎̾n͕̫͊̆i̙͈͊̕v̧͋̎ͅe̩̟͌͗r͖̺̐̅s̟̩̆̿a̻͖̓̾l̜̯̓̕ ̨̯͑͊t͙̠͐̀h̨̧̒̍a̙͖̋̉ñ̢̻̇ ̭͕̐͠t̫͈̒̽h͓͓̾͡ē̛̤͜y̥͍̒̏ ̲̓̃͜m̭̹̈̇į̲̍͝g̻̳̍̍h̜͎͗̋t̟͒̕͟ ̲͎͋̾b̤̅͜͝e̳̱̍̚ ̼͈̚͡o̖͚͊͌t̲̱̀̔h̡̙͑͂ẻ͍͓͗ŕ̹́͟w̜̩̃̚į͙͒̅s͉̺͂͛ę͈̓͠.̡͚̔́ ̙̈̂͜Ṯ̫̐̄ḥ̬͒͘e͔͗́͟r̖͉̓̈́ě̩͙͂ ̢͚̓̓i̠͔̎͆s̪͈̋̀ ̞̲̒͞t̯̪͑́r̲̟̐͂a̻͚͑͒g̛͔͙̑e̜̜̽͐d̘̝͌͝y̦͙̎̓ ̰͈͌̂î̗̱͛n͖͚̂́ ̯̪͛̋t̪͗͆͢h̘̣̆̉e̘̝̾͞ ̥͍́͝ǘ̖̝̍n̙͈͌̋h͈͈͑̏o̤̠̍̅l͎͈̇̂y̨̭͐̑ ̮̝̆̽ȗ̯͓̂n̠̰͆̔i̩̪̇̾s͉̝̉͞o̢͂̌͢n̦̱͂̀ ̡̤̅͞b̲̤̓̋e̹͖̊̂t͚̽͟͞w̮͈̄͞è͕̱̈́e̢̩͂̚n̥͇̓̾ ̛̳̼͡p̙͓͋͋r͉͓̒̏e͉̬͑͝d̡̯͋͗a̹̤͒̐t̃͘͟͜o̰̪͂͝ȓ̓͢ͅ ̠̩̈̄a̹̩͂̒n̦͓̐͒d̠̹̅̆ ̤͊͟͠p̩̜̃̏ȓ̢̜̂ĕ̱̩͠y̺͐̃͜.͚̞̋͘ ̖͉̽̽T͍͚̒͆ḧ̢̠́̾e̙͑͒͟ ̺͔͆͞ë͖̖̍a͈͍͆̅t͎͕̕̚ḙ̼̍̀r͇͓̀͠ ̯͖̏̌ā̮̝̃n̙̥̋̍d͎̤͘͡ ̮̺́͝t͇̥̉͝h͈̑̚͟ê̡̢͝ ̳̩̑̕ë͇͐͟ạ̺̉̑ť͓͚͡ë̜̦͌ń̨̝̇.͚̗͂̊ ̥͇̑͝H̳̜̓̕u̪̖̓͝ṁ̠͖̓â̬̬͝ṋ̳͂͘s͙̫̈͂ ̧̓̚͢ć̪̣͝â̩̦̇n͔͎̋͂ ̬̝͠͝ś̢͈̉p̢̼̒͞é̘̇͜a̡̛͚̋k͔͔͂̅ ̺͙̑̈w̮̖̒̕i̪͙͗̕t̲̰̽͝h̥̥̉̏ ̙͎̽̓t̡͒͜͝h̻̞͆̌ė̡̤̋ ̞̞̄̒ṽ̝̼̆o̞̣̓̂ỉ̥̐͜c̫̞͊͆e͇͊͐͢ ̦͎͂̎o̢͉̓̆f̣̍͌ͅ ͚̎̇͢ḣ̝͓͛i̭̓̌͢s͇̰̒̾t̜͗͊͢ȏ̦̻̀ŕ̢̥͡y͙̟̔͋ ͎̀̆͜a̠̙̾̈́n͎͉͑͛d̪̬͊̓ ̜͕͋͒f̛̯̀͜o̰̺̍̐o͉̘̎̃l͕̙̄̊ ̲̜͌̿ú͖̞̊s͚̙̚͡ ̗̺̽͝í͍̭̇ǹ̰̓͢t̯̝̽̉o͖̯̾͘ ̛̣̱̿ṭ̨͋̅ḫ̣̊̈́ȉ̱̞̓n͉̟̏͠k͚̗̊͂i̤̽̔͜n̯̬̕͠g̻͉̏͂ ̟̰͑̌ț̛̲̆h̝̥̋͒a̘̼͘̕t̬͌̓͜ ̙̾͜͠[͉̻̽͊ḟ̯̩͆a̼̠̍̌ṇ̓̀͟t̟̫́̓a̼̰͒̈s͕̤͌̆i̬͍̿͠é̥͇͐s͓̑͛͢ ̡͕͋̚m̠̘͂͡a͕̱͒͠n̙̞͛̃ȉ̳͔̌f͚͉͂̎ë͓̱̑s̯̔̕͜t̤̤̀͋]̼͍͂͡.̪̀͂ͅ ̠͂̉͟Ṫ̝͖̾h͔͍͊̈́a̹̞͗̓t̗̊̏͟ ͕̍͒͜[̢͂͆͟d̢̹̅̉r̮̼̾͊ę̗̈͘a̮̞͗̚m̟̖͆͠s͈̙̿̓]͉͔̌͊ ̹̇͆͢ǎ̮͚̀r̛̼̘̀ḙ̯̇͞ ̪͕̎͝m̪̘̓̎ḙ̢̀̆ȃ͙͚͛n̳̤̅̍ẗ̠́͡ͅ ̯̰͗̚t̟͔̆̒ò̝̻͡ ̗̙͑̅ĉ̙̘̿ọ̺̊̄m̥̫̀̃e͖̼͋͞ ̫͉̄̇t̩͙͒͑r̢͊́͟u̺͑̅͟e̬̙͛̚.͈͉̽̚ ̟̖͂̄T̢̈̈͟ĥ̼̙͞ē̺̚͟y͔̝̍̋ ̫́̀ͅs̬͎̿̔p̠̗͗̎e̛̘͋͟ą̰̂̀k͔̤͆͊ ͇͉̍̕o͖̙̐̂f͓̙̌͡ ͖̜̆̿s̩͌͆͟ț̋̀͢ö̼́̐͢r̺̖͐͡i̖̰͑̓ḙ͚̉͛s̰͋͒ͅ ̧̗͋̍ẁ̡̠̈́ḧ͙͎́̉ë͍͙́̓ŗ͖̍̉ė̡͇̑ ͈͂̒͟w̟̘̄͡e̩̓̍ͅ ̤̗̔͒a̫̖̿̓r͓͓͆͆e̠͚̎̈́ ̬̖̅͞á͉̠̌n̡̨̒̎ ͔̠̂͐i͈͚̓͞n͍͉͌͌f̡͚̑̿a̜̺̋̚ḷ͙̃͘l̼͘͠ͅỉ̗̰̒b̧̩̄̐l̡͕̆̚e̖̤͒̎ ͍̝̔̇p̘̤͌̇r̨̞̓̈o͚͆̈͟t̥͎̐͊a̛̦̮͆g̝̻̀̕o̧̾͜͡n̯̟͌̍i̮̤̊̋s͙͚͗̅t͎̙̀̾.̨̩̐̄ ̞͈̏͒A͉̦̿͗n̫͚͛̓ḑ̛̩̀ ͓͚͝͠[̯͉̿̎h̭̪͞͡ụ͆̽͟m͖͗̎͢a̯̫̎̑ņ̞͆͗s͙̣͆̽]͈̪̅̃ ̠̊͢͝l̟̇̑͜ĭ̦̺͊s̬̮̓̽t͎̭͌̐e̲̫̋̅ṅ̛̰̦.̲͗͟͞ ̰̻͛̓D̢͈͑͘ỏ̻̠̉n͕̰̄͂’̦͆͂͜t͉͈̾͞ ̞͔͑͌f̯͇̂̀ǫ̖̇͗r̢̫̈̐g̘̣̓̈ē̢̩̋t͖̤͂͠,̢̠̆́ ̮̜͆͠X̢͎͆́i̩̩̅͛o͍̬͛̾n̫͕̽̅,̣̠̒͡ ̝̔͜͝[̞̣̅͞ĥ̜͚̎u͎̙̅́m͚̤̈́̎ȁ̧̮͛n̫͙̓̽]̟͇̉̈ ̩̘͐̕l̨̬̇́a̤͕͐̾n͎̦̊̽g͈͇̃͝ǘ͕̭̾ä̡̱́̓g̢̧̓͘e̪̗͊͠ ̬͇̇̕ḯ̡͎̅ş̺͛͐ ͈̣́̅a̢̳̍̉ ͙̯͆͒v̼̯͛̄i̭̠͊͑r̙͍͑̈́u̢͇̽̆s͈̝̐͌.̮͇̓͝ ̧̯͂͑T̙̻͋̚h̙̮͐̇e̤̣̅̀y̡̬̆̏ ͉̥͆̈w͍̦̎̂i̢̲͌̂ĺ̩̼͘l̺̞̈́̊i̻̔͟͡n̹̰͊̉g̩͈̿̔l̦̞̎͞ỷ̨̀͜ ̬̼̀͝ḭ̗͐͑n̲͚̔͡f̦͋͢͠e̺̰̾͋c͎̭͛̈ţ̠̄̎ ̬͓̓͘ȍ̞̰̒n͔̗̓̊e̥̱̔͞ ̣̀̊͜á͈͛͢n̨͕̓̽ȍ͔̮͋t͈̅̑͟h̬͈͛̇ȇ̩͗ͅr̢̨͛̍.͔͉̕͘’̢̗̓̌

Voices stirred in his head. Threatening to turn his brain into mush. Every nerve, electrical impulse, sent signals that jammed his rationale. People were starting to stare. Had been staring. A small girl clung to her mom, weary.

“Isn’t that right?” Xion blurted out. He tried to force the words back in, but it was much too late.

“Mister, are you okay?” The girl was wonder and worry at the same time.

Xion smiled at her. And in an instant that humanity was suspended. All teeth, no soul. “I'm normal. I'm good! Why are you looking at me like that? Your mouth is so wide.”

She stepped into her mother. But that only made his breath hitch more suddenly. Eyes grow wider. “Did you know that you have really pretty teeth? I like your teeth. Imagine, right, pulling out each glossy white tooth and putting them in my ziploc bag? Now, where is it? I'm sure I have it on me somewhere. Why are you walking away from me? WHY ARE YOU WALKING AWAY FROM ME? Thank you. Your hair is probably really pretty in the sunlight. Can I touch it? It's red, it's like the sun. Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it stop it. You don't deserve to have hair like that. Sun-kissed, auburn, the last embers in a fire. A mouth watering, color. You're a harridan. Just like your mother. STOP RUNNING, YOU TWO. I SAID STOP. Why are you making that face? Why are you making those terrible sounds? Haha. Stop teasing me.”

A drunken step forward. “I hate the smell of blood. Metallic. Sickly. But yours is probably beautiful. Staining the pavement, glowing in the setting sun. It blooms from your scalp, probably the colour of that thick, wonderful hair. Oh, there's my plastic bag. It was in my pocket, what about that? Haha. I can be so stupid sometimes.”

--SLAP--

Though he couldn’t feel pain he could register the force and her intention. Afterwards, the mother quickly scooped up her daughter and disappeared behind the growing crowd. Xion was left bewildered, sending confusion through the crowd. Wondering just what it was that he might have said.

Suddenly he was the center of burly men, liquid confidence, and cracking knuckles. Time to go. A sudden tendril, a streetlight as leverage, and soon he was scaling the roof tops, safe from harm.

The forest, he thought. That’s where he could get the solace he needed.

WC:1462


____

Reality is the finest flesh, O'reader mine.

2The Keep of Voices. Empty Re: The Keep of Voices. on Tue Jul 30, 2019 5:38 pm

Xιon

Xιon


D-rank

His brain was connecting dots that didn’t go together. Far out ideas. Foreign voices. With intense feelings like these, he felt like he was possessed. Each step over root through dark clearings mirrored his brain. The winding cove led him to trails of oak trees, and he could see a familiar wound that embroidered one of them

That night, when he almost took Chiaki’s head off her shoulders. Good times.

But then, he was back at where they first met, wasn’t he?

Desire for things to be normal. The desire from them to return to normalcy. He craved desire. Fed on it. Hoping to transform desire into reality. Ever since he left Giant’s Scar. That's who he was and what he felt akin to in this dark part of himself. Perhaps prevailing from the Deep, he didn’t dare to acknowledge it. To him it was a fat rat ill fitted to skulking about the filthy shadows. Picking at the most meager of meals and making ends meet, but at the same time being a glutton. Because darkness was always--always hungry for more.  It gorged itself on the few pleasures Xion could endure without feeling sick. Though sick he was, and often. Not of any illness known to himself, or anyone else. But of being sick of sickness. The sibilant, cacophonic sound of that word when intermingled with itself only alluded to how often it plagued his mouth. Desire. Seeping out of it every now and then to pursue his  rightful sympathy from others less fortunate than himself. Although, he was indeed sick of it all, he had never tired of it's sweet sting, addictive affliction

“Tedious repetition. A savoury flavor.”

There he went again with the sibilant antics of his dry tongue. One shaped by darker forces. Borne darkness. Only to indulge endlessly from them to satisfy it’s sanguine thirst for sympathy over acts that were either unimportant, ironic or simply confounded beyond  limited belief. Void destroys. Using its otherworldly, complex, unknowable makeup to create unsolvable problems.

‘You are so tiny. Yet you continue to resist. The [fundament] forces of [gods] and monsters as old as time.' The voices were among the trees. Surrounding Xion in an ambush. ‘You know what you’ve asked of yourself, that one caveat. The utensil that you can use to feed on [desire]. [Artifice]. The [cunning] that lets you transform your own desire into reality.’

"I don’t have a strict proof yet, you know.” Xion answered. Gaining his senses. “This thing we believe -- that we’re liberating...reality by devouring it, that we’re cutting out the rot by adding our own.”

‘We’re on course to join the [final shape] -- You and I, well, we haven’t found a strict, eternal proof. We might yet be wrong. But does that not peak your [appetite]? Take hold of your [artifice]. It is shaped like [a knife]. Use it to take our destined shape. Do challenges not [entice] you?’

Dark embers flew off his skin. He wasn’t even weaponizing his chakra, and yet it seemed to be clawing its way into the screaming surface of reality. Void light burst from his back, a flurry of wild tendrils clinging to the air. 

Xion knew this was not good, but still he was relieved that the pressure was gone. But now he had another problem. A nervous, strained grin, knowing full well that the Void was going to play at his hunger, it was about to practically seduce him. Even before he was touched by those lightless, familiar hands his lungs expanded with briny air. The entity's voice had the lilt he knew so well -- his words soft with the smile that already played on his face. Xion gave up full control for the very first time. Now there were only electric tingles, the desire to play.

Now that he’d given in, the first thing he did was cackle. The laugh came from Xion like a newly sprung leak -- timid at first, stopping and starting. He wasn't done yet though, and one could tell that from the way he rolled his icy eyes to the starlit sky and half bite his lip. From deep inside his chest came a great shaking motion and his face. He would look at anyone as if he knew their desires. With his new found freedom came the smooth grope of his hands on his shoulders, poised, just the right blend of relaxation and tension. 

“Such a savoury thing reality is. Flesh of the finest cut, drink from the sweetest grapes. Just one taste and you’d beg for more. Why? Well--because you’re in love.” 

A branch snapped. His attention shifted immediately. Tendrils with minds all their of their own tandem the trees. Whatever it was running. But the elasticity of chakra gave him the instant burst he needed. Soon he was right on it’s trails. He was closing in. Predator and prey.

In one motion the tendrils bore down, piercing whatever he had been chasing. Surely slaying it. When the dust settled, and the moonlight could once again illuminate the forest, he’d seen that he’d sunk his chakra into a wild boar. Shocked that he chased and killed one so large. Where there had been smooth skin was torn muscle and blood, as raw as any carcass at the butchers. This was real with the smell the abattoir. The pig lay still, it’s skin so pale as to make oozing blood more red. Xion stopped. His palms sweating in the cold evening air. What had gotten into him?

Then a wild thought, a toothy grin. He removes a tendril from the carcass, reels his head back, and dangles it over his head like a lure. He sticks his tongue out, letting a surge of blood inundate his mouth. His senses.

His back arched, his hands poised and curling towards the fingers. Rapturous delight. The blood tastes sweet, leaking around his teeth and over freshly cold lips, escaping as if it never knew it was welcome to stay. The thrill of the slaughter, the taste of the kill. The sacred union between the eater and eaten. Reality’s finest flesh.

Soon all that was left of the blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet from the wound was clasped on his ghastly tendril and ravenous teeth.

WC: 1075/2537


____

Reality is the finest flesh, O'reader mine.

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